Late or Early?

 Late afternoon, late in the season.  Or is it a prelude to evening, and a new season?

A ride to Randall’s Island after work, after lunch, after everything else brought me to the brink—of changes.

I went for a ride in spite of (OK, you know me well enough to know that I might’ve ridden because of) high wind warnings. Gusts blew at my face, sides and back, depending on which way I rode.  But once I got to the Island—with some of the largest expanses of open space in the city—it seemed there was nothing but wind.

The temperature was around 10C (50F):  not unusual for this time of year. But the inescapable gusts could make it seem that winter would never end.

Or are they what ushers in the Spring?

Is this bare tree a reminder that winter is still with us? Or do its bare branches reveal a sky that’s brightening?

And is the mud around its roots a graveyard of bones and melted snow? Or is it a cradle for irises, purple asters and hyacinths?

Ah, the riddles of a late day ride, late in the winter—or a ride at the precipice of twilight, and a new season!

When A “Ghost” Bike Vanished

I don’t think this is what the folks at Recycle-a-Bicycle—or similar programs across the United States—had in mind.

In May 2019, 41-year-old Michael Brooks, who was known in his Indiana community for using his bicycle as his main form of transportation, was struck and killed at the intersection of North Russell Road and Indiana Route 45. That summer, a “ghost bicycle “ was erected at the spot that summer .

People came to regard it as a fixture on the scenic road. So they took notice when it disappeared. 

What happened?

It seems that a plow truck ran over it and covered it. When the snow melted, someone saw the mangled bike, un-chained it and brought it to a recycling center.

Now Nic Newby, Brooks’ former partner, and some friends are planning to go through Brooks’ “stockpile” of bikes and frames to create a new memorial.

Of course, nothing can bring back Nic’s partner or the friend of many. But, he points out, there will always be a reminder for motorists to keep an eye out for cyclists.

The driver who struck Brooks was arrested and jailed. Newby said that while “I don’t support the carcereal state,” he is nonetheless “glad that she is off the road.”

Michelangelo: Works Of Genius

 Nearly a year ago, I moved into my current apartment.  It took me a few weeks to figure out how to organize and arrange my new space.  One part of the process was fairly simple:  I bought three Delta bike storage racks, enough for my six Mercians.  Two of those racks are the "Michelangelo" model and, if they aren't works of genius, they certainly are very practical and attractive.

It makes sense that such an item would be named for the man who gave us "David."  Interestingly, he all but denied that he was a painter:  He considered himself a sculptor and sculpture to be a superior art form.  In fact, he so disdained painting (including his own) that he wrote this about his "Creation of Adam" in the Sistene Chapel:

Michelangelo: To Giovanni da Pistoia
"When the Author Was Painting the Vault of the Sistine Chapel"

I've already grown a goiter from this torture,
hunched up here like a cat in Lombardy
(or anywhere else where the stagnant water's poison).
My stomach's squashed under my chin, my beard's
pointing at heaven, my brain's crushed in a casket,
my breast twists like a harpy's. My brush,
above me all the time, dribbles paint
so my face makes a fine floor for droppings!

My haunches are grinding into my guts,
my poor ass strains to work as a counterweight,
every gesture I make is blind and aimless.
My skin hangs loose below me, my spine's
all knotted from folding over itself.
I'm bent taut as a Syrian bow.

Because I'm stuck like this, my thoughts
are crazy, perfidious tripe:
anyone shoots badly through a crooked blowpipe.

My painting is dead.
Defend it for me, Giovanni, protect my honor.
I am not in the right place—I am not a painter.

(Translated by Gail Mazur)

So why am I talking about him today?  Well, in addition to having a bike rack named after him, he's one of my artistic heroes.  Oh, and it just happens that he was born 550 years ago today.  Some people and things really do get better with age.