Dreams And A Memorial

Lately, I've had some very strange and vivid dreams.  Perhaps it has something to do with my crash. Or the pandemic might've brought them on:  I've heard other people say they've been having "weird dreams" and "nightmares" since COVID-19 ravaged cities and countries.

There are two other times when I can recall such deep, detailed night voyages, if you will:  During the weeks and months after my gender reassignment surgery and in the aftermath of the attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon.

My post-surgery dreams--some of which were beautiful--may have had something to do with the anesthetics and other drugs.  On the other hand, what I experienced in late 2001 and through much of 2002 (and on a few later occasions)  may have been a reaction to the pain and grief I experienced around me.  Other people, I learned, also had odd and terrifying dreams during that time, so in that sense our psyches (and, in some cases, our bodies) were responding to the attacks in the same way many of us would process the current pandemic.

Some of my dreams involved bicycling to places that weren't physical locations as much as they were rapidly-changing series of images.  In others, I would retrieve a bicycle--which I may or may not have ridden or owned in my waking life--in places I'd never anticipate, like the house of someone I knew in the dream, or some place that looked like a bunker or butcher shop.  Or I was trying to retrieve something--or even a person--while riding my bike.

I rarely talk about my dreams with anyone, though a few have figured, one way or another, into my writing.  I am mentioning them now because 19 years ago, the last event (before the current pandemic) that "changed everything" took place.  I am talking, of course, about the attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon.  Although I did not know anyone who died, or was even injured in them, it was impossible to escape the grief and sadness if you were here in New York.  Someone I'd never seen before, and haven't seen since, cried on my shoulder.  Someone else--an old riding buddy--rode to the site and stayed for three weeks afterward, helping in any way he could. (He was a welder and metalworker.)  One night, he called me, in tears.  I told him he'd done more than anyone had a right to expect of him, and he should go home and spend time with his girlfriend.

He did. Others didn't, though.  Some of them--messengers, food deliverers or others who would now be called "essential workers"--locked their bikes to a rack by the Towers.  A year later, only one of those bikes was retrieved. 

Bike rack at 9/11 Memorial

Perhaps I was trying to retrieve one of them in the dreams I've mentioned.  Or, perhaps, one of them was me.

Isn't Losing Your Bike Bad Enough?

 Having a bike stolen is a bummer.  Stealing a bike makes someone a bum, or worse.

Sometimes I think the authorities don't take bike theft seriously because of a perception that we're all recreational rider; that for an adult, being on a bike doesn't serve a real purpose.

Of course, you know better:  You may be a bicycle commuter.  Your bike might be your primary, or only, vehicle, whether by circumstance or choice.  

Sometimes, it seems, we're not "redeemed", and the thefts of our mounts are not taken seriously, if we're not using our bikes for some "higher" purpose.  That is why I had mixed feelings when I read about Jim Plummer Jr. of West Warwick, Rhode Island. 

Of course I empathised with him in losing his bike, and rejoiced on reading that a Facebook campaign enabled him to buy another.  I had to wonder, though, whether the incident would have been noted at all had he not been riding as part of a benefit for the Children's Cancer Research Fund.

Jim Plummer, Jr.

I don't mean to disparage charity rides or campaigns:  I've done a few, and intend to do more.  But I don't believe we should have to do them in order to justify our riding, or for the thefts of our bikes to be as worthy of attention as other thefts.

What's It Worth?

This is a $12,000 bike!

He'd just "wiped out" on a sand-dusted L-shaped turn.  I saw him, picking himself up.  Blood streamed down his legs and from his elbows.

Can you move your shoulder?  Your knee?

He bent his joints and back and nodded.  At least you're OK, I assured him.  Go home, take a rest.  You're probably not hurt, but you're in shock.

He pointed to his $200 saddle, torn in the rear.  Then he jerked his bike to the right and looked for damage.  At least I didn't scratch the bike.  Honestly, I'm worried about that than my body.  I paid $12,000 for it.

Other riders passed.  I alerted them to the sand "trap."  One rider asked if the guy on the $12,000 S-Works carbon-fiber wonder was OK.  He nodded.  I picked up a piece of something.  That's from my front shifter, he said.  It's a little plastic thing, but Shimano'll probably charge me $100 for it.  

Then he tried to route the chain back on to the larger chainring by starting at the bottom and spinning the pedal backward. But it wouldn't go.  I noticed that it was stopping at something that looked like some sort of chain guide on the seat tube.  He affirmed that, indeed, the comma-shaped plastic pi6ece served that purpose.  Electronic shifting is great, except at times like this, he exclaimed.

I've never worked on such a system before, but I suggested that he try threading the chain through the guide and rotating the crank as if he were pedaling.  It worked. Well, it meant that he could use only his large chainring, but it was OK to get me home, he said.  I'm going to bring it to my mechanic.

More riders passed us. I don't want to keep you from your ride, he said.  Are you feeling OK?  Can you see clearly?  He nodded twice.

I guess I'm lucky.  I wasn't wearing my helmet.  He glanced at it. But look--it was cracked on the rear.  I know I'm stupid:  It's a $300 helmet.

Note:  I actually encountered this rider the other day as I descended the ramp from the Veterans' Memorial Bridge to the Rockaways.  All of the dialogue is real, at least as best as I recall it.