Presidents And Bicycles

 One week ago, I noted the birthdays of Abraham Lincoln—and Charles Darwin.  

When I was a child, Lincoln’s and George  Washington’s birthdays were commemorated with their own holidays on the 12th and 22nd of February, respectively.  Some time in my early puberty—when the deluge began!—that tradition ended in favor of the generic Presidents’ Day, on the third Monday of February:  today.

OK, now I’m going to get political on you, dear reader.  On one hand, I’m offended that this holiday, in essence, elevates Donald Trump to the same plane as Washington, Lincoln and Franklin D. Roosevelt. On the other hand, it’s part of the reason why February is Black History Month, which I wholeheartedly support.  Originally, there was a Black History Week that included Lincoln’s Birthday.  When Abe lost his own billing, the commemoration of a long-deleted part of this country’s heritage was expanded into the month.

Anyway, in an earlier post, I mentioned that during the late 19th Century Bike Boom, Washington’s Birthday was Bicycle Day. Dealers and manufacturers debuted new models and offered special deals, often accompanied by a lavish party.  Bicycle Day morphed into Auto Day, which became part of the current Presidents’ Day.

When Washington’s Birthday was Bicycle Day, electoral campaign images often included bicycles, sometimes with the candidates riding them.

The “bad” government on the left (!) was that of Democrat (!) Grover Cleveland; the “good” on the right was the prospective administration of William McKinley.

So, since I broke a promise I never made to never discuss politics, I will mention one of my beefs with McKinley:  His administration included the lynching of, I mean war against, Spain, which was predicted on a lie. (Sound familiar?) The spoils, if you will, for the US included Puerto Rico, Cuba, Guam and the Philippines (which, ironically, gained its “independence” from the US on the 4th of July, in 1946). Some historians argue that the war also made the invasion, I mean annexation, of Hawai’i possible.

What's In A Name?

 If you live in the English-speaking world, you almost certainly call someone you know "Mike."  Chances are, he's a boy or man named Michael.

So, if "Mike" is short for "Michael:"

Hey, Joe!

 Sometimes a seemingly-inconsequential decision can lead to encounter that is, if not life-changing, then at least interesting.

My rides to Point Lookout usually take me through a part of the Gateway National Recreation Area.  Straddling an isthmus on Jamaica Bay, that stretch of GNRA is smack-dab in the path of many migratory bird species. There is at least one species, however, that doesn't spend its winters in warmer climes--or stray very far from its urban habitats.

Most people have, at its closest, an arm's-length relationship with pigeons.  I have always assumed that the avoidance was mutual:  The birds no more want contact with us than we want with them.  That, for the most part, is true.  

However, as Maria--who rescued Joe--pointed out, the birds' reputation as "rats with feathers" is unfair.  Although they frequently land in dirty places, they frequently clean and groom themselves in much the same way as cats and dogs.  And what is commonly forgotten is the role pigeons have  played in relaying messages--and saving lives--during wars and natural disasters.

Joe did something I never imagined:  He craned his neck and touched the tip of his beak to my nose! 

If I didn't already feel good about being on my bike, Joe--and Maria--made a ride I've done, probably, hundreds of times all the more rewarding.