Daring Elsa

Yesterday wasn't quite as hot as Wednesday was, but the humidity was even more oppressive.  That's one reason why I took another morning ride which, I hoped, would bring me home before the early afternoon heat.

That part of my "mission," if you will was accomplished, even though I continued in one direction when another would have taken me home for, oh, a couple of hours.  

The weather forecast was dire:  Tropical Storm Elsa was bearing up the East Coast of the United States.  Sometimes I "play chicken" with the rain:  I ride as if I'm daring the rain to start falling on me before I finish my trip.  Yesterday, the stakes were higher:  The rain would cascade from those heavy gray clouds moving across Staten Island and New Jersey on their way to Brooklyn and Queens.  

Those clouds might have moved even faster than the traffic across the Verrazano Narrows:  They don't have to pay the toll on the bridge!

Seriously, though, I reverted to a youthful delusion:  That I could actually hold bad weather at bay becasue, well, I was pedaling.  Even when the sky and the waters of New York Bay all but matched the steel and glass hues of the Manhattan skyline, I was not ready to turn around.  After all, the brownstones and blue-collar brick row houses of Sunset Park hadn't been consumed by the the gray colussus.

On 31st Drive, one block from my Astoria apartment, rain began to fall.  It cascaded into a torrent just as I wheeled Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear, into the door. 

What If He’d Seen This?

 Yesterday morning, I pedaled along the North Shore.  On my way back, I stopped in Fort Totten.  Like many military bases-turned-recreational areas, it sits on some “mighty fine” real estate.  The site makes sense when you get a glimpse of the panoramic views:  Continental troops could have seen Royal Navy ships approaching from a good distance away.

Were they stationed there yesterday, they would have seen mist.  Would enemy warships have veiled themselves in it—and drawn closer than they might have otherwise?

Yesterday the mist portended something odious, if less sinister:  humid heat.  Very humid and hot, in fact—if less so than much of the West Coast last week.

Of course, being a writer and English teacher, I have to ask: What if Jay Gatsby had gazed across the cove and seen mist instead of a green light lover Daisy’s dock?

Now, I could get all pseudo-intellectual on you and blather about how hopers (Is that a word?) and dreamers, and the desperate, see that faint veridescence on the horizon and not the fog that shrouds it.  Too late! Oh well..

At least I had a nice ride—and picked up some fresh Greek yogurt from Kesso  on my way home.

Whatever Is In The Water, She Knows More Biking Leads To Healthier Bodies

Flint, Michigan has become synonymous with its water crisis.  It's emblematic of all sorts of racial and economic divides--as well as governmental corruption--in the United States.  The city, once a kind of "mini Detroit," experienced the de-industrialisation--and resulting-- and resulting economic decline-- of the "Motor City" some 110 kilometers (68 miles) to its southeast. 

So, like many other "Rust Belt" cities large and small, its children and young adults have suffered the same kinds of inequities and truncated possiblities experienced by their peers in cities like Camden, New Jersey as well as neighborhoods like Mott Haven in the Bronx and Brownsville in Brooklyn.  One result is poor health outcomes:  Children in those places suffer from all sorts of diseases, including asthma, obesity and diabetes, that were once provinces of their parents and grandparents.  One reason for that is the lack of exercise:  Their parents or caretakers fear, often with justification, letting them stray much beyond their abodes.  Or, the kids may not have access to spaces or even the most rudimentary equipment that would allow them to not only burn off their often-poor diets, but also some of the stress and trauma of growing up in such places.

Also, in such places, young people grow up with little more than a comic-book knowledge of their cultural history. (Disclosure:  Almost all of my knowlege of the histories and cultures of non-white people has been gained through reading, experience and self-study.)  Knowing who one is, and from whom, what and where one came, is the only way to become a subject and not an object--which is to say a decider and not a victim--in one's own, and in the arc of, history. Which is also to say, the only way to claim and reclaim one's identities.  Trust me, I know a thing or two about that!

So does Angela Stamps.  That is why she founded the Kentakee Athletic & Social Clubs while she lived in Los Angeles.  She chose the name, she said, because she wanted to serve the African American community--
"specifically adolecents," she says--"and to teach them about our history prior to the slave trade." During that time, she also became a bike commuter.

Angela Stamps. Photo by Tom Travis, from the East Village Magazine

She returned to Flint, where she was raised, in 2010 to start educational and athletic programs for underserved youth.  Two years later, that purpose led her to start bicycle programs, including the Berston Bicycle Club.  It's so named because participants, aged 10 to 18, meet in the city's Berston Field House, where they discuss everything from bicycle safety to the best foods to eat while riding.  

The club also offers a bicycle and helmet loaner for participants who don't who don't have them.  Berston also has a nine-week program (the next session starts on the 12th), which includes bike safety and maintenance sessions as well as daily bike trips in all directions on the compass.  Participants aim for a goal of 270 miles (about 420 kilometers) and, upon completing the program, get a new bike, helmet and extras.

And, Ms. Stamps hopes, "healthier bodies."  That is not a minor goal in a place like Flint.