Ghost Ride

 As I ride around New York City, I sometimes see “ghosts.”

Now, before you assume that I’m going insane, I am—at least in the opinion of some people—already there. Seriously, though, among the “ghosts” I see are buildings that are vacant or being used for entirely different purposes than the ones for which they were intended.

Also, there are what Esther Crain, the author of Ephemeral New York (one of my favorite blogs) calls “ghost” signs.  They usually were painted on the sides of buildings to advertise some business or another.  As often as not, that establishment is long gone. I found an exception just a few blocks from my new apartment:

Tierney Auto Body works is still in the same location but the sign has to be at least 40 years old:  The lower part of the sign (not visible in the photo) gives the telephone number—without an area code. Until 1984, all five boroughs of New York City were covered by the 212 Area Code.  But as fax machines and, later, cell phones become more common, the 212 area code was running out of phone numbers and new area codes were added. It then became necessary to dial an area code when calling within New York City.

While riding the other day, I discovered another “ghost” sign that dates from around the same time, or earlier:

Prospect Hospital, its name barely visible at the top of the sign, closed in 1985. That sign, like the one for Tierney, gives a phone number without an area code.

Another thing I found interesting is the sign’s proclamation that “alcoholism is a treatable disease.” Although researchers and doctors had been saying as much since the 1930s (when, incidentally, Alcoholics Anonymous was founded) that idea started to displace, in public perception, the old notion that alcoholism is a moral failing during the 1960s.

Speaking of the 1960s:  By that time, artists and intellectuals who were associated with the later part of the Harlem Renaissance had moved to East Elmhurst and Jamaica in Queens or (as in the case of John Coltrane) to Long Island. But during the Renaissance, theaters for movies, plays, vaudeville and other kinds of shows and exhibits flourished in Harlem. The “ghost” of one “shadows” a building that now serves as a church on 145th Street:

So, if nothing else, my bike trips show that you don’t have to be Demi Moore, Patrick Swayze or Whoopi Goldberg to see “ghosts” during your ride!

On This Island, They Know The Difference

 Peak tourist season will soon begin on Mackinac Island. Located in Lake Huron, between Michigan’s Upper and Lower Peninsula, it’s popular for its beaches, hiking and biking trails—and the fact that motor vehicles haven’t been allowed since 1898, when pundits pronounced the automobile a “passing fad” that would never be of any practical use.

Perhaps not surprisingly, bicycling has been popular on the island, even during those decades when, in the rest of the United States, few adults pedaled.

Like all of those places—like my hometown of New York—where cycling for transportation and recreation has become “a thing,” Mackinac Island has had to deal with a particular problem: namely, those who would stretch—or ignore—the definitions of “bicycle” and “motorized vehicle.”

Now, here in New York it’s mainly a problem for people like me who ride under our own power. Even along thoroughfares like the Hudson River Greenway, which is allegedly heavily-patrolled and where numerous signs announce that eBikes are forbidden, motorized bikes that don’t appear to be much smaller or less powerful than motorcycles, and are not pedaled,all but graze us and pedestrians, runners and anyone else who isn’t using a motor.

In contrast, Mackinac police seized or ticketed 75 eBikes last year—on an island with a population roughly that of a square block in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Best of all, the island’s authorities are making distinctions between the mini-motorcycles I described and bikes that merely provide pedal assistance. The latter, according to island Police Chief Doug Topolski, provide “reasonable accommodation” for “people with a mobility disability.”

Moreover, eBikes that assist, rather than replace, pedal power are much quieter. And even their most reckless riders don’t wreak the kind of havoc that too many “cowboy”‘delivery workers and purely-and-simply inconsiderate joyriders inflict on cyclists, pedestrians and runners.

Happy Mother’s Day

 Some would argue that I have never been a mother because I have never had human children.  I wouldn’t argue with them.

Others, mainly people who have pets, would say that I am a mama, or at least a parent, to Marlee—and that I was one to Max, Charlie II*, Candice, Charlie I, Caterina and Sara*. I often refer to the six cats and one dog I’ve housed, fed and loved as my children or “babies.”

There is at least one thing, though, I couldn’t do with them that, perhaps, I could have done with a human child: ride a bicycle. Perhaps even more important, I never could have taught them how to ride one.

In any event, to all of you who are moms (Your children are always your children even after they move out—or, felines forbid, die) : Happy Mother’s Day.

Check out this image, and others, here: https://www.redbubble.com/i/art-board-print/Mother-s-Day-Bicycle-Ride-by-kilkennycat/47181892.TR477

*—Sara was a beagle-hound pup I had briefly, before any of my cats. While out for a walk, a man petted and played with her.  “My grandkids would love a dog like that.”  They played some more. “They could play with it in our backyard…”

“Your backyard?”

“Yeah, in my house in Pennsylvania.”

I let them play for a moment. “How would you like to take her?”

The man’s eyes widened. “How much do you want for her?”

“Nothing. She’ll be happier in your house and yard than in my apartment. She gets to go outside only when I get home from work.”

The following weekend, he took me and Sara to his house, where I met his grandkids. She was happy to meet them. And I was happy for her.