Jackie Robinson

Yesterday was the 70th anniversary of one of the most important events in US history.  It, and the actor in the drama, if you will, should be commemorated--though not exactly for the reasons that they are.

On 15 April 1947, Jackie Robinson played his first regular-season game for the Brooklyn Dodgers.  It is often said that on that day, he "integrated" the "national pastime."  It is true that he was the first openly, visibly black man to appear in a modern major league baseball game.  That is, if you define "modern major league" as today's National and American Leagues.  Before 1901, though, the American League didn't exist and the National League's chief competition--the other major league, if you will--was the American Association.

The Toledo Blue Stockings joined the Association, as it was called (in contrast to the NL, which was usually referred to as "The League") in 1884.  Prior to that, it had played five years in a minor league.  On its roster was a fellow named Moses Fleetwood Walker.  

He was a slick-fielding, light-hitting catcher who joined the Blue Stockings in 1883 and remained with them when they made the move to the Association the following year.  During that time, "Cap" Anson, player-manager of the Chicago White Stockings (one of the powerhouse teams of that time), refused to let his squad play a rival with a black man on its roster.  Of course, Anson didn't refer to Walker--who was usually known as "Fleetwood"--as a black man.  Rather, he used a word that rhymes with "bigger".

Injuries limited Walker to one season on the 'Stockings.  He extended his playing career in the minor leagues by another five seasons.  By that time, his injuries (In those days, catchers didn't have mitts, or any of the other protective equipment they have now!) and the racism he endured took their toll on him.  During his teams' road trips, he sometimes slept on park benches because no hotel or rooming house would accommodate him, and he endured everything from insults to death threats to having projectiles hurled his way.

Jackie Robinson signing autographs on the steps of his Brooklyn home.  His wife, Rachel, is at his side.  Today, at age 94, she is strong and beautiful.

Robinson endured all of those things, too, throughout his career.  Add that to the fact that he made his debut at age 28--five to eight years later than players typically begin their major league careers (Prior to his Dodger debut, Robinson played in the Negro American League and served in World War II.)--and you realize that it's a miracle he lasted ten seasons in the major leagues.  He retired when the Dodgers traded him, saying he didn't want to play as a shadow of what he had been.  But it's hard not to think that, as tough as he was, he'd simply had enough.


So, when I bring up Walker, I mean absolutely no disrespect to Robinson, who remains one of the athletes I admire most.  After Walker retired, Anson--who had a lot of influence among baseball administrators and team owners of the time--got the major leagues to make a "gentleman's agreement" not to hire black players.

And major league baseball teams followed it, until Dodger General Manager Branch Rickey brought Robinson aboard.  At least, they believed they did.  I can't help but to think that other black men played "stealth" on major league rosters before Robinson.

Long before Spike Lee made his claim, rumors abounded that Babe Ruth was black.  Part of the reason for that is that he had some Negroid features. Also, he was born in a section of Baltimore where many African-Americans lived and ended up in an orphanage there.  Beyond that, few details about his childhood exist.  Throughout his life, Ruth had many black friends, was a denizen of Harlem during the "Roaring Twenties", played in--and sometimes organized--exhibition games between white major leaguers and Negro Major League players (something the owners of major league teams as well as the major league baseball commissioner frowned upon), and voiced his wish to see the major leagues integrated.  For all of that, he was taunted and threatened, by fans as well as players like Ty Cobb, who once refused to go on an off-season hunting trip because he didn't want to share a cabin with "no N----".

Whether or not Ruth was in fact black, I can't help but to wonder whether other light-skinned black players donned major league uniforms.  After all, more than a few such people--including the father of a friend of mine--essentially changed their racial status by moving from the South to the North or the West Coast.  My friend's father was born and raised in Virginia which, like other Southern states, had the "one drop" rule. He came to New York, which had no such law and where no one questioned his race.  He married a white woman whose parents, from what my friend tells me, never realized that their daughter married a "black" man!

Now, if he and others changed their race by changing their abode, who is to say that some baseball player or another didn't do it--and make it to the major leagues?  I'm not saying that such a thing indeed happened--I have no evidence for that--I am only raising the possibility that it could have happened.  

Whether or not it did, and whether or not Babe Ruth was black, or whether or not any blacks wore major league uniforms during the six decades between Walker's retirement and Robinson's debut, Jackie Robinson should be honored as a hero.  He was ineffably and openly black at a time when even the Armed Forces (in which he served during World War II) were segregated.  And, even though Major League audiences didn't get to see him during what might have been a couple (or even a few) of his best years, he retired as one of the best second basemen in the history of the game. (Some say he was the best.)  He was a first-ballot Hall of Famer and, in perhaps his greatest baseball honor, in 1997 his number (42) became the only one that, to this day, is "universally" retired by all major league teams.

A Good Friday

Yesterday was Good Friday.  In all of the time I was in Catholic school, no one ever explained why it was called "Good."  I mean, if the person after whom the religion was named was executed on that day, what could be so good about that?

I was reminded of that while I was teaching Dante's Inferno this semester.  While it's usually read as a stand-alone book, it's really part of a trilogy--along with his Purgatorio and Paradiso--called the Commedia Divina.  Yes, the Divine Comedy.  Of course, students asked what was funny about it.  I explained that in ancient drama and epic poetry, a comedy is basically anything that isn't a tragedy.  Dante's trilogy proceeds from Hell to Purgatory to Heaven, which is a "happy" ending, if you will--which is what makes his work a "comedy."

I think that, in a similar way, the word "good" meant anything that had a felicitous conclusion.  According to Christian beliefs, the persecution and murder of Christ was "good" because it culminated in his resurrection.

Anyway, yesterday was a good day--in the sense most of us use that term today--because it was sunny and bright, if a bit breezy and cool.  So, I went for another coastal ride, this time to the Rockaways and, from there, to Breezy Point, Coney Island and Hipster Hook.  

I saw a lot of families, particularly Hasidic Jewish ones, on the boardwalks.  The kids ran, jumped rope and played all the games kids play, while their parents chatted and sometimes joined their kids.  As it happens, Passover is celebrated this week.

Anyway, I expected to see more cyclists than I did.  Maybe some didn't want to deal with the wind.  In any event, all of the action was on the boardwalk because the water is still too cold--about 8C (45F)--to swim.  Sometimes, on days like yesterday, one sees wet-suited surfers in the water.  Today I didn't see any.

I'm not complaining.  I had the best of both worlds:  I did a ride I've done many times before, and it felt great.  And, as I'd eaten only a croissant before riding, I worked up an appetite.  So the salsa (homemade) and chips I brought for my "picnic" sure tasted good.

I hope to have some more weather like I had yesterday before I go back to work next week! 

What Does It Take?

Not so long ago, I was actively writing another blog, Transwoman Times.  I have not given up on it, but I probably never will be as active on it as I once was--or as I am now on this blog.  

TT started off as a journal of the year leading up to my gender-reassignment surgery.  Then I wrote about, among other things, my life post-surgery.  But, as I had less and less to say about that, I found myself writing about any and all things related to gender identity and expression as well as sexual orientation.

That, I now realize, is one of the reasons I have not been writing on TT lately:  Too often, I found myself writing about people who were killed or suffered other forms of violence, not to mention discrimination and other kinds of bigotry, because of their actual or perceived gender identity or expression.  And, too often, I found myself recounting the indifference of law enforcement and other officials in the face of hate crimes--and of perpetrators who got off scot-free or slap-on-the-wrist punishments.

The latter is essentially what happened in the case of Alan Snel, the writer and cycling advocate who writes the Bicycle Stories blog.  The man who drove straight into his back didn't get so much as a ticket.  

Alan Snel in better times.

I guess the St. Lucie County authorities thought that because he was lying in a hospital bed, rather than six feet under, nothing serious had happened.  Now I'm starting to wonder whether the authorities in some places think that even turning cyclists into worm food isn't reason enough to bring charges against a motorist.

Back in June, I wrote about one of the more horrific instances of a motorist mowing down cyclists I've ever heard about.  Charles Pickett Jr. of Battle Creek, Michigan has been accused of plowing into a group of nine cyclists near Kalamazoo while intoxicated.  Of that group--who called themselves "The Chain Gang" and met for weekly rides--Debra Ann Bradley, Melissa Fevig-Hughes, Fred Anton ("Tony") Nelson, Lorenz John ("Larry:) Paulik and Suzanne Joan Sippel died.  

l to r:  Melissa Fevig-Hughes, Suzanne Sippel, Debra Bradley, "Tony" Nelson and "Larry " Paulik

Pickett was scheduled to go on trial later this month, with jury selection planned for the 24th and opening statements the following day.  Last month, however, his lawyer filed a notice to use the insanity defense.  That means Pickett has to undergo psychiatric evaluation for criminal responsibility, which means the trial had to be rescheduled.  Now jury selection is scheduled for the 18th of September and opening statements for the next day.  

That, after Pickett had been found competent to stand trial last August and ordered to stand trial in November.  Oh, and he has a previous DUI arrest--in 2011 in Tennessee--but the charges were dropped.

While I am all for due process, I still have to wonder what it takes for motorists who--whether through intoxication, carelessness or "road rage"--kill cyclists to be held accountable.

A Day In Court---For....?

Which is worse:

• laws, policies and regulations that govern cyclists but are conceived and enacted by people who don't ride bikes, or
• enforcement of said laws, policies and regulations by people who don't cycle?

A few months ago, I was caught in a "perfect storm", if you will, between the two.

It was around noon on a warm, late-summer day.  The sun shone brightly in a clear sky.  That meant something unusual for that time of the year in this part of the world:  very little humidity, which is probably the reason why I felt the light wind wasn't slowing me down, even though I was pedaling into it.  

At that moment, I was about two thirds of the way from my apartment to Greenwich, Connecticut.  So, unless that wind changed direction (it wouldn't), I could look forward to it giving me a "boost" on my way home.  Most important, though--at least at that moment--I was feeling really, really good:  I was astride Arielle, my Mercian Audax, and each pedal stroke seemed to invigorate me.  

Somewhere along  Halstead Avenue, one of the major thoroughfares in the Westchester County town of Harrison, I noticed a police officer perched on a motorcycle.  Alfred Hitchcock once said that if you are going to show a gun on a mantel, it has to be used to shoot somebody at some point during the movie.  I actually remember thinking about that--why, I didn't know--when I saw that officer.  

A couple of minutes later, I came to the town's major intersection: where Halstead crosses Harrison Avenue, next to the railroad station.  I saw trucks and construction crews on the other side of Harrison; as I approached the intersection, I could hear more trucks rumbling behind me.  

(Here is a Google image of the intersection, without the construction crews.)

Focusing on the construction work and trucks ahead of me, and seeing that no traffic was crossing Halstead from either side of Harrison Avenue, I increased my speed through the intersection so I could stay ahead of the trucks I'd heard rumbling behind me. I figured that I would be safer if they saw me ahead of them:  Truck drivers, in my experience, tend to be more careful than most drivers and give the right of way as long as they see you.  Also, I thought that if I crossed the intersection ahead of those trucks and whatever other traffic might be approaching behind me, I could more safely navigate the construction zone.

You can probably guess what happened next:  The cop on the motorcycle zoomed up alongside me.  At first, I didn't think anything of it.  Then he yelled, "You, on the bike.  Pull over!"  

I did. In front of a funeral home.  

"Let me see your license."

"What's the problem, officer?"

"You went through that red light."

"I did?"

He then lectured me about how New York State law says that bicycles are, in effect, vehicles and are governed in the same way.  That meant I had to stop for the red light at an intersection.  "You know, if there had been cross traffic, it could have ended really badly."

"But, officer, there wasn't any."

"You're still supposed to obey traffic signals."

I tried to explain to him that doing so could've landed me underneath one of those trucks.  He was hearing none of it.  Instead, he ran my license through his computer.  He ordered me to step back as he read the screen and printed out the summons.

"Have you ever dealt with the police before?"

"No, sir."   

Then, sotto voce, he told me to mail in the summons with a not guilty plea and the pre-trial date would be set.

Well, that day was the other day.  I went to the Harrison court house and stood on a line with about three dozen other people who had traffic summonses of one kind or another.  A man at a desk called each of us by name.  He called mine, and said that he was going to do me a "favor" and, as a result, I wouldn't have points on my license or a record of any kind.  

I then realized he was the officer who pulled me over and wrote the summons.  "Go to the line on your right, Miss Valinotti," he ordered. "Have a good day."

While waiting on line, a few of us got to talking.  It seems that Harrison has a reputation for issuing lots of traffic tickets.  One person remarked that it's the town's second-biggest source of revenue, after property taxes.  He might not have been kidding.

(Maybe I'm not the first one to think the town should be re-named "Harassment" or "Harrass-son".)

Anyway...I should mention that the day I was pulled over was the last Saturday in August.  Although the officer who stopped me--or, for that matter, any other officer--would probably deny that there was a "quota" system in place, it's hard not to believe that I was stopped for any other reason.  

It was probably the easiest way for the town of Harrison, New York to get 175 dollars from someone who doesn't live there--and who might not ever pass through again.  

Getting Home Through The Gate Of Hell

Yesterday I took a late-day ride through central Queens and up to the North Shore.   From Flushing, it's west (actually, west-southwest) to my place.  That allows me to revel in a spectacle or two if I time my ride the way I did yesterday:

Here is the bay at the World's Fair Marina, just east of the airport everybody hates, i.e., LaGuardia.  Yes, that is the midtown and uptown Manhattan skyline in the distance.

From there, I followed the bay and the East River to Astoria Park, which is only a couple of miles from my apartment.  If you've ever taken the train between New York and Boston, you rumbled over this park, which lies underneath one end of the bridge.

That span is known as the Hell Gate Bridge, named for the stretch of waterway under it.  In other posts, I've recounted the origins of the name.  Last night, the visibly strong current helped that stretch of the East River (which is really a tidal estuary) live up to its name.

And I rode under that bridge--through the gate, if you will--to go home.  If riding through Hell is so beautiful, I'm in no hurry to get to Heaven!

A Project's Maiden Voyage

The other day was a fine early-spring day.  Yesterday was just like it, only warmer and with less wind.

It seemed like a good day for a maiden voyage.  Yes, I took my winter project out for a ride.  I'd planned to take it for a "shakeout" of, say, 20 kilometers.  Then I'd go home, have lunch and take a ride on one of my Mercians.

But a ride to the World's Fair Promenade and Flushing Meadow park turned into a North Shore jaunt that took up the late morning and early afternoon.  The day was just so nice that I didn't want to go back inside.  Also, I was starting to form a few early impressions about the bike and wanted to spend some more time on the road to examine them, if not in depth.

Also, I wanted to see whether any problems would develop.  So far, I haven't found any.  I'll need to do only the things one normally has to do with a new build (even when using old parts):  Cables and spokes need re-tensioning and I'm going to tweak the saddle and handlebar position a bit.  So far, however, I don't think I'll need to make any major changes.

I reckon I rode 85 or 90 kilometers with a few hills and rough patches.  The bike is both more stable and sprightly than I expected it to be.  It seems, so far, to ride like a less refined version of Vera--which is not a bad thing, necessarily.

Years ago, I had a set of Weinmann 605 brakes on my Romic and one of my Treks.  I liked them then, and now I remember why:  They have a very firm response which, I believe, is enhanced with Mathauser (Kool Stop) brake pads.  I am especially pleased that they are playing nice with the inverse brake levers.

And I remembered what I liked so much about SunTour derailleurs back in the day:  They, like the brakes, have a positive response.  I wondered, however, what the shifting would be like with a modern chain on an old freewheel.  I wasn't so worried about whether they'd mesh:  The freewheel I installed hadn't been used much, if at all:  It was about as close to new as it could be without being new.  It is, though, a five-speed freewheel, which has wider spacing between the cogs than what's found on modern cassettes.  And the chain--a SRAM PC-830--is made for 8-speeds.  

Happily, I didn't miss a shift.  The "pickup" was quicker than I expected, and the chain engaged the cogs--on a SunTour Winner Pro freewheel--without any problems.  The drivetrain shifted and ran quietly.

In an upcoming post, I'll list the componentry. For now, I'll mention two interesting (to you bike geeks, I mean enthusiasts, anyway) things I did.

One is in the rear wheel, which I built.  The hub is spaced for a six-speed rear, with a 126mm over-locknut diameter.  I rearranged the spacing--shortening it by 5mm on the right (drivetrain) side and lengthening the left side by the same amount.  In other words, I spaced the right side for a 5-speed freewheel and, in adding the spacers to the other side, made the hub more nearly symmetrical. This reduces the amount of "dish" in the wheel which, I believe, will make it stronger.

The other thing I want to mention is the handlebar tape.  Yes, I used cloth tape--in this case, Tressostar gray and dark blue--and coated it with clear shellac.

That ornament on the stem?  It was an earring.  It was once half of a pair.  I lost its "mate".  So, I cut off the clamp, filed down the stub and attached it to the stem with Crazy Glue!

If you've been reading this blog, you've seen the bag before.  It's the great Randonneur bag Ely of Ruthworks made, which I've used on Vera for the past couple of years.  I hope she and this bike--which I've yet to name--don't fight for custody of it!

An Early Spring Reverie

Yesterday definitely felt like Spring.  The weather was pleasantly cool and the skies almost preternaturally bright. Breezes blew from the ocean, sometimes turning into winds.

It was a great day, in short, for a ride of, oh, about 105 or 110 kilometers.  A trip to Point Lookout and back falls very neatly into that range, depending on whether and how I vary my route.

I didn't see as many people along the Rockaway boardwalks as I expected.  However, a lot of people were roaming around the area, and on the beach, both in the Rockaways and in Long Beach.  And, while I enjoyed a piece of English Blue Stilton cheese and two whole wheat bagels, a few families stopped at Point Lookout to take portraits on the rocks, with the waves in the background.

Well, all right, there weren't any waves. Or, at least, they weren't the kind that lash against the rocks.  I don't think I've ever seen the tide recede as much as it had yesterday.

On other rides, I've seen sandbars form on the north side of the bay.  But yesterday, for the first time, I saw another on the south side.  They almost merged:

Meantime, Vera was soaking up some sun.  She's getting and giving some good rides. Don't worry:  My other Mercians will see the road this soon--actually, this week, I hope.  I was doing some maintenance on them and now I have a few days off for spring break!

And, yes, my project Trek will also see some "duty", too!

How Many Bananas?

Last week, while out for a ride, I stopped at a Halal cart for a falafel.  It got me to thinking about how much the definition of "street food" has changed here in New York.  

In addition to falafel, hummus and those tasty chicken-and rice or lamb-and-rice dishes the Middle Eastern street cooks/vendors offer, it's possible to buy tacos, pizza, curries, waffles, sushi, various kinds of sandwiches, fried chicken, lobster rolls, crepes, salads, meat-on-a-stick and cupcakes as well as familiar fare like ice cream and almost anything based on coffee or tea from various trucks and carts all over the city.

It wasn't so long ago that "street food" in the Big Apple meant "dirty water" hot dogs (with mustard and barbecued onions), knishes and pretzels that were baked dry, then burnt on the hot plates the vendors used to warm them up.

Ruminating about such urban delicacies (as if I don't have better uses for my brain cells!) led me to recall the days when "energy bars" hadn't been invented.  Back then, we carried "trail mix" or other combinations of dried fruits, nuts (and, for some of us, chocolate) as well as other fruits--especially bananas.

In fact, when I was co-editing a club newsletter, we had a five-banana rating system for rides.  The most difficult rides, of course, got five while the easiest rides were marked with only one.

That system would have been entirely useless had someone shown up to ride in this:

From Extreme Mobility

A Story I Didn't Want To Repeat

One of the things my students learn--if they don't already know it--is that the same stories repeat themselves, whether in literature, the other arts, journalism or "real life".

As for the latter:  Yes, another story repeated itself in life.  In fact, it's one I wrote about just yesterday in this blog.  Unfortunately, it's not the sort of account I, or anyone else, enjoys repeating.  But here goes:

Another motorist drove into the back of another cyclist in Florida--in more or less the same part of the Sunshine State, no less.  

Frank Atkisson in the Florida State Legislature, 2003

Yesterday, I told you about Alan Snel.  He survived the ordeal, although he still has a lot of recovery ahead of him.  Frank Atkisson, on the other hand was not as fortunate:  The force of 26-year-old Kristie Jean Knoebel's car ended his life shortly after he was struck while riding at around 7pm the other day.

Although Snel's experience garnered a lot of attention among cycling advocates and journalists--Alan is both--it didn't reverberate through the general population the way Atkisson's unfortunate encounter has.  At least, his tragedy has caused the general public--in Florida, anyway, to take notice.

You might say that it's because Atkisson, unfortunately, died.  But another reason is that he served in the Florida House of Representatives for eight years, and was also a city council member and the mayor of Kissimmee as well as a Commissioner in Osceola County.

I don't want to trivialize his death, or even to seem overly cynical, when I say that his visibility to the people of Florida--especially to his fellow politicians--might be the impetus to make conditions safer in what is the deadliest state for cyclists.

Maybe, just maybe. We can always hope.  But for now, we can only mourn him--and be thankful that Alan Snel is still with us.

What's A Cyclist Worth? In Florida, Not Even A Fine

I don't think of myself as a vengeful person.  At the same time, there are people I want to see punished, or at least castigated, for their misdeeds.

Moreover, I have come to realize that you can tell what a person's status is, or was, in his or her community or society by the sort of penalty meted out to someone who commits a crime against, or otherwise causes harm to, that person.

Now, I'm not going to say "Don't get me started about drivers who get off scot-free when they run down cyclists!" because, well, I am going to rant about that, whether or not anybody gets me started.

Specifically, I am going to rant and rave about one particular cyclist who was so victimized.  He has survived the ordeal, albeit with a fractured spine and deep bruises.  He hopes to get back on his bike sooner rather than later, but he still faces a long recovery from the injuries he incurred a month ago today.

A 65-year-old motorist named Dennis Brophy, of Fort Pierce, Florida, was in the process of inhaling a "breathing treatment" when he drove his 2016 Chevy Cruze straight into the back of a cyclist who, like him, was traveling south on Old Dixie Highway.  Brophy admitted he suffers from sleep apnea and said, according to the incident report, that he was "blinded by the light" and "never saw" the cyclist he struck.

That was at 8:03 am.   The cyclist would spend the next two days in the Lawnwood Medical Center's ICU.  Meantime, Brophy went home without even a citation for plowing into the cyclist, whom he could have just as easily killed.

Alan Snel, after a motorist struck him from behind

That cyclist is Alan Snel.  Perhaps you know him from reading his "Bicycle Stories" blog.  You may also know, or know of, him from his extensive cycling advocacy, or from his work as a journalist in Nevada and Florida.  It seems, though, that to Florida law enforcement officials, he was--as he says--"collateral damage", or simply someone who got in the way of a motorist who couldn't be bothered to swerve a couple of feet out of his way.

Alan's bicycle

Although I have had some very pleasant experiences of cycling in Florida, I also realized that it is a very auto-centric place.  From what I have seen, I would guess that the vast majority of cyclists are adults, many of--as we say--"a certain age".  Yet, too often, people entrusted to uphold the law and support public safety seem to see cyclists as people who won't grow up and drive and who therefore "bring it on themselves" when they are endangered or, worse, injured or killed by motorists.

Alan's helmet

I was not surprised to learn that more cyclists are killed by motorists, in proportion to the population, in Florida than in any other state.  Furthermore, in every year since 2010, Florida's rate has been around 50 percent higher than the second-deadliest state in each of those years: Louisiana.  And in most of those cases, like Snel's, the driver faced minor or no charges.

Alan, in better times

As Snel recovers, he still needs money to cover living and other expenses.  So, friends and other supporters have started a YouCaring fundraiser for him.

Coming To My Town?

I am not surprised.

Over the past few weeks, I've written about "Uber for Bicycles"--or, if you like, Citibike (or Velib or Bixi or whatever bike share program you care to name) without the docks or ports.

Such services have become very popular in a few Chinese cities where, apparently, people are getting back to bikes.  The success of such services has caused their operators--Mobike and Ofo, mainly--to eye overseas expansion.  

Turns out, Mobike as well as a few other "rogue" companies are planning to "dump thousands of bicycles on Big Apple streets," as the New York Post exclaimed with the sort of hyperbolic vitriol, or vitriolic hyperbole, on which the Post seems to have a patent.

Mobikes in Shanghai. Photo by Johannes Eisele, from Getty Images.

Those companies are setting their sights on parts of the city not currently served by Citibike--mainly, Manhattan north of 110th Street and Staten Island.  The latter could be particularly fertile territory for a bike-share service, as the city's subway system doesn't run there and there are fewer bus lines and other mass transportation options than exist in the other boroughs.  Bike shares could be particularly useful for commuters and others who ride the Staten Island Ferry to and from Manhattan.

And, I must say, that I like the idea of a port- or dock-free share service.  At the same time, I share the concern expressed by Post editors and others who worry that bikes will be "strewn" all over city sidewalks and streets, as they are in Chinese cities. Those problems, however, could be avoided with sensible regulation.  With such regulation, I think it would be easier to pre-empt such bike-blocked streets and sidewalks because as narrow as some streets in this town are, I would guess they're still wider than those in China, particularly in the old central areas of that country's cities.

(As I've mentioned in earlier posts, I've never been to China.  But I know that New York streets are wider than those in Europe which are, from what I'm told, wider than some of their counterparts in Chinese cities.)

Anyway, I think "Uber for Bikes" is indeed coming to my hometown.  We just need to learn from the experiences of those cities that already have it and develop the right policies for it.

Skyline, Invisible

Have you ever wondered what the Manhattan skyline looks like when you can't see it?

That was not an attempt to be cute, clever, ironic or oxymoronic.  It's also not an introduction to a post about going blind, an experience I hope never to have!

Rather, it is about my ride to work this morning:

That's what I saw ahead of me as I pedaled across the RFK Memorial Bridge.  Even if the weather forecast hadn't warned about fog, I wouldn't have been surprised to see it, given the heavy rains in the wee hours of yesterday morning, the showers that continued on-and-off through the rest of yesterday, and this morning's heavy gray sky. 


The skyline was invisible, but the Hell Gate Bridge was not:

When Hell Gate can be seen clearly, but the skyline is shrouded in fog, what kind of a day will it be?

So far, it's been good.  I think it had something to do with riding to work.