He’s Not The Only Culprit

 Eight months ago, Bekim Fiseku struck Amanda Servedio and killed her.

I took that tragedy personally in part because she was cycling near a Queens intersection—37th Street at 34th Avenue—I rode, probably, hundreds of times when I lived in Astoria.

And I was enraged because Fiseku was fleeing the scene of a crime—his—with officers of the 114th Precinct in pursuit. Chases of that sort are forbidden in New York City for the hazards they pose on narrow streets like 37th and 34th Avenue.

Bekim Fesiku

Not to minimize his misdeed, but the cops’ violation of city law is all the more disturbing when one considers Fiseku’s offense:  attempted  burglary from a nearby construction site.

As of yesterday, he faces charges for that—and second-degree murder as well as other crimes related to the death of Ms. Servedio and his fleeing (he blew through a solid red light.

I am glad that he has been arrested and charged and hope that he is punished to the fullest extent possible. On the other hand, I realize that he is not the only guilty party and that the NYPD officers who chased him for a comparatively minor offense may never be held to account.

Midlife Climbs

 It’s noon—and 94 degrees F (34.4C) already. I am glad I took an early morning ride to City Island and Orchard Beach after a cup of coffee and before breakfast!

It’s as if nature were reminding us that summer has indeed arrived. Tomorrow’s weather will be similar; I probably will do another early ride.

The weather is such a contrast to what we had a week ago, when I joked with a neighbor that we don’t have to go to London because its chilly mist drifted over to us. 

That day, and on two others last week, I headed for the hills. In Yonkers and other points north of the city, the peaks and escarpments aren’t very high, but the roads and paths leading to them can be steep—enough so that roadside signs tell drivers to shift gears.

I did all of those rides—and today’s—on Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear.  At times I berated myself because I was climbing more slowly than in times past—like, say, when I was in my 20s and 30s. But people applauded and shouted encouragement—“You go, girl!”—and I kept on pedaling.  Tosca has always been a joy to ride, however strong or slow I might be.

Sam, my neighbor and sometime riding buddy, reminded me that other people in our building marvel at what I’m doing. “Well, I’m lucky,” I demurred. “I am not in as much pain as they—or you—are.”

His back has been bothering him. He doesn’t want to “hold me back,” but I remind him that I am riding because I can and want to—and I’m willing to “slow down “ for him and his girlfriend, who has expressed interest in riding with us.

So now a question enters my mind: Why am I willing to “wait for” them but not to meet myself at the stage of my life, and riding, where I find myself? I enjoyed every pedal stroke of the rides I took and felt joy at the end. So what if I couldn’t climb a hill as quickly as I did 40 or 30 or even 20 years ago? As long as I simply enjoy riding, whether solo or with others, why do I need to criticize myself—especially in ways I never would criticize anyone who wants to ride with me?

I am not “too old.” I am in midlife as long as I don’t know when or if I must stop riding. So, I believe, is anyone else who, at whatever age, slings a leg over a bike, for whatever reason. And at any speed.

Everybody Was Out

 Yesterday was the first day of summer here in the Northern Hemisphere. I began the season with an early ride to City Island. An afternoon of exploring unusual buildings in unexpected places followed with the perfect companion for such a trek: Esther Crain, the author of Ephemeral New York, one of my favorite blogs. 

In the warmth and sunshine one expects on the first day of summer, it seemed that everyone was out for a walk or ride.  Even animated characters couldn’t resist the urge: