A Record—For Whom?

 According to the latest statistics from New York City’s Development of Transportation, the number of cyclists in my hometown set a record for the fourth straight year.

Some may criticize their methodology:  They counted only the cyclists using the East River crossings, which connect Manhattan with Brooklyn and Queens.  While I wonder what, exactly, can be extrapolated from it, I also understand that those crossings are among the few places where à accurate counts can be made consistently.

Photo by Frank Franklin for the NY Daily News

From my observations, however, such a methodology skews the findings and conclusions drawn.  Cyclists using those East River crossings tend to be commuters—usually, going to Manhattan—and younger than other cyclists.  I think the DOT’s way of counting also misses riders who commute within their own borough or, say, from Queens to Brooklyn, and misses the Bronx entirely.

One interesting finding that squares with my observations is that even after the new bike lane opened on the Brooklyn Bridge, the Williamsburg Bridge is still the preferred East River crossing. It’s easy to see why.  For one thing, many of the young commuting cyclists I’ve mentioned live and/or work in the neighborhoods on either side of the bridge.  Also, at least in my experience, it offers easier access than the other bridges, and the Manhattan entrance is at the end of a protected bike lane along Delancey Street. 

Oh, and if you’re a tourist (or simply not a commuter or regular NYC cyclist), I’ll let you in on a secret:  the Williamsburg offers the best views—including those of the Brooklyn Bridge!

My Future?

 Is this my future?

Four Days: Am I Slipping?

Ernest Hemingway, never one to doubt his talent, nonetheless peeved—sarcastically, of course—that he “must be slipping” because four whole days had gone by without someone anthologizing his short story, “The Snows of Kilimanjaro.”

Like many of you, I first encountered his writing when I was in high school. Since then, I’ve read, I believe, everything he wrote—what was published, anyway. I have gone through “phases” of him:  He’s been my favorite writer, I’ve utterly detested him and everything in between. These days, I appreciate some of his work—including “Kilimanjaro” and “The Sun Also Rises”—and feel “meh” about other stuff, such as “Old Man and the Sea” and most of his posthumously-published writings. Somehow I think that’s a healthy attitude to have about almost any “major” or “important” writer.

(I am convinced that more people lie about having read “Moby Dick” than any other novel and bluff their way through dinner-party discussions by paraphrasing “Old Man.”)

Anyway, I mention that possibly-apocryphal comment from Hemingway because of the “four days.” That’s how long it’s been since I’ve been on one of my bicycles. I haven’t even commuted or run errands, let alone ridden for fun or fitness.

No, I haven’t crashed. (Keeps fingers crossed.) Wednesday evening, I felt unusually tired after pedaling home from work. “Maybe I’m getting old after all,” I thought.

That was one time denial about aging might have done me some good. After entering my apartment, the next thing I remember is waking up Thursday, my head pulsing with pain as I coughed.  Since then, I’ve been ejecting gunk that makes me wonder whether the Environmental Protection Agency will declare my respiratory system a toxic site.

A couple of my neighbors claim that riding my bike is “all” I do. I can understand their perception: They probably haven’t seen me enter or leave the building without my bike. So, after four days without riding, will my reputation as a perpetual cyclist “slip?@