The Point Of The Ride

 Some cyclists—especially racers and triathletes—eat to ride. Other cyclists ride to eat.

The same can be said for those who aren’t cyclists but take other kinds of rides.

His Freedom For A Reflector

 If there is a warrant out for you, make sure your bicycle has an intact reflector if you ride in West Des Moines, Iowa.

Now, I realize that this lesson or moral or whatever you want to call it applies to a very small number of you, my dear readers. I suspect (oddly appropriate word choice, isn’t it?) that not many of you have cycled in West Des Moines, Iowa (I haven’t) and, probably, even fewer, if any, of you have warrants for your arrest (something I don’t recommend).

But I have chosen to relate this story for its “Beware!” and “You never know…” elements.

George Hartleroad (Sounds like the name of the street he was riding on, doesn’t it?) was pedaling along a road in the Midwestern community when he was stopped for something that, to my knowledge, has never resulted in a pull-over here in New York. I don’t think it’s even been the ostensible reason why any NYPD officer halted some young man who was Riding While Black.

What was Mr. Hartleroad’s infraction?  His bike lacked a reflector.

But whatever trouble he might’ve been in was nothing compared to what awaited him when he gave a false name and the officers couldn’t find it. Finally, he gave his name, which revealed that he failed to report to a halfway house In Wisconsin in 1995.

“You’ve been on the run for longer than two out of the three officers here on the street have been alive,” said one of the arresting officers.

Turns out, a dozen years earlier, Mr. Hartleroad violently attacked a Minnesota woman in Chippewa County, Wisconsin. He served prison time for that assault before he was released to the halfway house he left and to which he didn’t return.

What can I say?  First I’ll reiterate what I said earlier: Don’t do anything that could result in a warrant. Second: If you’re going to get arrested, make sure it’s for something worthwhile like protesting injustice. And finally:  If you’re in West Des Moines, Iowa, be sure your bike has a reflector.

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.