In the middle of the journey of my life, I am--as always--a woman on a bike. Although I do not know where this road will lead, the way is not lost, for I have arrived here. And I am on my bicycle, again.
There are times when I believe that cycling is the only reason why I have anything that can be described as mental or emotional health. I become sad, even depressed, when I can't ride for significant periods of time. Also, I took two bike tours that were, at least in part, attempts to restore myself to some degree of sanity, and another led me to the single most important transformation I had to make. The latter ride took me up the Col du Galibier as well as other famed Tour de France and Giro d'Italia climbs in the Alps. I started that tour in Lyon, France as a guy named Nick. Two years later, I began my current life as a middle-aged lady named Justine. The other two tours followed crises in my life, one of which culminated in a sort of minor breakdown. In both of those rides, I spent weeks--actually, months on the first tour--on my bike in foreign lands, living on a student's wages or less. Don't get me wrong: I experienced all sorts of pleasures on both of those rides, as well as the one in the Alps. But they also were power-washes, if you will, against the detritus of some past experiences that had been causing me even more internal distress than I'd realized--or, perhaps, was willing to admit.
So when I came across Rafael's story, I felt as if I'd met someone after my own heart. Of course, I don't imagine that his ride from Mexico City to Colorado will lead him to the sorts of changes I made. But he does talk about the restorative powers of his ride, and how it led him to a mission, if you will: fixing bicycles for underprivileged people in his newly-adopted community. The next time someone asks you why you ride, ask yourself (and that person): What would your life be like if you didn't ride?
If you read the post I wrote yesterday, you could tell I was angry. I still am. Another story that came my way intensified my rage. In Omaha, a 26-year-old woman was arrested after hitting a cyclist with her car. You can be forgiven for thinking that I should view this arrest as "progress" after a driver in my hometown got off with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder from a police officer after he killed a cyclist. But the driver wasn't charged with any injury she caused the cyclist. Instead, she was cited for DUI, reckless driving, child neglect (her infant was improperly restrained in the rear of her car) and having an open alcohol container. I guess I should be grateful that she was cited for anything at all. I can't help but to think, however, that the only reason why she was charged with anything at all is that the cyclist in question was an Omaha police officer.
Warning: The video near the end of this post may be too much for some of you to take. A couple of years ago, a woman was attacked and raped not far from where I live. She'd been walking home at 3:45 on a Sunday morning when she was set upon by a group of young men who dragged her into a darkened parking lot. Most people were, rightly, outraged. But a few, even at such a late date and liberal neighborhood, asked, "What was she doing out at that time?" The explanation, it turned out, almost exactly matched what I'd surmised: She'd been working a Saturday night shift at a bar. To the question of why she didn't take a cab or Uber or something, the answer was simple: She lived only a block and a half away from the bar and had never before encountered any trouble. It was a chilling reminder of the days, which I remember, when the first questions people--even other women--asked upon hearing of a sexual attack were, "What was she wearing?" "What was she doing there at that hour?" The implication was, of course, that she'd "asked for it"--even if the woman had been wearing "scrubs" and was in front of a church in the middle of the afternoon. (Yes, I heard of such a case once!) I found myself thinking about such victims after a story that made news in our area: A 20-year-old female bike messenger was struck and killed yesterday morning, just as the workweek was beginning, in the bustling Flatiron district of Manhattan. One reason I found myself thinking about the rape victims I mentioned is that news coverage seemed to emphasize two major points, one being that the messenger was a young woman. Some of the coverage expressed more grief, if in a patronizing way, than she might've received had she checked the "M" box. But some of those same reports--and, of course, other coverage--seemed to convey a tone of suspicion and scorn reserved for the rape victims I mentioned. You could almost hear some news editor wondering, "What was she doing, working a job like that?" The other salient point of the coverage, which also turned into another way to blame the victim, was that she was riding "in the middle of the street" and "not in a bike lane" when she was struck.
Robyn Hightman
I am very familiar with the block--Sixth Avenue between West 23th and 24th Streets--where the Robyn Hightman, recently relocated from Virginia, lost her life. There is indeed a bike lane, which is frequently congested. Anyone who makes deliveries, whether on foot, bike or in a motorized vehicle, knows that it's all about speed. A messenger simply can't move quickly enough in a lane crowded with tourists on Citibikes. More to the point, though, is that the way the bike lane, like most others in this city, is designed. Because it's at the curb's edge, and the "stop" line at each intersection is the same for bikes as it is for motor vehicles, turns--which you make a lot of if you're a messenger--can be dangerous if a motor vehicle is turning in the same direction. This arrangement also makes crossing major intersection--23rd Street at Sixth Avenue is one--difficult, if not dangerous. Moreover, when there are flexible or no barriers--as is the case on the Sixth Avenue lane--delivery vehicles and Ubers frequently pull in and out, especially in as busy an area as the one I'm mentioning. What makes the shaming of Robyn Hightman all the more galling is that the driver of the vehicle, who claimed he didn't know he hit her, got off with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder from a police officer who arrived at the scene. The driver claims this incident is his first "accident" (the word he used) in 14 years of driving for his employer. An investigation, however, revealed that the truck he was driving has been cited with 83 summonses since 2015. Most were for parking violations, but at least two were for speeding. In 2018, ten cyclists were killed by motorists on New York City streets. Robyn Hightman was the 12th in 2019, and the year isn't half-over. And the driver got tea and sympathy--along with an assurance he wasn't in trouble--from an NYPD officer.
