Late today, I took Negrosa, my black Mercian Olympic, on a no-planned-destination ride.
After zigzagging through some industrial areas and blocks of brick rowhouses, I descended the long hill from Ridgewood, Queens to Cypress Hills, Brooklyn. After some more zigging and zagging along and around the Brooklyn-Queens border, I found myself in a place I hadn't visited in a while.
"The Hole," which I've mentioned in earlier posts, is an alternative universe between Brooklyn and Queens, near the South Shore of both boroughs. The land--and incongruously-named streets (Ruby, Sapphire, Amber)--drop suddenly behind a shopping center and a row of doctors office-type buildings on Linden Boulevard. Not much seems to have changed since the last time I visited:
My guess is that those who live and work--legitimately or not--in the area want to keep it that way. Why else would they stay in a place that practically forces them to live and work like Okies or folks in rural Appalachia before World War II? I mean, it's still not hooked up to the city's sewer systems and some aren't even on the electrical grid. Oh, and I can't think of any place else in this city where a yard can fill with junked cars or school buses without attracting the attention of the Health Department.
A couple of guys, who were working on a truck, noticed me and nodded. As obvious an outsider as I am, I guess they didn't see me as a threat.
I am a cyclist, after all.
Other languages have wonderful expressions that don't quite translate into English, but are vivid nonetheless.
One, from French, is pedaler dans la choucroute.
Pedaling through sauerkraut? Avec ou sans la moutarde?
Yesterday I contrasted the anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I Have A Dream" with the speeches of the Republican National Convention, which ended the night before.
Speaking of dreams: One of mine has long been to have indoor, or at least protected, bicycle parking at museums. Well, that dream has just come true--for a while, and at one institution, anyway.
Today the Metropolitan Museum of Art is, like the Statue of Liberty* and a few other New York City museums and landmarks, re-opening to the public. Visitors must purchase tickets and schedule their visits in advance. Upon arrival, their temperatures will be checked and anyone who is 38C (100.4 F) or higher will be asked to visit on another day.
Some visitors, however, will be treated like VIPs. From today until 27 September, "the Met" is offering valet bicycle parking at its Fifth Avenue plaza, just north of the steps to its main entrance. An initiative by Kenneth Weine, the museum's vice president of external affairs, resulted in a partnership with Transportation Alternatives that brought about the parking arrangement.
Weine, who describes himself as an "avid biker," routinely rides from his Brooklyn home to work. The museum has tripled bike parking capacity for staff in an effort to encourage more cycling to work. Weine lauds the city for developing more bike lanes and says that "if we can be one extra link in that chain" by "offering an additional way for people to come to the museum, we're happy to do it."
In other posts on this blog, I have said that cycling enhances my perceptions of art, and that some art should be seen only after riding a bicycle to reach it. I wonder whether Weine, or other museum administrators or curators, feel the same way.
Today is the anniversary of Martin Luther King's Jr.'s "I Have A Dream" speech.
It's a sad irony (How many times have I used this phrase in the past three years?) that it comes the day after what seemed like a bad drug trip that lasted four nights. I'm talking about the Republican National Convention, which featured more gaslighting than Angela Lansbury's first film.* Dreaming--more precisely, exhorting your audience to envision and follow your dream--is an invitation to a journey toward a better place. What happened at the convention is the exact opposite: Speakers imputed sinister motives, words and actions to their enemies and hellish conditions to places that had been doing well (or, at least, improving) until the COVID-19 epidemic.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised at the tone of the convention, given that Trump has not only vowed not to ride a bike, but has jeered cyclists. On the other hand, MLK was known to take a spin. And, like Einstein, he looked so happy in the saddle!
*--Like many people, I thought Gaslight was a Hitchcock film until I saw it. George Cukor, in fact, directed it.
If every nation in the world decided to ban nuclear weapons and abandon nuclear energy, would scientists continue their work on understanding and harnessing the power of the atom?
Of course they would. They're scientists: They want to know what's possible and knowable.
Likewise, if some ruler decided to model his or her country after Plato's Republic, poets would be banned. But would they stop writing or chanting?
Of course not. At least, no real poets would.
Following this thread of logic, doesn't it make sense that just because the Union Cycliste Internationale (UCI) won't allow road bicycles lighter than 6.8 kilograms (14.9 pounds) in sanctioned races, someone won't restrain him- or her- self from creating an even lighter bike?
Of course it does. And that is exactly what Canyon, the largest direct-to[consumer bicycle company, has done. Two weeks ago, it released the Canyon Factory Racing (CFR) version of its "Ultimate" road bike.
It weighs a wispy 6.2 kilos, or 13 pounds, 11 ounces.
Now, it may not appear in the Tour or Giro or Vuelta, whenever they resume--unless, of course, the UCI changes its rules. But I am sure that someone out there simply must have it. Hal Ruzal, the recently-retired maven of Bicycle Habitat, once told me that whenever the lightest bikes from Specialized (S-Works) or Cannondale or whomever came to his shop, people with fat enough wallets (or high enough credit cards limit) bought them. "They think those bikes are going to get them over the hill in Central Park," he quipped.
Still, though, I don't mind that someone is trying to make ever-lighter bikes, even if they're not allowed in races--or if I don't intend to buy one myself, even if I get rich.
