A Surprise During A Ride Without A Plan

Errands and things that weren’t so complicated that a politician or lawyer couldn’t further complicate them took up my morning.  

So, by afternoon, I wanted—and needed—to ride  I had no destination or route in mind.  I didn’t even know which bike I’d ride.  For some reason, Marlee sniffed around La-Vande, my King of Mercia. For some other reason, that was the reason I wheeled her out my door.

I zigged and zagged along waterfront promenades and side streets from my Astoria neighborhood to Williamsburg. From there, a detour led me into industrial areas of East Williamsburg and Bushwick where I found myself following a string of graffiti murals that seemed to unfurl like a videographic collage along my ride and led me to this:

The word “truck” over the window hints at the building’s former role as a tire shop.  Given the location, drivers or owners of those hulking industrial vehicles were no doubt most of their customers.

The new clientele, I imagine, are more likely to be fixing or fueling their psyches and, perhaps, accompanying friends, dates or partners than to be hauling steel stock or power tools.  The Bushwick Triangle—where Johnson and Scott Avenues intersect with Flushing Avenue—is a lounge.

Even with its new look and purpose, its shape reminds me of a much larger and more famous structure:  the Flatiron Building, often cited as New York City’s first skyscraper  Somehow, though, I can’t imagine it adorned with a mural like the one on the Bushwick Triangle—even if the Flatiron’s owners were inclined to, and the city allowed, it.

I am glad, however, to have encountered a fun and interesting visual surprise during a ride for which I had no plan.

What The Bollards?!

 In previous posts, I’ve written “lines of paint do not a bike lane make.”

I admit it’s not Shakespearean.  (Then again, what besides Shakespeare is?) But I think it sums up at least one major flaw in too much of bicycle infrastructure planning.

Now I have to come up with another catchy line—for bollards.

I was greeted with this scene at the other end of my block.  The city’s Department of Transportation probably believed cyclists like me would be thrilled to have a bike lane running down our street.  But I, and some other cyclists, are among its most vocal critics.The lane isn’t wide enough for two-way bicycle traffic, let alone the eBikes, mini-motorcycles and motorized scooters that, most days, seem to outnumber unassisted pedal bicycles.

Moreover, as you can see, bollards offer little more protection than lines of paint.  On more than one occasion, I have seen drivers use the bike path as a passing lane—when cyclists are using it.  I can understand ambulances or other emergency vehicles passing in the lane (as long as bicycles aren’t in it, of course) because Mount Sinai hospital is on the lane’s route. But some drivers, I think, pass in the lane out of frustration or spite.

The situation has been exacerbated by the recent construction in the neighborhood.  I suspect that the bollards were crushed by a truck pulling toward or away from one of the sites. I also suspect that the destruction wasn’t intentional:  In my experience, commercial truck drivers tend to be more careful than others and when they strike objects—or cyclists or pedestrians—it tends to be because the drivers didn’t see them.

Anyway, what I saw underscores something I’ve told friends and neighbors:  Sometimes, the most dangerous part of my ride is the lane that runs in front of my apartment!

At Least He Won’t Get Away With Murder—We Hope

Today, I am going to give you some advice you probably didn’t expect to find on this blog.

Here goes: In North America, if you want to get away with killing someone  run over that person with a car, truck, bus or other motorized vehicle.For one thing, dead victims can’t tell their side of the story.  So, even with the worst lawyer (or no lawyer), the most egregiously aggressive or careless driver can make him or her self seem blameless. 

For another, North America has had a “car culture” for a century.  Roads and intersections are therefore built or re-configured to convey motorized traffic as quickly and efficiently as possible.  Such a mentality among planners has inculcated a few generations of Americans with the notion that the cyclist or pedestrian is somehow a second-class citizen, at best.

Such attitudes, combined with anger at whatever or whomever, or with any other mental disturbance, often lead drivers to believe they have the right to run down cyclists.  Such an attitude, I think, nearly turned Sacramento cycling advocate Sherry Martinez into such a victim.

“I have four broken ribs, a fractured clavicle, a partial collapsed lung from a collision “I can’t remember,” she said from her hospital bed.  Fortunately for her, there are people who remember it:  members of the small group of cyclists with whom she was riding, as well as other witnesses.

Their testimony, and witnesses’ photos, confirmed the charge against 30-year-old Caleb Taubman: He deliberately drove his pickup truck at Martinez.

In other words, he’s been charged with assault with a deadly weapon.  Members of Sacramento’s cycling community have engaged in a letter-writing campaign urging the district attorney to prosecute Taubman to the fullest extent of the law.

Taubman has been released and awaits his first court date.  Whenever it is, he is on a more certain timeline than that of Sherry Martinez She has no exact date when she!l be well enough to discharged from the hospital. And I imagine that when she’s released, she’ll still have a long road to recovery ahead of her.

At least Caleb Taubman won’t get away with murder—we hope.

Will A Belly Rub Bring A Bike Back?

I don't mean to make levity of bike theft.

So why am I making this video this week's "Sunday Funny?"

Well, it has mainly to do with its possible "hero."

I am a cat person, but I have been known to give a belly rub or two to neighbor's dogs.  So I can understand why even a bike thief--one of the lowest forms of humanity, in my book--couldn't keep himself from doing the same for a big, fluffy Golden Retriever.

I laughed because I realized that the pooch, whether he/she realizes it or not, may assist the police if, indeed, they bother to investigate this crime.  Though the family pet may not have stopped the theft, he or she might've delayed the thief long enough for the cops, the bike's owner or someone else to get a good (or at least) better look at the crook.

I just hope the bike is reunited with its owner.  I am sure he or she treasures it, un, almost as much as that lovable canine.

Beating The Men At Their Game

One of my early posts discussed Beryl Burton.

She was one of the dominant competitive cyclists of her time.  Not one of the dominant female cyclists, mind you:  one of the dominant cyclists.

Whether or not she could beat most male cyclists of her time wasn't a matter of speculation:  It was a settled answer.  Among other things, for two years in the late 1960's, she held the distance record for twelve hours.  Mind you, she didn't beat the old record by a few yards:  Her 277.25 miles was five miles more than any other cyclist, male or female, had ridden over that amount of time.

I am mentioning her in relation to something that only indirectly relates to cycling or, more precisely, women's cycling.  When the US Women's National Team in soccer (football to the rest of the world) won the World Cup in 2015 and 2019, some wondered whether they could beat most men's squads.  That question seemed especially relevant given that the team's star, Megan Rapinoe, grew up playing on boys' teams against other boys’ teams.

This year, the team won its group. Last week, however, for the first time in the history of the tournament, the US Team lost in the Round of 16. While self-styled "patriots" like the ones at Faux, I mean Fox, News and Donald Trump are using the occasion to display their prejudice against women, LGBTQ people and "wokeness," the question remains of whether that team, at its peak, could play against the US men, who haven't had nearly as much success internationally.  Some also wonder whether teams like Sweden's, Japan's and perhaps those of England, France or the Netherlands might be as good as, or better than many men's teams.

Well, such a question is not new. In fact, another women's team answered it a century ago.  

During World War I, large numbers of British men--many of whom just happened to play football--went off to fight. That meant women kept guns, locomotives and other machinery running--and rolling off factory lines. (Think of them as forerunners of "Rosie the Riveter" in World War II USA.) During their lunch and tea breaks, some of those women played pickup games in the factories’ lots.

Some of them became quite good--enough to beat young male apprentices.  Such was the case of the women who worked in the Dick, Kerr and Company factory in the northwestern city of Preston, which had a well-regarded men's professional team.  An office administrator, Alfred Frankland, recognizing their talents and skills, organized them into a team that played exhibitions to raise money for injured servicemembers.

Soon, spectators weren't showing up only out of curiosity:  If nothing else, English fans know when they're seeing good football.  They filled venues like Old Trafford (home of Manchester United), Liverpool's Goodison Park (Everton) and  London's Stamford Bridge (Chelsea).  They beat not only local factory and semi-professional teams, they also took matches from France's national squad during an international tournament in 1920.

Whatever the English fans thought of those women, the sport's governing authorities were not amused.  The following year, the Football Association banned its members from allowing women's teams to use their fields.  Their stated reason:  "[T]he game of football is quite unsuitable for females and should not be encouraged."  Some have speculated that the F.A. feared that the popularity of teams like Dick, Kerr and Company would eat away at the attendance--and profits--of men's teams.

The Dick, Kerr women, undeterred, went on tour--to North America. Upon arrival in Canada, that country also barred them from playing.  The United States--which was experiencing a brief soccer boom (only baseball, bicycle racing and boxing were more popular) proved more receptive, though there were no organized women's teams.  So they played nine games against men's teams of the professional American Soccer League (yes, such a thing existed!).  winning three, losing three and playing to three draws. 

While public reception of them was generally favorable, some  newspaper coverage reflected stereotypes of the time:  One account referred to them as "brawny Amazons" and another was accompanied by ads for corsets, skin cream and dishwashing soap.  Perhaps the worst indignity was this:  The money their games raised was used to cover the expenses of sending the US men's soccer team to the 1924 Olympics in Paris.

But, through such difficulties, the women continued to play, renaming themselves the Preston Ladies in 1926. The F.A. finally lifted its ban in 1971--some six years after the Ladies played their last game.

In the team's history, they compiled a record that I doubt any other team--male, female or otherwise--could boast:  They lost only 24 of the 828 matches they played.  Perhaps most impressive of all was a record set by the team's best-known player.  Lily Parr, a 6 foot chain-smoker "with a kick like a mule" netted 43 goals in her first season.  When she retired three decades later, in 1951, she was believed to have scored 900--many more than any other English soccer player of any gender identity.  In 2002, she would also become the only female player enshrined in the English Football Hall of Fame's inaugural class.   

Bicycling And Hip-Hop: Filling A Void

On this date in 1973, a fellow named Clive Campbell threw a back-to-school party for his sister.  For admission, he charged female guests 25 cents and 50 cents for males.  The money went for his sister's new clothes and supplies.

Such a party would have been like many others except for one thing.  You see, he was a DJ with an interesting background and unique set of skills and ideas.  

Six years earlier, when he was 12, he and his family emigrated from Kingston, Jamaica to Bronx, New York.  In addition to his talents as a musician and host, he brought with him the memory of music from a dancehall near his old home--and a tradition of "toasting," or talking over the music.

He would "toast" over the records he played--as he extended their beats--"breaking" or "scratching"--to give guests more time to dance to them.  

Now, many have argued--plausibly--that other artists and performers were "breaking," "scratching" and "toasting" years before Clive Campbell's party. But that party is cited as the "birth" of what we now call "hip-hop" because it's the first recorded instance of those elements coming together to create, not just a musical style, but an artistic movement in which "toasting" came to be known as "rapping" and would include "break" dancing and the kind of graffiti that pulses like the waves of urban life across subway cars.

So what does the "50th anniversary of hip-hop" have to do with bicycling?

Well, the music, art and dance I've described are part of a response--and a way of coping--with the conditions--including poverty and violence as well as extraordinary diversity-- of life in the Bronx and other urban areas of the 1970s and 1980s. Soon, people in conditions and places far removed from those of 1520 Sedgwick Avenue--where Clive Campbell, whom the world would come to know as DJ Kool Herc threw that party--would see the music he pioneered, and the lyrics he, and others would "rap" over it--expressed something they were feeling or, at least, that it was fresh in a way that the popular music of the time wasn't.

In other words, hip hop filed, and continues to fill, a void.  So does cycling.  Shaka Pitts understands as much.  He co-founded the Baltimore advocacy group Black People Ride Bikes--and Pits Fights Battle League, one of the city's longest-running hip-hop events.  He says he's "doing the same thing" in the cycling and hip-hop worlds:  "I bring in other people.  I lateral things off."  That is how he fills the void--and helps people to cope with, and express the realities, of their lives.

Some Things Can’t Hide

 For my morning ride, I turned from Crescent Street to Broadway and crossed under the elevated train at 31st Street.  I found myself in…Ukraine?

That’s what I wondered, at least for a moment.  What would it be like to ride down a familiar route and encounter a military vehicle .

Of course, that truck had nothing to do with the Armed Forces.  And its driver did nothing to menace me or anyone else.  But I had to wonder about the motivation of whoever had that cement mixer truck painted in camouflage colors!

Using A Bike Lane To Avoid A “Brick”

 I don’t drive. So I am basing this assumption on being an (infrequent) passenger and (more frequent) observer:  When drivers are lost or confused, or detect malfunctions (in their cars or passengers), they pull over in the nearest place that looks safe.

That is, if the driver is human.  If the car’s driver is itself (Does that sound creepy or what?), it won’t pull over.  And, if it’s lost or confused, it won’t go to a therapist or spiritual counselor.

Rather, it will “brick.” No, it won’t build a wall—at least not literally. (Even Donald Trump and Greg Abbot have difficulty doing that!) Rather, said non-human driver will stop dead wherever it happens to be—even in the middle of an intersection.  

In San Francisco, which probably is denser with ride-sharing services and autonomous vehicles than any other city, Waymo and Cruise self-driving cars accounted for 215 crashes during the first four months of this year.

I could not find reports of injuries caused by those collisions.  The city’s transportation authority says that self-driving vehicles “will improve safety” but admits that the technology “isn’t fully developed yet.” One commenter wonders whether the city can “end this experiment now” or “does someone need to be killed first?”

He posted a video that illustrated his concerns:  a number of human drivers steered into the Valencia Street bike lane, in the city’s Mission district, to avoid a self-driving Waymo vehicle that “bricked.”

Twofer! Let's take a look at how well the posts are working on Valencia @SFMTA_Muni. Can we end this experiment now or does someone need to be killed first? Also did @waymo report this incident to @californiapuc? pic.twitter.com/BSBvYUw5HK

— Andy (@Shenanigans_ATL) August 7, 2023

Hands During A Ride

 No, they’re Michelangelo’s hands of God and Adam on the Sistine Chapel ceiling.

Nor are they Albrecht Dūrer’s Praying Hands

or Auguste Rodin’s Cathedrale.

Nor is it the work of any other dead white guy whose work I love.

Rather, it’s from a woman who, old and white as she is, very much lives among us.

I saw Sassona Walter’s “Touch” yesterday in front of the old Greenwich Town Hall. I pedaled Negrosa, my vintage Mercian Olympic on an all-but-perfect first-Sunday-in-August morning. 

The ride home was pleasantly uneventful until almost the end.  On the Randall’s Island-to-Queens span of the RFK Bridge, a young guy on a motor scooter just missed my elbow.  

Something seemed strange about the encounter.  A moment later, I realized I hadn’t cursed the guy out, even to myself. Was I becoming more of a lady—or simply more accustomed to such things?

Well, a couple of moments later, he took a tumble about ten meters in front of me.  I stopped, and a guy on a motorized bike pulled up.

Turns out, the guy on the scooter jammed his brake when he hit a bump. He had a few scrapes but, fortunately, didn’t hit his head. 

The guy on the motorized bike and I offered him water, which he turned down. But when we reached our hands to his, he let us lift him up. Then, on discovering that the brake mechanism had broken, we walked with him the rest of the way across the bridge.

They Couldn't Keep It Clean

When I worked in bike shops, customers brought in bikes with problems I couldn't have imagined.

Note:  "Mudguards" are, to the British, what we Americans call "fenders."

Bikes On The Walls

Here in the USA, the news we hear about Argentina tends to fall into two categories:

           its football (soccer) team and players

           the bad news.

In the latter category was, during my youth, the Peron regime.  These days, it's about hyper-inflation:  People spend their money as soon as they get it because it loses value faster than a dot-com stock in 2000.

What's often forgotten, though, is the country's creativity:  Not for nothing has its capital, Buenos Aires, been called "the Paris of South America."

And the city's and country's artistry isn't limited to what ends up in museums or on pedestals in public squares.  From what I've heard, few cities have more murals.  And those displays that adorn the city's walls encompass all kinds of styles--and subjects, including bicycles and bicycling.

Mart Aire started to grace buildings and other structures with his artistry in the 1990s---when he was 12 years old.  I just love the way his colors and sheer whimsicality express the flights of fancy and sheer freedom I experience when I'm spinning along a seashore, pumping up--or coasting down--a hill or zigging and zagging through city streets.

What Do You See?

 What do you see in these pictures?

You've probably had some teacher, professor or, uh, official of the law ask you that question.

Of course, in any photo, some things are incontestably true.  On the other hand, other things are, if you'll indulge me a cliche, "in the eyes of the beholder."

In the polarized, hyper-politicized atmosphere that is today's America (It now seems weird to call this country the United States!), people will infer, correctly or not, your sympathies when you describe what you see.

Juxtaposing a photo of Joe Biden on his bike with that of Donald Trump disembarking from his plane is meant to show how far removed the current President is from the legal proceedings in which his predecessor finds himself.  To some, however, it shows a leader who's out of touch in contrast to one who's being "persecuted" by an unjust system.  

All right...I'm going to reveal my leanings --as if you haven't already figured them out!  Nobody can do any job 24/7.  Everyone needs physical and mental relaxation.  So, I don't begrudge Joe Biden, any more than I'd begrudge anybody else, for going on a bike ride. And, as much as I hate to engage in "whataboutism," I'll say that we didn't hear a peep from same people who criticize Joe for mounting a saddle and pedaling when Trump was cheating, I mean, playing golf.

Ride, But Don’t Cross!

 

Why didn’t the cyclist cross the road?

No, I it’s not an “ironic” version of an old joke.  I reckon, though, that the punchline could be, “They couldn’t get to the other side.”

And it would accurately describe what cyclists encounter on a new bike lane in Newcastle, England.

 Carved out of Heaton Road, one of the city’s main thoroughfares, it features separate traffic signals for the auto traffic and bike lanes.

That would make perfect sense if they were timed so that cyclists could cross without having to worry about being struck by a turning car or truck.  The problem is that the signals don’t allow cyclists to cross at all.

Not legally, anyway.  According to local riders, the signals for cars operate normally.  The bike signals, on the other hand, are permanently stuck on red.

It’s as if the local authorities want to legitimize motorists’ complaints that cyclists are “always running red lights.”

A Path To Inclusion And Integration

An industry is booming. So it needs workers, especially those with the specific skills that industry requires.

There is a group of people who need jobs.

The solution seems obvious: Train the people and steer them toward those jobs.

An organization in said industry is doing exactly that for a particular group of people.

Bike New York is best known for running the Five Boro Bike Tour. It’s also become known for its programs that teach people how to ride. Bike New York CEO Ken Posziba, who calls the Tour “the world’s most inclusive bike ride,” explains that those classes—and ones aimed at training formerly-incarcerated people as bike mechanics—as extensions of that inclusivity.

The five-week training program not only trains the former inmates how to fix bikes and e-bikes.  It also makes them part of the mechanics’ union  and sets them up with job interviews—which, for them, is often the most difficult part of integrating or re-integrating into the job market and society in general.

This program, called Bike Path, is an example of how cycling can be not only inclusive, but also “transformative,” as Posziba says:  Bicycling can transform our environment just as getting the skills and professional (and personal) connections that lead to employment can transform someone’s life. Just ask Vincent Casiano, who got a job with Citibike upon completing the course.

On Their Backs

When I first became a dedicated cyclist—during the 1970s—Schwinn still manufactured a style of frame they called “camelback.” With a curved top tube and, sometimes, twin parallel buttresses, it was found on the company’s balloon-tired bikes as well as some of its kids’ bikes (like the “Krate” series) and some smaller-framed adult models.  Here is a particularly nice example from the 1930s.

I have never owned one of those bikes—or ridden a camel. So I can’t tell you whether those bikes rode like camels—or whether I would want such a ride characteristic.

Apparently, some people do:

Idyll By The Airport

 Ah, the joys of an early morning ride.

You can almost hear the overture from Sprach Zarathustra in the background 

or, perhaps one of those early Infiniti TV ads.

Believe it or not, I chanced upon this scene along the Malcolm X Promenade—about half a kilometer from LaGuardia Airport,

From there, I pedaled out to Fort Totten and back—40 kilometers on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear.  I’d say it’s a respectable “beat the heat” early morning ride.

Tony Bennett and Sinead O’Connor

 (Spoiler alert:  This post is not directly related to bicycles or bicycling.  Read at your own risk!;-)

The way things are going, I might be called upon to sing.  And trust me, you don’t want to hear that!

Two months ago, Tina Turner passed away. Last week, we lost Tony Bennett.   And, a couple of days ago, Sinead O’Connor was found dead in her London apartment.

They were as different from each other, in their singing styles and what they sang, not to mention their personal styles, as any three singers could be.  I believe, however, that what they had in common are the hallmarks of singers who I could listen to all day.

Tony Bennett with Lena Horne, 1972

They had beautiful voices, of course. (So does Mariah Carey, but I find her boring, boring.) More important though, is this: They sang from the heart because, well, they couldn’t sing any other way—and I suspect they wouldn’t have wanted to. (Tony Bennett said as much.)

And, for each of them, “the heart” was a place of pain as well as joy—and passion.  Tina Turner’s struggles during her childhood and during and after her marriage to Ike. So is Sinead’s history of abuse from her mother and subsequent mental-health issues.  And while he didn’t express it directly, it’s hard not to think that some of his energy as an artist came from the loss and pain he experienced early in his life.

Sinead O’Connor

And, as different as their stage personae, if you will, were, they channeled their sexuality in different ways. Tony Bennett has been described as a “crooner,” which I have always interpreted as someone who looks and carries himself like a Hollywood leading man but seduces with his voice. Tina Turner, on the other hand, was not shy about her sex appeal but showed how that it could empower her (or anyone) against the kind of exploitation she experienced.  And, finally, Sinead O’Connor knew how beautiful she was enough to keep the notoriously-rapacious music and entertainment industries from defining her by it.

I will miss them all. But at least we have recordings of them. Oh, and their songs sometimes play in my head while I’m cycling.  That, for me is proof enough that they have been important in my life!

A Ghost In The Morning

After a perfect summer weekend, another heat wave has swept over this city.

 Now, those of you who live in places like western Texas or southern Arizona might chuckle when folks like me complain about the heat in New York. I’ll concede that we don’t know (at least not yet) what it’s like when your nighttime temperatures are like ours in the afternoon.  But our hot days come with humidity that turn our streets into saunas.

Anyway, knowing that we are heading for The Nineties (in Fahrenheit temperature and humidity), I went for a morning ride that took me back and forth between Queens and Brooklyn.  

 Street destruction (Why do they call it construction?) detoured me onto Hewes Street, one of the narrow, warrenlike thoroughfares in the part of this city that most closely resembles a pre-war stetl: the Hasidic part of Williamsburg, where it borders Bushwick.

One way you know a neighborhood is changing: You see “ghosts.” I can’t help but to imagine the lives that filled and voices that echo walls of bubbling, flaking bricks and shingles. But I also notice another kind of “ghost”:  a long-concealed sign or banner from a business that served as past residents whom current residents will never know.

“Ghost” signs like the one I saw today on Hewes Street have led me down a rabbit hole or two. What kinds of “beauty preparations” did Nutrine make or sell? Who used them, and what image of “beauty” were they trying to achieve.

That image, I imagine, might have burned as brightly and hazily as a heat-wave afternoon in the imaginations of those in whom it was inculcated it—and those who inculcated it.

Leading

 Have you ever heard your bike calling out to you?

Well, I can’t say I have—at least, not literally.  But when I pedaled La-Vande, my King of Mercia, to Greenwich, Connecticut on Saturday, she seemed to be leading me there—the way Marlee does when she rubs against my ankles and steers me toward the sofa.

Well, Saturday was a nearly perfect day for a ride of any kind, of any length on any bike.  But I think La-Vande had ulterior motives.

She wanted to pose against a backdrop she knew would flatter her.

Sunday was almost as nice a day for a ride. So to Point Lookout I went, this time with Vera, my Mercian mixte. She didn’t seem to be “leading “ me there, but I believe she enjoyed the breeze off the sea, and the sun.

Oh, and when I got home, Marlee “led” me to the couch, and curled in my lap.

Animal Snacks

Before embarking on a ride, I went to the store for a snack or two to bring with me.

This is not the reason why I don't eat meat during a ride

though I suppose it could be.

What if it could recognize its own reflection? 

A Ride From Astoria To Denmark, Via Atlanta

I have a confession:  I rode a bike-share bike the other night.

No, I wasn't in some faraway place without one of my bikes.  I was in my home city--New York, where I live with almost as many bikes (and Marlee) as I lived with family members when I was growing up.

So what was I doing on a CitiBike?

Well, I went to some place where I wasn't sure I could park any of my bikes safely.  A phone call confirmed that there is no on-premises bike parking. And, while there are on-street bike racks-- in addition to sign posts, railings and such--I didn't want to lock up my bike for the three hours or more I expected to be at my destination.

This image will give you an idea of what the neighborhood is like:

All right, the whole neighborhood isn't like that.  It's actually one of the more affluent areas of the city.  The crime rate is lower than in most other neighborhoods but, as in similar neighborhoods, a fair amount of that crime consists of bike theft.

That semi-submerged house is, as you may have surmised, a prop on a stage--specifically, in the Delacorte Theatre, the home of Shakespeare In The Park.

There I saw a very interesting production of Hamlet.  All of the major soliloquies (speeches), and most of the original language, was intact. But it was set in suburban Atlanta, and some liberties were taken with the chronology.  

Whenever I've assigned the play, I've told students that there are really two Hamlets in the play. The one who delivers "To be or not to be" and those other immortal lines is really Hamlet Jr. or Hamlet II, and he is brooding the death of his father--Hamlet Sr, if you will.  In this production, he becomes the patriarch of a mixed-race family. The play opens with his funeral, which includes soul and gospel songs and dance. 

For me, the cast (Ato Blankson-Wood is one of my favorite Hamlets!) helped me to see something that has been in the play all along but what is seldom emphasized:  what we now call "intergenerational trauma."  It also conveys the effect of murder and other kinds of violence on families and communities.  And some of the "tweaks" to the original dialogue--such as "Denmark's a prison" becoming "this country is a prison" (so powerfully delivered by Blankson-Wood)--makes the play almost scarily relevant.

Those who insist traditional, period-correct productions may not like this one.  And I'll admit that some attempts to transpose a contemporary Black/mixed-race American milieu with medieval Denmark don't always work.  But this production "hit" far more often than it "missed" for me, and I recommend it. Oh, and if you need an excuse to ride a Citibike even if you have a few bikes of your own, here it is.

It's All Your Fault (If You Voted A Certain Way)

A proprietor loses his businesses.  He points his finger. "It's all your fault!" he bellows.

In this case, though, he wasn't pointing to an executive, employee, family member or incompetent (or crooked) lawyer, accountant or bookkeeper.  Rather, he aimed his accusation at 25 million or so people.

What did they have to do with the demise of his enterprise?  (That rhyme was unintentional. Really!)  They all voted for what, according to the proprietor, was the slit to the throat of his company.

Hint:  They voted seven years ago, in the UK.

I am referring, of course to "Brexit:"  the decision to take the country out of the European Union (formerly called the "Common Market).  That meant the re-imposition of tariffs that membership eliminated on goods from most continental European countries.  Perhaps more to the point, it meant reels and reels of "red tape" that tied up shipments in ports and terminals or made it all but impossible to pass through.  It even made Brooks saddles unavailable England, where they have been made for more than a century and a half:  For about two decades, an Italian company has owned Brooks, so the company's saddles are shipped from a distribution center Italy, an EU country.

And many bike brands sold in the UK are based in European countries, even if the bikes or parts are made in Asia or other parts of the world.  One of those bike brands is Austrian KTM, distributed by Huddersfield-based FLi Distributors for the past eleven years.  They have just ceased trading. In announcing their demise, owner Colin Williams said, "If you voted for Brexit, realise (British spelling) this is 90 percent because of your decision back in 2016."

FLi is not the only bicycle-related company to close its doors since Brexit-related regulations took effect at the beginning of 2021--just as the worst of COVID-19 related shutdowns were choking supply chains.  I would bet that the owners and employees of those companies and Williams--along with many others in the bike business, cyclists and other citizens--are not the only ones regretting the Brexit vote.