“Funeral” For A Bike Lane

 Jewish traditions include the levaya, a public burial ceremony for a Torah scroll or script that has been burned or otherwise damaged beyond repair. The Torah is often buried beside a Torah scholar as a sign of respect.

I thought of the levaya when I saw a news story out of Houston. That city’s cyclists didn’t bury a bike lane. They did, however, hold a “funeral” for the Austin Street lane the city abruptly removed from its Midtown district.

The penultimate word of the previous sentence describes what rankled Ursula Andreeff, who organized the event. “We wanted to mourn the loss of bike lanes, loss of critical infrastructure in this city and also to bring attention,” she explained. 

The city removed concrete barriers, often called “armadillos,” citing concerns from residents and first responders about reduced access for emergency vehicles, blocked trash collection and limited parking. Houston Public Works claims the move—and painting “sharrows” to indicate shared use of the road with motor vehicles.

Critics argue that the “sharrows” won’t offer the same level of protection and might deter some from cycling. They also lambasted the city for not giving advance warning about removing the Austin Street lane, or others. People went for their daily commute or fitness ride only to find that their familiar route, in which they felt safe, gone.

Some Houston cyclists held a “funeral” for a bike lane. I imagine that some were hoping the next funeral they attend won’t be for one of them.

Always Together

 When some couples ride, one member has trouble keeping up with the other.

Here’s one way to solve that dilemma:

A Cherry Blossom Canopy In The Bronx

The bike lane under the Bruckner Expressway isn’t more than a couple of years old. But I believe I can safely say that I’ve ridden it dozens, if not a hundred or more, times.

While pedaling Tosca, my Mercian Dixie, near the lane’s southern end, I caught a glimpse of this:

On a grimy industrial block of  East 140th Street, some men enjoyed a canopy more beautiful, to my eye, than any offered at the entrances of the most sumptuous Park and Fifth Avenue buildings.

Of course, those men may not have seen it that way: I couldn’t tell whether they live, work or simply hang out on the block. And I didn’t try to take a closer image of them because one of them eyed me suspiciously.  Perhaps it means I’m not really an artist or even journalist after all: My respect for his privacy won out over my desire to “create” or “make a statement.”

Or maybe I am: The inherent beauty of that cherry blossom, and the cloak of light and graceful curves it offered in a space bounded by concrete, asphalt, chicken wire and steel girders, impressed enough on me, however imperfectly I’ve captured it on my iPhone camera.