Back in 1991, he set a goal.
Last month, after twenty-eight years, he reached it.
His goal? Cycling 100,000 miles.
That feat is, in itself, impressive enough. More awe-inspiring, though, is that he gave himself that milestone, if you will, to reach when he was 67 years old.
Oh, and Bob Mettauer hadn't been on a bike in about half a century. As a teenager in Long Island in the 1930s, he ran deliveries for a local butcher. On Saturdays, he said, he'd typically ride 50 miles.
Then, as they say, "life happened"--in his case, World War II. After serving in the Navy, he moved to California, where he worked for the phone company until his retirement.
His neighbors in Casa Grande, the Central Coast community where he settled 34 years ago, know him as "Bicycle Bob" and have followed his exploits. He used to ride 20 miles a day when he was younger, he says. "It just kept adding up, so I set 100,000 as my goal." These days, he rarely leaves his neighborhood because of the "crazy drivers" but was recently "doing nine miles a day in the morning."
To reach his goal, he's ridden three different bikes. The first didn't last long, he said. The second one took him through 40,000 miles. His current bike "has plenty of life." But, he says only half-jokingly, "There's not much life left in the guy who rides it."
If I were a betting woman, I think I'd put my money on the man before the bike. He's only 95 years old, after all!
Late summer + Late afternoon = Winter?
Perhaps that equation makes sense if you are the sort of person who grows sadder as the summer draws to a close. In normal times (whatever that means anymore), the days grow shorter and cooler at this time of year. So, if winter isn't incipient, fall is certainly on its way--with the barren season not far behind.
Although the air was warm when I mounted my bike, I felt as if I'd taken a ride in the middle of January or February, after the bright lights of Christmas and New Years' festivals are switched off. Coney Island, like other seaside destinations, seems to retreat into hibernation from that time of year until Easter or Passover. During those spring holidays, people congregate on the boardwalk, and sometimes even venture on the beach, even if the roller coasters and Ferris wheels and other attractions have not yet opened.
But such gatherings were absent yesterday. Granted, it was a Thursday afternoon, but in normal (there's that word again!) times, I would have to weave around groups of strollers on any summer afternoon that didn't include a raging thunderstorm.
Most people would say that Coney Island is "dead," or at least closed, when the Cyclone--one of the most iconic amusement park rides in the world--and Wonder Wheel are still, their entry gates locked tight. But, for me, what really shows that a stake has been driven into Coney Island's heart is this block:
I remember riding the "bumper cars" with my grandfather as a child, and trying to win prizes at the shooting range. Tourists usually come to "the Island" for the "big" attractions, like the Cyclone and Luna Park. But, for me, the real spirit of the place--in all of its grit and garishness, in the hustle of its carnival barkers and the pulsing of its shopowners' hunger alongside the expanse of ocean--is in places like the shooting gallery, the sideshows and the old man--actually, he turned out to be exactly my age, save for a few days!--who sat in front of one of the padlocked doors.
He saw me riding and taking photos. We talked. He told me a bit about his life and how he ended up there, like a piece of driftwood on a more remote beach. I assured him that what happened to him could happen to any one of us, myself included. "I don't want to keep you," he said.
He wasn't keeping me. I still have choices: I would ride back to my neighborhood, where some would complain about restaurants and bars that aren't allowed to serve patrons indoors. He would look for the bits of work--sweeping sidewalks, unloading trucks--the few still-open hot dog stands (Nathan's, and others) and other shops could offer him, and pay him a few dollars for.
I rode to winter. He was living in it. I rode home.
It was a hot afternoon. I was pedaling home after teaching a summer class. A van pulled up alongside me. One of its tinted windows rolled down. "Nice legs!"
I was still early in my life as Justine, but I guess I was already jaded enough not to hear that voice--or, at least, act as if I hadn't heard. I continued to ride. The van inched closer to me. "Nice bike!"
Again, I ignored the voice. But the van jacknifed in front of me. Two doors opened. Two men in uniform bounded out.
"What's your problem?"
"I hear stuff like that all the time. I ignore it."
"Well, you should listen to us. We're cops."
"Well, I've never heard a cop talk like you."
"Shut up. Show me your ID."
"Why?"
The cop's partner demanded to know what I was doing "in the projects." I politely pointed out that I wasn't "in the projects" and even if I were, it wouldn't have been an offense.
"Don't be a wise-ass! Show me your ID."
At that moment, I realized he was seized with "roid rage." His partner most likely was, too. My immediate goal, then, was to not end up in their van.
Then the guy who "complimented" my legs and bike lectured me about listening to cops and doing as I was told--and not making trouble.
To this day, I don't know what kind of "trouble" I was making. It's probably a good thing I didn't find out: If those guys could make up an "offense" (being in the projects) I didn't even commit, I could only imagine what sort of story they'd concoct if they hauled me off and I ended up...in a ditch?
I thought about that incident when I read about Dijon Kizzee. He was riding his bicycle "illegally" in South Los Angeles on Monday. At least, that's what the cops claimed when they stopped him.
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| Dijon Kizzee |
He tried to flee. Deputies shot and killed him. Later, a gun was found on the scene.
Oh, but this story becomes, shall we say, even more interesting when the LA County Sheriff's Department tells it. "During the contact, a fight ensued between the suspect and deputies. The suspect produced a handgun and a deputy-involved 'hit' shooting occurred."
A "deputy-involved 'hit' shooting"? Did that come from an episode of Miami Vice? Or is it a re-creation of an event that never made it into the history books: something that a constable in, say, Mississippi or Alabama did after a wardrobe change--from blue to white?
The LASD statement continues: " The suspect's handgun was recovered. The suspect was pronounced deceased at the scene."
What piques the curiosity of some, and the ire of others (including Dijon Kizzee's family) is what the reports don't say--or how they contradict each other. What law, exactly, was he breaking on his bike? Did he flee or did he fight? And, when he "produced" the gun, did he drop or aim it?
Do I have to mention Mr. Kizzee's race? I don't know much about the laws in LA or CA. Maybe there is some stature about Bicycling While Black (BWB) in La-la-land. Likewise, I may have violated a regulation against Bicycling While Transgender (BWT)that came into existence the moment two cops pulled alongside me one hot afternoon.
Black Lives Matter!
