The Votes Are Here

Today I cycled into Manhattan for an appointment for an otolaryngologist.  It wasn't far--about 7 or 8 kilometers--and I rode even with the threat of snow squalls because I knew I could pedal there faster than the trains or buses (or a cab--or Uber, even!) could take me.

The office was located  Rutherford Place, just across from Mount Sinai Hospital.  The neighborhood, nestled between Irving Place and the East Village, is a real oddity in today's Manhattan:  Most of the Victorian, Greek Revival and Beaux Arts tenements and townhouses are still standing and the environs aren't really gentrifying because, well, they never fell into decrepitude.  

Some of those buildings, like others throughout the city, have names that are rarely, if ever, used, today.  Some of the names make sense, like those of people who are famous or simply have a connection to the building or neighborhood.  But there are some names are just confounding:

The US Senate? On Second Avenue between 14th and 15th Streets?

I thought of the tourists and newly-arrived expats from one place and another who walked by.  Did any of them wonder whether they'd gotten off at the wrong city?   

As I was about to write this, I looked for some information about the building.  Turns out, that building was built along with another named for W.M. Evarts, a well-respected Senator who lived in the neighborhood.  Before he became a Senator, he served as Rutherford B. Hayes' Secretary of State and Andrew Johnson's Attorney General.  That meant he had the privilege of representing Johnson during his impeachment trial in 1868.  That must have been interesting, to say the least!

So I guess the name makes sense.  Even if I didn't learn about the history of the building, I suppose the name could have been justified in one other way:  Early in the nation's history, New York City was its capital, if only for a year.

Given the demographics of the neighborhood and city,  residents of the building are more likely than members of the legislative body to vote for impeaching the current president. 

Deconstruct This

I don’t spend a lot of time in hipster restaurant.  So when I read some of their menus I am, frankly, baffled.

To wit, I see words that I would never associate with food,
whether in preparing, presenting or eating it.  For example, on one menu, I saw a “deconstructed cheesscake.” Now, perhaps I’m not ironic (or something) enough, but I would think that the act of creating a comestible or serving it has more to do with construction than deconstructed.  So, if I order a “deconstructed cheesecake,” will the server bring me cream cheese, ricotta, eggs, sugar, vanilla extract, cinnamon, graham crackers (uncrumbled, of course) and cherries or blueberries?  

Oh, wait, that  server couldn’t bring me graham crackers: He or she would have to bring the ingredients.  No ricotta or cream cheese, either: only the milk, rennet and cultures.

If I were to go to a hipster bike shop, would they try to sell me a deconstructed bike?

15

A Ride Inside

One of my most interesting—and gratifying—bike rides took me through a tunnel.

The day before, I’d pedaled up the Alpe d’Huez, with a few hundred other riders, before it was closed for the Tour de France peloton.  I was riding southeast, toward Italy, along a narrow Alpine road.  Ahead of me , I saw a sign:  Route Baree.  A gendarme directed traffic—which, at that moment, consisted of a Citroen and me—away.

I watched the Citroen turn   toward a wider road.  I looked at my Michelin map. (That’s what we used before GPS.). I could see a couple of  roads that trailed off in fields or forests.  So I followed the trail of the Citroen to a road that, according to the map, led to a mountain.  But it didn’t seem to go up or around the col.

After a few minutes of riding, I saw a bottleneck—at the mouth of the tunnel.  There was another sign: that Caution! Caution! Eclairage Interrupte.

The rockslides that blocked the other road caused power outages.  So that tunnel—about half a kilometer long—was very dark. I had a headlight, but it was more for being seen than to see.  

Oh—and the two lanes that passed through that tunnel looked about half as wide as a single American lane.  One of the lanes was closed.  And there was no shoulder.

Traffic stopped at the entrance.  So did I.  A man emerged from the first car.

“Allez,” He motioned to the other drivers. “Nous vous suivrons. Pouvez rouler sur le chemin de nos phares.”

I rode through that tunnel—in the wake of their headlights. None of those drivers honked, and all of them drove behind me all the way through that tunnel.

I thought of that ride  when I heard about the Round and Round the Underground Race. On 29 March, several hundred riders will thrust and twist their way through the Springfield Underground, a limestone mine in Missouri.

As far as I know, none of those riders will have to worry about lighting.



Somehow it seems less daunting than a ride through the subway tunnels of my home town!

Like A Fish Needs A Bicycle

We've all heard the expression, "when pigs fly."

What's less likely than an airborne porker?

Now to a really important question:  Should that pig wear lipstick?

What Will He See On This Ride?

In my university, there was a writing instructor who, on the first day of class, told students to imagine they had one hour left to live.  What would matter at that time?  What secrets would you reveal?  What would you want to do?

The instructor didn't specify how you were to "die":  actually, he didn't care about that.  What he really wanted was for students to think about what really mattered to them, and to strip away what he called "emotional blackmail."

I got that assignment.  As you might expect, I wrote some silly and pretentious stuff.  But I also wrote about a couple of things I hadn't told anybody up to that time of my life.  I recall that one thing for which I was thankful was that my senses were still intact.  Even then, I feared going blind or deaf, or losing a part of my body, more than death itself, as I do now.

Hmm...If he really wanted to rock my boat, perhaps he should have told me to imagine I would go blind in an hour.  What would I want to see?

Jason Folie is doing that assignment, if you will.  The 35-year-old Minnesota roofer and remodeler was diagnosed with chroideremia, a rare degenerative retinal disease.  Its sufferers, mainly men, lose their sight over a period of time.  For the moment, Mr. Folie deals with night-blindness and a loss of peripheral vision, though his central vision is still clear.

Jason Folie, taken by Krista Kramer

When he was first diagnosed he, understandably, got depressed.  "I didn't see the point of settling down because I didn't want someone to take care of me," he wrote on his fundraising page.  "I didn't see the point of having a family if I couldn't see what my kids look like."  But, he explains, he found hope after participating in a research trial.  "I think there is something I can do to help," he says.

One of the things he's doing involves a bike ride.  A long one:  2900 miles (4700 kilometers), to be exact.  On his birthday--Monday, 7 January--he plans to embark from San Diego, California and pedal the Southern Tier Trail (developed by Adventure Cycling Association to Saint Augustine, Florida.  He expects to arrive some time in mid-March.  His fiancee, Krista Kramer, will follow him in a camper and stop in towns along the way to meet with the media and raise awareness for the cause.

After the ride, they will hold a fundraising dinner in Waseca, their hometown.  Guests will wear blindfolds as they eat.

Folie hopes that his and Kramer's efforts will raise $100,000.  He's donated $35,000 of his own money, hopes the rest will come in the form of pledges, which can be made here.

Whatever comes of his efforts, let's hope it's not the last thing he sees!