Who Came To The Baby Shower

Last night, I attended a baby shower for a friend who happens to be an employee of a bike shop I frequent.  Not surprisingly, other employees of that shop—yes, including males—also attended. 

The party was held in an American Legion auxiliary hall.  That, of course, is not remarkable:  Halls like that are used for all sorts of purposes.  One of my uncles was the Commander of a Veterans of Foreign Wars chapter in my old Brooklyn neighborhood; two of the earliest celebrations for my birthday that I can recall were held in that VFW space.  He and another uncle of mine were also members of the now-all-but-defunct Maritime Workers Union, which had its headquarters just a couple of blocks from the South Brooklyn docks where those uncles worked.  The MWU’s headquarters—now the Al-Noor School, the largest Muslim elementary school  in the United States—hosted any number of birthday and holiday parties as well as other events.

The baby shower I attended last night was the first time in years, possibly decades, that I have gone to an event in a hall like the ones I’ve just mentioned.  There was a time in my life when I could go to a neighborhood I’d never before seen, inside or outside of NYC, and find the American Legion and UFW halls, no matter how inconspicuous they were, without even trying. I’d also find a Maritime Union headquarters, if one existed, and the halls and offices of any number of other unions.

The hall in which the baby shower was held is one of the more inconspicuous ones I’ve seen:  It’s located in a house on a residential street.  Like other houses on that block, it’s pretty shabby-looking on the outside.  On the inside, too, as I suspect most, if not all, of the other houses on that block are.  The signs on it are barely legible, even in the late-afternoon daylight.  Those signs have faded, in part from decades of weather, but also, I’m sure, from the smoke and soot that belch out of factories and workshops, and cars entering and exiting the expressways that form two of the boundaries of that neighborhood.

The other boundaries of that community include industrial zones, cemeteries and streets that dead-end in a vast railyard or truck yards.  It’s the sort of place that, if I could ride to it “as the crow flies” from my apartment, I would need only a couple of minutes.  But, because the city’s grid pattern breaks down and I have to go around the yards I’ve mentioned, it took me about fifteen minutes.  Other guests at the baby shower, some of whom had lived in Brooklyn, Queens or Manhattan all of their lives, said they had difficulty in finding it.

The American Legion hall.

So, that neighborhood is, in effect, an urban island.  Almost nobody ever goes there unless he or she lives or works, or has friends or family members, there.  Probably no tourist—not even one who’s gone to PS 1 or any of the other Long Island City or Brooklyn venues located within two kilometers of that block—has ever seen that block.  And, I’m sure that few if any people who live on that block, or the ones adjacent to it, cross the boundaries I’ve mentioned frequently, if at all. 

A visitor to the block might be surprised to see that most of the people—at least the ones I saw congregating in front of, and around, those houses—are Caucasian.  Such a visitor would probably be less surprised to see that the people there aren’t, for the most part, young.  Or, at least, they do not have the youthful obliviousness one finds spilling in and out of the bars and cafes along Kent Avenue in Williamsburg. 

In brief, that neighborhood—like its American Legion hall—is something that is surviving, if just barely, because of its isolation:  a community of (mostly low-skill) blue-collar workers and their families, many of whom have never lived anywhere else.  It’s similar, in many ways, to the neighborhood in which I grew up.  I imagine that had my old community remained as it was, it might have become more and more run-down as remaining residents tried to hold on to it.  

What the neighborhood doesn't look like.

Years ago, I used to see many other such areas while riding through Brooklyn and western Queens.  Some of those areas have turned into the hipster havens and the playgrounds of the fresh-faced I see today.  Many current residents ride bicycles, if only as an expression as their self-conscious hipness.  But in those same neighborhoods thirty, twenty or even fifteen years ago, one almost never saw an adult cyclist.  In fact, those aging blue-collar workers and their families very often didn’t use the subways or buses, even if they stopped just steps away from their front doors. 

It seems that no one in the neighborhood where I attended the baby shower rides bicycles, either.  I’d bet none of them would ride even if Citibike installed a port right in front of the American Legion hall. I include, among those people, a man who seemed to be a manager or caretaker of the hall.  He was helpful and polite, if a bit reserved:  He addressed me and the other women as “ma’am” or “miss” and held the door for us.  He didn’t seem to be surprised that so many men attended the baby shower.  Rather, he expressed mild consternation that so many of us—men and  women—showed up on bikes.

Riding The Flag

Today is Flag Day here in the US.

There has been no shortage of bike accessories--and whole bikes--with the Stars and Stripes in their design.  Too many are, quite frankly, garish or simply corny.  However, there is one that, I must admit, makes me a little sentimental.

 

Many of us had American flag bells on our bikes as kids.  Somehow a Schwinn cruiser or lowrider from a certain era doesn't seem complete without one.  I'm not sure that the Chicago bike-maker's vast line of accessories ever included such a bell, though.  All of the Schwinn (actually, Schwinn-Approved) bells I ever saw had the company's seal on them.

I'll admit that I rather like this handlebar bag:

 

Now, it's not the sort of thing you'd use on an Audax or Brevet, let alone a cross-continental tour.  But it could be fun to have on a town or shopping bike.  Plus, if it's handmade and sold on Etsy, it can't be all bad, right?

The Fourth of July--US Independence Day--features parades that almost invariably include bicycles decorated with the colors of Old Glory.  Many are tacky or simply silly.  However, I've seen a few that use the red, white and blue in interesting ways.  Here is one:

From Or So She Says

Of course, I'm not going to ride those wheels on my next century.  Then again, I wouldn't ride this wheel, either:

 

 unless, of course, I could ride it with one of these tires: ;-)

 

Being Prepared, Before Uber

As a teenager, I learned bike repair and basic first aid because I wanted to be self-sufficient on the road. 

As a Scout (We were still “Boy Scouts” in those days!), I had to learn first aid to advance from one rank to another, if I recall correctly.  Also, I learned some first aid techniques and lore—some of which contradicted what Scout leaders taught us—in one of my high school Health/Phys Ed classes. 

On the other hand, when it came to bike repair, my education was home-made.  Most of what I learned came from the first edition of the late Tom Cuthbertson’s wonderful Anybody’s Bike Book.  If the “For Dummies” series of books existed in those days, ABB could have been part of it:  It began with the assumption that, before you opened the book, you didn’t know the difference between a flat-bladed and Philips screwdriver, let alone a Schraeder and Presta valve.  But Cuthbertson would not have allowed his book to be called Bike Repair For Dummies; he had too much respect for his readers to do that.

Anyway, I wanted to learn bike repair and first aid, among other things, because I wanted to get on my bike one day and pedal some place far away, never to be seen or heard from again by anyone who knew me.  That fantasy came, in part, from being an adolescent and taking some things I read—from The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn to A Doll’s House—as well as movies like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid--perhaps a bit too literally.  To be fair, I must say that I wasn’t suffering the fate of some Dickensian character.  Though I butted heads with my parents, teachers and other authority figures in my life, none were abusive.  However, I also knew that I couldn’t live any of the lives my parents and teachers, or any other adults in my life, envisioned for me, even if I didn’t quite know what sort of life I actually wanted to live.

You might say I wanted to run away.  I suppose I could have done that by joining the circus or the French Foreign Legion.  Believe it or not, I actually thought about giving myself over to the Legion one day when I passed by their recruitment office.  But getting on my bike and riding into the sunset, the fog or whatever else was on the horizon was more appealing. 

Even though I wanted to disappear, I didn’t want to get stranded someplace.  I wanted the power to move out, move away, move forward, move on — all on my own terms, in my own way.  I didn’t want to put myself at the mercy of anyone or anything else in an emergency.

That would mean, of course, having certain skills and tools when I was on my bike.  It would also mean carrying dimes (and, later, quarters, or whatever the local coinage was) for pay telephones—at least, for those places where there was a pay telephone!  By the time I took my first long bike tour, I had those things and some textbook knowledge of Spanish and French—and perhaps even less knowledge than I thought I had about a lot of other things!  But that is the topic of another blog post, perhaps another blog.

I am thinking about all of that now, after the bike ride I took today.  Every inch or centimeter of the route on this day’s ride was one I’d ridden numerous times before; my intent was simply to ride vigorously and enjoy myself on a gorgeous day.  And, yes, I planned on getting home:  After all, I have cats (and myself!) to feed.

I was descending the ramp of the Cross Bay-Veterans MemorialBridge (“the bridge to the Rockaways”) on the Beach Channel side.  I’d pedaled about 80 kilometers (50 miles) and had about another 25 (15) ahead of me. The wind blew at my back, so I expected to be home shortly.

There is a fairly sharp turn in the ramp on the Beach Channel side.  I have long since learned not to yield to the temptation of descending faster than Lindsey Vonn on the Super G at Val d’Isere; there isn’t much room if you have to dodge another cyclist—or, worse, a group of riders—coming in the opposite direction. Even a pedestrian, skater or dogwalker who’s “in the zone” and not paying attention to surroundings can lead to your being entangled. 

However, someone else hadn’t learned those lessons.  Or she simply lost control of her bike; from what I could see, she’d probably never before ridden so fast—or much at all.  When I saw her, she was flat on her back, crying in pain. 

Her boyfriend confirmed my suspicions.  He said she “couldn’t steer out” of the path of the retaining wall she crashed into.  She gasped, “It hurts to breathe”. I immediately suspected a fractured rib—or, judging from the scrapes and bruises on and around her left shoulder, a broken collarbone.  I also feared a possible concussion:  Neither she nor her boyfriend was wearing a helmet.  However, she said she didn’t feel dizzy and, after a few minutes, was able to stand up.  And, from what her boyfriend said, her shoulder, but not her head, hit that wall.

This is not the accident about which I've written today. 

I offered to help:  Call an ambulance, get ice from the bagel shop at the foot of the bridge, whatever else they needed.  “We’re OK,” he said.  I offered her my water bottle, which was about half full.  She drank from it. 

I then glanced at her bike.  The front wheel was a “pretzel”, but there didn’t appear to be any damage to the rest of the bike.  I opened up the front V-brake, which made it possible to move the bike, albeit with some difficulty.  I then apologized for not having a spoke wrench:  Although the wheel couldn’t be salvaged, I explained, at least it would make it easier to push the bike.    I also apologized for not having a wound dressing or other things the bagel shop probably wouldn’t have.  “Oh, don’t worry,” he said.  “We’re glad you stopped”.

They live about halfway between that bridge and my place. I asked if they had a way of getting home.  “We called a friend but he wasn’t home,” he explained.  “But don’t worry—we’ll just call Uber.”

Uber.  Nobody had even thought of such a service back when I was plotting my Great Bike Escape.  The only time I had seen the word “uber” was in one of those books I didn’t understand as well as I thought I did—or, more precisely, understood in the way only an adolescent, with no guidance, can understand it.  For all I know, that just might have been the way Nietzsche wanted it to be understood.

But I digress again.  I told the young man to be sure to remind the Uber-man (or woman) that he and his girlfriend have bikes.  Turns out, the Uber person was driving an SUV.  But he had no idea of where we were; he claimed his GPS couldn’t find it.

If he couldn’t find that, I don’t think any Uber driver—had such a person existed in my youth—could have found the places I thought I might ride to when I left home, my head full of the stuff I’d been taught and the bike repairs I’d learned on my own.  And, even if the driver could find them, he (who almost surely would have been male in those days) would not have wanted to go there, any more than many New York taxi drivers would want to take a big black man who wanted to go to Brownsville.

Finally, the young man called a local car service the girl at the bagel shop counter knew about.  They indeed had a van and said it would be “no problem” to go to the young couple’s apartment.

In some of the places where I’ve ridden, there aren’t car services.  Or bagel shops.  Or, for that matter, bike shops.  Perhaps I wasn’t as ready for them as I thought it was. But I survived and had fun, and I had a great bike ride today.