100 Years Of Baldwin. We Need At Least 100 More.

Today I will once again invoke my Howard Cosell Rule and write a post that will not relate directly to bicycling or bicycles.

On this date 100 years ago, James Baldwin was born in Harlem.  He was not, however, part of that New York City community’s fabled “Renaissance.” He did not come from a family of writers—though he, of course, became one—or musicians, dancers, painters, sculptors or intellectuals. Rather, he was born to a single mother who, when James was three, married a strict Baptist minister who came up from New Orleans.

As he relates in some of his essays—and as he alludes to in some of his fiction—he spent most of his childhood and adolescence in poverty during the Great Depression. He also experienced racism that, while not as overt as his father might have experienced, nonetheless helped to shape his point of view as a writer and activist.

I am commemorating him today because he helped to shape my life.  From the time I first discovered his work—copies of Giovanni’s Room and  The Fire Next Time in the most unlikely of places:  on the bookshelf of my campus’ Christian fellowship—I couldn’t get enough of his writing.  For a couple of years, I had a copy of one of his books in my back pocket, backpack, shoulder bag, panniers or handlebar bag. My life was very different from his, but I wanted to write with his style, passion and conviction.

To this day, passages of Baldwin’s work course through my mind—or, more precisely, reverberate through my ears. One is the most succinct explanation of “terrorism*” I have seen: “The most dangerous creation of any society is the man who has nothing to lose.” (The Fire Next Time) Another is a coda for my life: “Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.” (No Name In The Street) And—could Baldwin have been foretelling Trump and his cult with this?: “There are so many ways of being despicable it quite makes one’s head spin. But the way to be really despicable is to be contemptuous of other people’s pain. (Giovanni’s Room)

Oh, if only I could write like James Baldwin. And ride like Eddy Mercx.  And look like Rebecca Twigg.

*-How does that saying go? One country’s terrorist is another country’s freedom fighter.

Collateral Damage—Or Debris?

 When I wrote for newspapers, there were times I wanted to do unspeakable things to whoever wrote the titles. Sometimes those lead-ins had little or nothing to do with what I wrote. Or they made the reader think my article was slanted in a way it wasn’t.

I was reminded of those experiences when I came across a Fox News item about Olympic bike race mishaps in Paris.  Some had to do with the road conditions themselves, as I mentioned in a previous piece. Others were a result of the rain that plagued the opening ceremony and first few days of the games.

Jackson Thompson’s report is actually good:  He sticks to describing the conditions I mentioned and riders’ experiences. It doesn’t seem to betray the anti-bike bias one might expect from the network.

But its headline does:  “Paris streets littered by bicycle crashes during Olympics triathlon amid wet conditions.”

Now, I realize that “littered” is used to mean “full of,” “covered with” or “scattered.” But using it in the context of “streets” implies another of the word’s meanings:  strewn about like trash or debris.

Could it be that Fox News’ headline writer though Mr. Thompson wasn’t toeing the company’s explicit or covert line?

Hunger Ride?

Another heat wave. Tomorrow will be even hotter. 

I didn’t eat anything before setting out on an early ride to Randall’s Island. On my way back, I started to feel hungry about five kilometers from my apartment.

We’re the pangs in my stomach a result of the ride, not eating breakfast—-or seeing this?: