Twenty Years Later

If you don't remember where you were and what you were doing on this date twenty years ago, you either were in solitary confinement or of the generation after the children I would've had, had I been so inclined.

Perhaps the unluckiest people in the history of this city were the ones who went to work and didn't make it home.  In addition to firefighters, police officers and other first responders, and the folks who worked in and around the World Trade Center towers, they included messengers and others who made deliveries on bicycles. 

Photo by Jin Lee, from the 9/11 Memorial website

Their bikes were among those attached to a rack found mostly intact on Vesey Street.  The moment of the attack--8:46 am--would have been a busy time for them, as many office workers were arriving and those already at their desks were ready for, say, a bagel and a cup of coffee. The rack and bikes were largely shielded from debris by 5 World Trade Center, which remained partly intact after 1 WTC was struck.

A year after the attacks, only one bicycle had been retrieved.  The others, and the rack, are among the displays in the 9/11 Memorial Museum.

During the past week, the remains of two people who perished that day were finally identified.  More than a thousand victims' remains have yet to be identified.  Among them may be the messengers and delivery workers who pedaled those bicycles through the canyons walled with glass, steel and concrete and floored with asphalt.  Sadly, those folks, who brought everything from documents to donuts, might never be identified, as some of them may well have been alone in this city, in this country, on one of its most terrifying days.

She Deserves A Smoother Road

Tomorrow will mark 20 years since the deadliest terror attack on US soil.  During the commemorations, there will be much talk of "heroes."  And that awful day produced many, some of whom didn't survive the day. 

I will say more about them tomorrow. (Don't worry:  The post will relate to bicycling as well as that terrible event.)  Today, though, I want talk about another hero who had yet to be born on that day. 

Jyoti Kumari, self-portrait

 

Jyoti Kumari bought a purple bicycle for the equivalent of $20.  Unlike other 15-year-olds, however, she didn't pedal it to school or work.  Instead, she used it to bring her father home.

To say that was no small feat was an understatement.  Mohan Paswan was a big man, carrying a big bag.  A migrant worker had been injured on a job near New Delhi, about 1200 kilometers (700 miles) from his family's home. Compounding the difficulty of that situation was the lockdowns, then some of the world's strictest, that had been imposed on India.  So, even if he could've worked, there was no work for him.  He was stranded, broke, just as India and the world were plunging into the abyss of the COVID-19 pandemic. 

Home, for him and Ms. Kumari, was a village near the Nepalese border.  Their journey would take them along a route where people younger and healthier than Mohan died in the brutal heat, or were run down by trucks or trains.  And there would be few places where he and Jyoti could find food or water.

Still, Kumari managed to bring her father home.  She pedaled all the way back, with her father riding in back.  Along the way, some locals jeered or castigated her for pedaling while her father sat.  But others offered help, including the use of their cell phones so she could let her mother know she and her father were on their way.

After they arrived, she garnered a lot of media attention, from the likes of people and outlets far bigger and more famous than yours truly.  The Prime Minister gave her the National Children's Award, which included a medal and about $1300.  There were offers and promises of jobs, scholarships and other kinds of help.  And Onkar Singh, the chairman of the Cycling Federation of India, invited her to a tryout for the national team, which could mean a trip to the 2024 Olympics in Paris.

Singh's offer still stands. Kumari, however, is more anxious to finish her studies (understandable, especially given that she comes from a lower-caste family).  To do that, she would need to catch up on academic work she missed while helping to care for her father.  She has been taking some lessons from a local teacher, but her village's school remains closed.  

And some of the offers and promises of help were not fulfilled.  So, while her family were able to build a bigger house with water and toilet connections and sustain themselves for a while, some of the money was used to pay off debts.  Now "the funds are drying up," explains Mukesh Kumari Paswan, Kumari's brother-in-law.  He was an X-ray technician but, like everyone else in his family, is out of work. "We don't know what to do now," he says.

As if the family weren't facing enough difficulties, her mother isn't well and minor physical activity leaves her out of breath.  Worst of all, in May--one year after Kumari brought her father home--he died of cardiac arrest.  

Whether or not Jyoti Kumari takes up Onkar Singh on his offer, one can only hope that the road ahead is less difficult for her and her family isn't as difficult as it's been.  Any teenage girl who can pedal her father home through the conditions she endured certainly deserves better!

More?

Just what we need...more rain!

A week after Ida dumped more on us than we normally get in a month, the "remnants" of some other storm--I've stopped keeping track of the names--washed up our way.  It doesn't look nearly as bad as Ida, but I think many of us feel about rain the way we felt about smoke, loud noises or plane crashes in the days after 9/11.

The weather reports say the rain might stop later this afternoon or tonight. If it does, I'll go for a ride, even if it's only a short local trip.  I might go even if it doesn't rain as heavily as it is now:  Barely any wind has blown, so far.

Oh, well.  As long as we don't experience floods again, I won't complain--not too much, anyway! 

125 Years After Major Taylor, She’s A Milestone

 The Tour Cycliste Féminin International de l’Ardèche has become one of the premier women’s bike races. Since its first edition in 2003, èlite cyclists and teams have used its long climbs in the Alpes Maritimes and high-octane sprints in the Rhône and Ardèche valleys as late-season preparation for the World Championships, held in late September.  The race has also served as a window to up-and-coming riders and teams.

That is why it’s significant that Ayesha McGowan is making her debut in this year’s edition of the race, which begins today.  For years, she has ridden for teams of the Liv brand in the US.  On 1 August, she was promoted to Liv’s top-tier racing team, which competes internationally.

Understandably, for McGowan, “there will be tears of joy” because “the hard work is now paying off.” Last year, Cyclingnews  named her to its Power List of the 50 Most Influential People in cycling.

She was named to that list for, not only her cycling accomplishments, but also her advocacy for more diversity in the sport’s brands, organizations, teams, events and media.  If I were her, I might be crying other kinds of tears for having the need to call for more inclusion, a century and a quarter after Major Taylor won the World Championship and was acknowledged (if at times grudgingly or even with hostility) as the world’s greatest cyclist.

I Rode Under This "Canopy"

 On Saturday, I did my 140 km ride to the Greenwich Commons, in Connecticut, and bike.  It was the first time I'd done the ride in nearly a month.  I decided on that ride because, well, it's become a favorite and clear skies, brisk breeze and high temperature of 24 C (about 75F) belied the hideous conditions that prevailed a couple of days earlier, when Ida breached my apartment.  

As lovely as the day was, I wondered what I'd find in Ida's wake.  There wasn't as much water as I'd expected but, not surprisingly, I encountered a few downed trees, including this one on the path through Pelham Bay Park in the Bronx:

Where others would see an obstacle that would detour or turn them back, I saw a canopy.  The "arc" was just barely high enough for me to ride through, bent down with my hands gripping the bottom of my Nitto 177 bars. But I made it through, slowing down only slightly.

I encountered a few large fallen branches along the back streets of Rye and Port Chester, and Glenville Street, which winds through woodlands and along the edge of the gentry's estates in Connecticut.  But at least I could easily ride around those, even if it wasn't as (ego-) gratifying as riding under the "canopy" in Pelham Bay Park.