Tuber Alles?

 Most of us know at least one couch potato. Some of us were CPs before we took up cycling. 

Is it possible to be a Bike Potato?

Thief Stopped, Too Late

 During my dim, dark past, I did a few good deeds.  One of them, some three decades later, fills me with pride and glee:  I stopped a would-be bike thief.  

After watching a film--My Left Foot--I left the old Paris Theatre, just across 58th Street from the Plaza Hotel.  A burly guy hunched over a Motobecane locked to a sign post.  Normally, I wouldn't have given someone like him any more notice, but my glance lasted just long enough to see him twist that bike.  

He was trying to pop the lock.  I'd heard that it was an M.O. of bike thieves, but that was the first time I'd seen it in action.  My rage rose; I could have shouted but I crept behind him--and tapped him on the shoulder.

Then, I was still a guy named Nick.  I rode, literally, everywhere and every time possible--including, of course, to the Paris Theatre.  In those days, I was also lifting weights, so I was solidly muscled throughout my body.  And I wore a full beard.

Now, the guy was built like me though, perhaps, he wasn't doing as much to keep in shape as I was.  But he must have believed that whatever he saw in my face, or the way I stood--or, perhaps, the rage that radiated from me--was a more powerful force. Or, maybe, it was just scarier.

He took off faster on his feet than most people could have on any set of wheels.  Good thing for him that just past the Plaza is Central Park!

The pride I felt was in knowing I saved some fellow cyclist, whom I've most likely never met, from losing his or her means of transportation, fitness or simply pleasure.  The glee came later, when I recalled the expression on the perp's face after I tapped him and he turned around.

But, given that I confronted that guy in a New York of record-high crime rates (think of Fort Apache, The Bronx or Hill Street Blues), things could have ended differently.  I could have met the fate of Brent Cannady.  

On the night of 5 August 2019, he and his friend left his  apartment in Bakersfield, California.   There, 29-year-old Marvinesha Johnson wheeled a bike-- one belonging to Cannady's friend.  

They grabbed it and headed back to the apartment. Ms. Johnson followed, threatened to kill 37-year-old Cannady and pulled a gun from her bag.

She fired four shots.  All of them hit Cannady.  He died the next day.

Marvinesha Johnson

The other day, she was found guilty of second-degree murder and resisting a peace officer. At her sentencing hearing, scheduled for 10 December, she faces 40 years to life in prison.

Fortunately for me and the owner of a Motobecane, my confrontation of a would-be thief ended with someone keeping his or her bike and a perp with his tail between his legs, if only for a moment.  I can only wish that things could have ended as well for Brent Cannady and his friend.

  

A Few Weeks After A Summer Ride

Lambent sun rays flickered through leaves and skittered on rippled water.  I pedaled languidly along the canal path after wandering nearby streets, stopping near a steel footbridge to munch the cheese, bread and tomato, and drink the bottle of water, I picked up along the way.  Flirtation ensued:  I won't say whether they or I instigated it!

Afterward, I wheeled the bike to a cafe and enjoyed a cappuccino--and more flirtation.

You may have guessed, by now, that I was in Paris.  (Did the flirting give it away?) I achieved, without trying, a perfect--or at least postcard image--day in the City of Light. It was all but impossible to think about death, let alone any carnage leading to it.

A few weeks later, however, darkness descended.  On this date (a Friday the 13th, no less!) in 2015, the deadliest and most infamous terrorist attacks struck the city.  Just a couple of tables away from where I enjoyed my cappuccino--at Le Carillon--other patrons, possibly sipping on cappuccinos or cafe espessos--were shot dead.

Even though I've suffered two accidents and injuries just weeks apart, I am still fortunate.  After all, I'd been cycling for about half a century--including that perfect summer day by the Canal Saint Martin-- before my misfortune struck. If only those patrons at Le Carillon could have continued their journeys!