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.

What I Didn’t Carry

 In one of my earliest posts, I described what I carried—literally and figuratively—in my messenger bag.

In those days, four decades ago, I was too angry and stupid—and, I believed, too broken—to do anything, professionally or personally, that required me to interact with another human in a way that would require me to reveal my intelligence, talents or vulnerability—or lack of those qualities.

I can assure you, however, that during those days of dodging taxis, pedestrians, dogs—and, sometimes, myself—while pedaling slaloms through Manhattan traffic (Remember, there was no “bicycle infrastructure!) that as strange and, at times, illegal as my cargo sometimes was, it in no way resembled what Huntington, West Virginia police found in Kristopher Osborne’s by backpack when police stopped him, ostensibly for riding his bike without a light.

He was carrying drugs—as I did on at least a few occasions. But he also had a gun (For all I know, I might’ve delivered one!) in his knapsack, which was full of explosives.