Our Flag--Or Their Banner?

On Sunday, the day before "the 4th" (American Independence Day), I rode La-Vande, my Mercian King of Mercia, to Point Lookout.  I have taken that ride many times, on every one of my current bikes and several I've owned previously.  Although the weather was just a bit warmer than I like, the skies were clear and bright and the temperature dropped as I approached the water.  Best of all, I was pedaling into the wind, blowing from the ocean and bay, most of my way out. That meant, of course, that I rode with the wind at my back for most of the way back.

Still, I couldn't help but to notice something that distrubed me.  Perhaps the holiday, and its associations sensitized me to it.  A ride I took the other day--the day after the Fourth--confirmed my observation.

Holidays like the Fourth, Memorial and Veterans' Day and, of course, Flag Day, bring a lot of Stars and Stripes out of closets, attics, trunks and storage lockers.  People hang flags in their windows and on their doors and fly them from awnings and poles.  I couldn't help but to feel, however, that the way those flags were displayed was more ostentatious and aggressive than usual.  

My Point Lookout ride takes me through strongholds of Trump-mania:  Broad Channel, a Jamaica Bay island between Rockaways to the "mainland" of Queens, and the Long Island South Shore communities of Long Beach, Lido Beach and Point Lookout itself.  Just past the Long Beach boardwalk, one house flew a flag so wide that it unfurled over the sidewalk in front of it:  Anyone walking by could have been brushed by it which, to some, would have been offense--by the person brushed, mind you--against the flag and therefore the nation. I noticed many other flag displays that were disruptive or simply more in-your-face than ones I saw in years past.

But the incident that showed me that the flag has gone from being an expression of patriotism or simply gratitude to one of agression and hostility, or even a threat, came the other day, as I approached an intersection in Eastchester, a Westchester county town on Negrosa, my vintage Mercian Olympic. Something that looked like a bloated pickup truck--it was nearly as wide as the two eastbound road lanes--pulled up behind me, veering into the shoulder where I was riding.  From poles driven like stakes into each corner of the rear flatbed, American flags fluttered.  Another banner, about the size of those four flags combined, visually blared, as loudly and ominously as the revved-up engine (which seemed to lack a muffler), its message:  Let's Go Brandon.  That, of course is a code for what the driver bellowed at me:  "Fuck Joe Biden."

I pretended to ignore him.  I guess I'm not a very good actor:  I noticed him, the truck, the flags--it was impossible not to.  Eyeing my bike, he growled, "If you hate this country, leave it." 

"I am here because you have the right to say that.  And I have the right to disagree with you.  Members of my family fought for both."

He eyed my bike some more.  "At least it's a 'Merican' bike.  To be fair, he's not the first person to read "Mercian" as "American" or "Murrikan."

"Have a good day, sir."

With a perpexled look, he motored away.  I hadn't felt such relief in a long time.

In 1983, people--including some friends and family members--begged, cajoled and even tried to strong-arm me into not moving back to New York.  In those days, the news, movies, television and other media depicted my city as a lawless hellhole where people were robbed, raped, stabbed or shot.  The implication, of course, was that the victims were like me--a mild-mannered white person (I was still living as male) and the perpetrators were drug-addled black and brown thugs.  

The irony is that some of the people who were sure I'd be dead within a year of moving to New York--and other people who think like them--voted for Donald Trump, a hero to the fellow who was using his truck--and the flag--to intimidate me.

Will It Make Helmet Wearing More Palatable?

In Colson Whitehead's The Nickel Boys, one of the title characters, Turner, is taken in by Mavis and Ishmael, an aunt and uncle after his father abandons the family and his mother's alcoholism renders her incapable of caring for him.  One day, he got between the Mavis and Ishmael when they fought.  Ishmael then took him to an ice cream parlour and told the attendant, "Bring this young man the biggest sundae you got."  To Turner, "every bite felt like a sock in the mouth." Later experiences--including time in "The Nickel Academy," a segregated juvenile "reform school" in Florida--reinforced his belief that "adults are always trying to buy off children to make them forget their bad actions" and leads him to a lifelong hatred of ice cream.

So it will be interesting to see what comes of what a fire department in upstate New York is doing.

Let's face it:  Most people don't like wearing helmets.  I, like other cyclists, wear one because I know the benefits firsthand:  When I crashed two years ago, the doctor told me that it would have been much worse if I hadn't been wearing mine.  In another incident years earlier, I flipped over and landed in a way that broke the helmet in half but left me just barely scratched.

And when a kid wears a helmet, it's almost always because a parent or some other adult made them wear it. 

In Brownville, the firefighters have teamed up with Lickety Split, a local ice cream shop, to promote safety.   As LS owner Eric Symonds explained, when a kids is"caught" by a firefighter or Symonds wearing a helmet, they'll get a certificate for a free kiddie ice cream.

When I read about it, I couldn't help but to think about Turner. After all, the ice cream--which most kids who aren't Turner love--is being offered as a reward for something they wouldn't normally do on their own.  Also, I wondered how they might feel about the promotion, knowing what prompted it:  the death of  a local boy whose bike hit truck towing a trailer.  

That said, I applaud Symond's and the fire department's effort, which will begin today and give out 100 certificates.

COVID Whiplash And Saris

Depending on whom you believe, the COVID pandemic bike boom is a.) still in full swing, b.) at a plateau or c.) on its way down.

On a purely anecdotal basis, I'd choose b.  I think I'm seeing about the same number of cyclists as I saw a year ago, which is more than what I saw in pre-pandemic times.  But there's even more car traffic, with bigger cars.  My guess is that people didn't ride as an alternative to driving.  Rather, they pedaled to work because bus or train service was reduced or curtailed, or they just didn't want to ride buses or trains as the virus overwhelmed the city.  Or they rode recreationally--and some will continue to do so--because it was a way to get outside and engage in a fun and healthy activity that still allowed them to keep the mandated social distance.

On the other hand, there is a part of the bike industry that's been in decline from its pandemic peak: excercise bikes and trainers.  For a time, they were all but impossible to find--and expensive--when gyms were shut down or, in some places, people were locked down.  

Some suppliers suffered the fate of some, mostly smaller, bike shops:  They experienced a surge in business that depleted their inventories.  But, at the same time they ran out of parts and bikes, supply chains were disrupted because of everything from factory shutdowns in China to truck drivers and dock workers who quit their jobs or got too sick to work.

Then there is the case of Saris.  You probably know about them for their indoor trainers and bike racks.  But they also make "bicycle infrastructure products" like parking racks and lane barriers.  The latter part of their business would seem to be holding steady as more cities and towns build lanes and parking systems.  On the other hand, sales of indoor trainers have fallen off a cliff as gyms have reopened and people who were under "hard" lockdowns could ride outdoors again.  

One of Saris' problems, though, is the opposite of the bike shops I mentioned: They had plenty of inventory.  In fact, they had just as many trainers to sell this year as they had last year and the year before.  

They have experienced what company founder Chris Fortune (great name for someone in business) calls "COVID whiplash."  It's affected other companies like Peloton, Wahoo and Zwift, who also make trainers.  They, too, suddenly had excess inventory as people returned to their gyms or to outdoor riding.  

As a result, Saris is reorganizing its debts through the circuit court system in Wisconsin, where the company is based.  It’s been reported that Fortune wants to sell the company but hopes to do it in a way that won’t affect his employees’ jobs.