We Can Bridge These Generations. But Can We Bring Along The Next?

In earlier posts, I’ve described riding along Hipster Hook and other areas where parked bikes now frame cafes, bars, restaurant and shops of one kind and another but where, thirty or twenty or even fifteen years ago, I would encounter no other cyclists.  Back then, those neighborhoods—including Williamsburg and Greenpoint in Brooklyn and Long Island City and Astoria (where I now live) in Queens—were mainly low-to-middle income blue-collar enclaves populated mainly by first- and second-generation immigrants with smatterings of families that had been in this city—and sometimes in the very same houses or apartments—for three or more generations.

“Back in the Day”, as us oldsters (the antithesis of hipsters?) would say, the few cyclists I encountered anywhere in the city or its environs were, interestingly enough, born-and-bred New Yorkers.  Most of us did not have relatives or friends who cycled; you might say we were renegades, a cult, or just geeks of a sort.  It seemed that, in those days, transplants to this city didn’t ride.  I am not sure of whether they didn’t ride before they came here or gave up their two-wheeled vehicles once they got here.  I guess some didn’t plan on remaining for more than a couple of years—many didn’t—and were focused on starting a career or some other particular goal.  Lots of people did nothing but work during the time they lived in this city.

Such conditions prevailed as recently as the mid-to-late 1990’s, when I was a member of the New York Cycle Club.  I occasionally rode with them but, truthfully, I joined for the discounts I could get in bike shops and other establishments.  In any event, most of the cyclists I met on those rides were natives of the Big Apple.  Interestingly enough, most social classes were represented:  I saw construction workers, seamstresses and firefighters as well as teachers, professors, lawyers and bankers.  Admittedly, it wasn’t the most ethnically diverse group, though I was more likely to see faces darker than mine than I would have seen in most health clubs or on most tennis and squash courts.  The demographics I’ve described also applied to the rides and other activities of the local American Youth Hostels chapter, which employed me for a time after I moved back to New York.

Then, as now, I did most of my riding alone or with one or two friends.  They were, as often as not, people who grew up in circumstances similar to my own.  That is probably the reason why many of our conversations, over coffee or beer or whatever, centered on the city’s streets, intersections, bridges and neighborhoods:  Which ones were “best” for cycling?  Which were the most dangerous?  Was anybody or anything worse than a cab driver?  And, unfortunately, more than a few of us related stories of having our bikes stolen.  In fact, I recall several fellow cyclists who were held up or assaulted for their machines as they crossed the Williamsburg Bridge:  Twenty to thirty years ago, the neighborhoods on each side of the bridge were poor and crime-ridden.

Today the majority of cyclists I see in New York are young and have come here from some place else.  Hipster Hook is full of such riders.  Some ride only to commute or shop; others are as committed to riding and training as we were in my day.  I am glad they ride; I am glad to see anyone riding.  But their attitude about cycling, and about themselves, seems very different from ours. I don’t mean that as a criticism; no one should expect “the younger generation” to do as those who came before them.  But, from my admittedly-limited contact with hipster cyclists, I have the impression that their conversations—to the extent that they have them—have less to do with cycling, or even bikes, or the places to ride or not ride.  I guess the latter can be explained by the fact that they are not the minority we were, and they feel less need to pay attention to the “good” and “bad” bike routes because the bike lanes that line their neighborhoods give them a feeling of security.  They have bike-oriented cafes, which no one had even conceived in my youth.

From Filles + Garcons

 But I think one of the biggest differences between us and them is that we were more readily identifiable as cyclists.  Part of that has simply to do with the fact that we were more of a minority.  More to the point, we used equipment and wore garments and accessories—helmets, shorts, jerseys and half-fingered gloves, not to mention cleated shoes—that few others even tried on.  On the other hand, the young hipster riders dress and generally look like many other young people you might find here in New York.  Some—particularly young female pedalers—favor retro threads in fabrics, designs and patterns that were popular, well, in our day—or even earlier.  Or they wear facsimiles or imitations of such clothing.  Others adorn themselves with the severe sartorial straits of knife-blade black pants or tights and leather jackets:  interestingly, not unlike what I wore off-bike for a time in my youth.

It will be interesting to see what the next generation of cyclists will be like—or, indeed, how many of them there will be.  These days, I see more adult cyclists—young as well as, ahem, those of us of a certain age—but I seem to encounter fewer adolescents and children on bikes.  At one time, I’d see few kids on bikes in low-income neighborhoods, in part because of their parents’ or guardians’ fear of crime and in part because some families simply couldn’t afford bikes for their kids.  But these days, I seem to be encountering fewer child and teen riders in the middle- and upper-income neighborhoods of this city and the nearby suburbs.  

What’s disturbing—to me, anyway—about that is that a lot of those kids haven’t learned how to ride.  Nearly everyone who rides as an adult started in childhood:  Even if they abandoned their bikes when they got their drivers’ licenses, they didn’t forget how to ride a bike and could take it up again as an adult. On the other hand, those who don’t learn how to ride as kids rarely learn how to do so as adults.  So they won’t have the opportunity to become the kinds of cyclists we were and are---or hipsters—or whatever the next generation of cyclists in this city will be.

A Day At The Races, In The Town

Yesterday I rode out to Somerville, in part to see the races (some of them, anyway) and in part for the ride itself.  Also, it’s good—for me, anyway—to re-enact an old ritual every now and again.

Last year, I took a route I had followed several times before, through Newark and Jersey City and Westfield.  From there, I followed, more or less, the paths of the Rahway and Raritan rivers to Bound Brook, the next town over from Somerville.

This year, I decided to try a route I found on one of the map websites.  It looked promising:  It avoided a section of US Highway 22 on which I found myself very briefly but I wanted to avoid because the high point of it was finding a deer carcass sprawled across my path.

Well, I found myself veering off the route on several occasions:  There were series of turns that would have challenged even the best ballerinas.  You can guess what happened next:  I found myself on that very same stretch of 22.  Admittedly, I didn’t have to spend more than half a kilometer on it, but it was unpleasant enough, especially in light of what happened:  A section of my front inner tube bubbled through a cut in my tire and flatted---at the very spot where I saw the deer carcass last year.

A minor annoyance, I admit.  But I decided that this ride was going to be “perfect”—which is not a good mindset from which to set out on two wheels (or for doing very many other things, I’ve found).  I fixed the tube (I had a spare, but I figured the tube was easily fixable) and booted the tire.  During those few minutes, it seemed that the temperature rose by about ten degrees:  What had been a pleasantly warm day was turning into a borderline “scorcher”.  Beautiful as the day was, conditions were draining:  The weather had turned hot, with direct sunlight.  And I was pedaling directly into a 20-30 KPH wind.  I guess if I ever decide to ride across a desert, such conditions would train me well.

On top of everything, I’d forgotten my water bottle.  As I was getting dressed, I popped it into the freezer.  I sometimes leave it in for a few minutes before a ride on a warm day:  The water doesn’t freeze, but remains pleasantly cool for a couple of hours into a ride—by which time I’d need a refill.

What that meant were a couple of stops at local grocery stores for Poland Spring water and Gatorade, which I don’t normally drink.  I made an exception for the latter because I saw that I wasn’t sweating but my T-shirt was turning into a tie-dye collage or batik (choose your metaphor) of salt stains.  

Still, I enjoyed the ride, which I estimated to be about eight or ten kilometers longer than I’d planned.  I didn’t stay for all of the races:  I left just before five because I wanted to avoid riding in the dark through the desolate industrial areas of North Elizabeth and South Newark.  I made it to Penn Station in Newark just as the orange and red and purple of the sunsets (which are so colorful in those polluted areas) were turning into the metallic hues that reflected the new office and condo towers near the station.

Arielle, as always, made it a great ride.  And I am more and more convinced that the Ruth Works Brevet bag hanging from my handlebar is the best piece of bicycle luggage I’ve found in a long time, if not in my cycling life.

Oh, by the way, I rode—from what I measured on my maps—164 km, or a little more than 101 miles.  That means I rode my first non-metric century of the year.

(By the way, I've written a post about the town itself on my other blog.)

Memorial Day Rides

On Memorial Day last year, I rode Arielle out to Somerville to see the Tour of Somerville.  For a decades, when there were no professional races in the US, Somerville was probably as close as we came to having an event that in any way resembled European races.   The top cyclists in this country--and a few from overseas--would compete.  

When I think about some of those riders--Jackie Simes, for example, and even John Howard--I have to wonder whether they would have been among the world's elite had they been able to train with, and compete against, Franch, Italian, Belgian, Dutch, Spanish and English riders throughout their careers.  Sometimes I think that might have been the only difference between them and Greg Le Mond and Lance Armstrong (putting aside, of course, the issue of drugs).

Anyway, Somerville has remained a showcase for the best American racing cyclists.  But there are other races--and a plethora of other organized rides--on the calendar for this day.  My guess is that for a lot of people, cycling season begins with Spring, whenever that comes, but the season really swings into high gear about now.

From Will Bike For Change (or Pie)

 Gotta love that bow!

Moving Forward

Bicycling and bicycles have been among the few constants in my life. All manner of other activities, objects, interests, avocations, relationships and tastes have entered and left my body, my mind, my life.  Also, beliefs and ideas--mostly bad ones.  At least, they usually seem irrational in retrospect.  

But riding a bicycle is one of the few things I've never regretted, never felt ashamed of.  When I was riding more than I am now, there were people who gave me smirks of smug superiority when I couldn't give them a rational reason for the time, energy--and money--I was devoting to this passion.  I get the same sort of reaction these days from people who wonder why I'm not skinnier.  But I don't care, any more than I cared then:  Such people don't remain in my life.  But cycling does.

And, really, bicycles don't change that much.  sure, they're made of different materials and have different configurations from the ones I rode and saw around me in my childhood, in my youth, in my previous life.  There are even genres of bikes that didn't exist when I was starting out:  Most notable among them is the mountain bike.  But the basic idea of a bicycle is always the same:  Using your feet (or hands or some other part of your body) to propel two wheels to propel yourself forward on two wheels.

I mean, really, what else is there in life?

From Midwest Lotus

Scraping The Sky, Or Brushed By Fog

Late yesterday morning and the afternoons were just interludes between rainstorms.  Or so it seemed.  And it rained even harder, from what I can tell, last night.

I crossed the Queens-Randall's Island spur of the Triborough (RFK Memorial) Bridge just before the window closed or the clouds opened, depending on your point of view:

R.I.P. John

Today I'm going to detour a bit, for a very personal reason.

In other posts, I've mentioned Millie.  I met her the day I moved to Astoria, in August of 2002.  She saw me as I unloaded boxes, bikes and two cats--Charlie I and Candice--into an apartment in the building next to her house.  She decided that she liked me right then and there, or so it seemed.  And, yes, I liked her immediately.

Well, over the years she's taken care of my cats whenever I've spent time away.  Two years after we became neighbors, I took a trip to France and she cared for Charlie and Candice, probably even better than I did.  Then, about two years after that, she took care of Candice when I went to Turkey.  Charlie had died a couple of months before that and, after I returned from my trip, I adopted a cat she'd rescued--and named Charlie.  A little more than a year after that, Candice died and another one of Millie's rescuees--Max--came into my life.

She's been as good a friend as I've ever had in my life.  So was her husband, John.

Referring to him in the past tense feels even sadder to me than the reason why I did so:  He died the other night, apparently, in his sleep.  Given that a tumor was causing his brain to play cruel tricks on him, that was probably the most merciful way he could have been taken from this world.

Millie has said she was fortunate to have married such a good man.  He could not have had a better companion in his life, especially in his last days.  And his granddaughter has told me he is one of her role models, for his honesty and kindness. I can vouch for both qualities.

The next time I have dinner, spend a day or a holiday, or simply sit with Millie--alone, or with her daughters and grandchildren--I will be happy, as always, to see her. Still, things won't be the same without John.

All I can do now is to thank him one more time.

Bound For Glory: A Sailor On A Bike

Yesterday I mentioned the beginning of Fleet Week here in New York City.  I recounted tales of Sailors Doing Strange Things, like holding doors open for people like me.

Now, when I say that's strange, I'm not denigrating it.  Nor do I intend to disparage another sailor who did something even stranger after a famous actor, who used to be a sailor himself, put him up to it.


The sailor in question was bound to do what he did.  Once he started, he was locked in.  He would not be released until he finished; the only person who could let him go was the Mayor of this city.





Everything I said In the previous paragraph is completely true. Literally.  You see, 95 years ago yesterday, a failed actor named Tony Pizzo set out from Los Angeles astride two wheels.  Fellow sailor C.J. Devine joined him on a planned bicycle trip to New York.


A transcontinental cycling expedition was no doubt more difficult in those days, as there were fewer paved roads and other facilities, especially in and around the Rocky Mountains and high deserts, were far more primitive than they are now.  So was much of the equipment cyclists used then.


But what made the trip so extraordinary is that both Pizzo and Devine were handcuffed to their bicycles.  Yes, you read that right.  Fatty Arbuckle shackled Pizzo's wrists to the handlebars at a ceremony in Venice Beach.  Arbuckle had bet him $3500 (in those days, more than most working people made in three years) that he wouldn't make it to New York by 1 November. 


Pizzo beat that deadline by two days and checked into a room at the Hotel McAlpin still locked to his bike.  The next day, Mayor John Hylan separated him from his machine.


About two months before that, Pizzo was separated from his partner when Devine was struck by a car in Kansas.


As if it weren't enough to ride several hours a day shacked to his handlebars, Pizzo ate, drank, washed and otherwise took care of himself while cuffed to his cycle.





Even more incredibly, the following year, he took the same trip--yes, cuffed to his bike.  And, the year after that, he got on his bike and pedaled to visit the governors of all 48 states.


You can read another--and possibly better--account of Pizzo's exploits on "The Bowery Boys," one of my favorite non-bike blogs.

Building Another Fleet

Here in New York, Fleet Week begins today.

As much as I'm opposed to war and militarism, I can't say I get too upset when some young guy in uniform holds a door open for me. Plus, I tell myself, most join the military because of a lack of other opportunities wherever they were living at the time they joined.  Others conflate "patiriotism" and "serving their country" with serving the war machine.  After all, that is what their schools, communities and culture--and, in some cases, their families--have taught them to think.



Even though I realize they're trained to kill for whoever wants them to kill, I almost invariably like the young people I see in uniform, whether or not they're holding doors open for me.  After all, most of them are perfectly good young men and women who have made what they believe to be the best choice given their circumstances and the values they have been inculcated with.

And, I must say, they do some good charitable work.  So I don't begrudge those--not even the USO--who help them.






Speaking of whom:  Tomorrow, the USO, along with volunteers, is building bikes for service members.  Actually, the bikes are intended for service members' children. 

Perhaps they should also build bikes for the service members themselves.  I'm sure more than a few are cyclists, in one fashion or another.  Or, perhaps, the volunteers could solicit donations for foldable or collpaible bikes the sailors and other service members could bring on ships, sumbarines and such.  I know that sailors and Marines are in good shape, but riding bikes certainly won't hurt their physical conditioning.  Plus, it would probably improve their mental health, even if they pedaled only a few miles or a couple of hours ever week. 



Of course, they can't ride when they're in a submarine,and probably can't when they're in a shop on the High Seas.  But they can ride when they touch the shoreline.  That's better than a lot of other things young men and women do when they walk on land for the first time in months!

A Detour From The Worlds' Fairs

Just recently, the Big Apple (a.k.a. my hometown) celebrated the 75th and 50th Anniversaries of its most recent Worlds' Fairs.  (It also hosted one of the earliest Fairs, in 1853.)  As I have mentioned in one of my earliest posts, I attended the 1964 Fair with my family when I was--well, let's say I was very young.  Very, very young.


 

I'd love to say that my family and I rode there together.  Well, my parents were like about 99.99 percent of American adults of the time in that they didn't ride bikes.  And of the Valinotti children, I was the only one who had graduated from tricycles.  I think my youngest brother was only a few months old when we went to the Fair.

But someone named Jay Kenney rode there. In fact, he pedaled about 1300 miles to get there:  He started in Richfield, Minnesota, with a group of cyclists about his age (16 at the time) on an American Youth Hostels tour.

I stumbled over his photo album when I was researching something else about the Worlds' Fairs.  But it made my day.  This photo--of the Ludington Light in Michigan--was worth the "detour".



Now, what was I researching again?

Hangin' Out With Serge The Concierge

Visitors to my apartment are sometimes amazed to see how many bikes and how much related equipment I've been able to fit--along with shelves full of books and a real bed and dining table.  And Max and Marley share the place with me!

Actually, I don't know how I'd manage if I were living with another human, especially if said human were not a cyclist.  I guess I'm more fortunate than most other cyclists--especially those here in the Big Apple--in that I've never owned a collapsible or folding bike out of necessity.

But I understand why such bikes are gaining in popularity.  Higher housing costs mean that we're living in smaller spaces.  Also, airlines seem to have become more ornery about transporting bicycles.  And, finally, today's Bromptons and even Dahons are better than folding or collapsible bikes of the past.

Of course, there are other solutions to the problem of small living spaces:

From Serge the Concierge

 

Cut From The Same Cloth--Or Hide

A couple of years ago, to a lot of fanfare, Brooks launched its Cambium saddles.  The stated reason was that some cyclists were looking for something that was, shall we say, is moins d'une douleur a l'arriere than their traditional tensioned leather saddles.

(Pardon my French. There, I said it!)

Ironically, Brooks created the Cambium--which is manufactured in Italy--as their tensioned leather saddles are more popular, at least here in the US, than they've been in decades.

The Cambium uses a fabric made of cotton and rubber instead of leather.  If you started cycling, say, about thirty or fewer years ago, you probably have not seen, let alone used, a cloth saddle.  But they've been around, in one form or another, almost from the earliest days of cycling.

One of the most famous examples is the "Bummer", which was inspired by Dan Henry's DIY project:

From American Cycling, July 1966

If you started cycling arond the same time as I did, you probably first heard his name in refrence to "Dan Henry arrows" or, later, "Dan Henry markers".  For decades, it seemed that every organized ride here in the US was marked by painting the symbols he developed onto pavement.

It seems that every other decade, someone makes a version of the Dan Henry saddle.  Late in the '70's Bike Boom, they were marketed as " Bummer" saddles; someone else revived them during the '90's.  Perhaps they'll return, soon, to a bike shop near you.

I've been tempted to try one, but never got around to it.  Maybe if somene rides one and is willing to let me take a few turns on it, I'd be willing. But I really don't want to buy another saddle that I might or might not like.  That said, if I were to try a new saddle, the Dan Henry/Bummer would probably be the one.

Now, if I wanted a cloth saddle purely for aethetic reasons, this is the one I'd get:

This saddle is said to be more or less a replica of one that was fitted to a Dursley-Pederson bicycle of the Edwardian era.  Tim Dawson, the author of the blog Vintage Bicycle, wites, "I  can report that I find it just as uncomfortable as the Dursley-Pedersen saddle."

Perhaps he needs to re-tension it:

Orange Peel--Or Krush?

During my childhood and early adolescence, Schwinn made a line of bicycles called "Krates", which were really variants of their enormously popular Stingray bicycles.  They had "banana" seats, "stick" shifters and other features that were meant to evoke the "muscle" cars of that era.

Those bikes came in a rainbow of colors and went by names like the Pea Picker Lemon Peeler, Apple Krate and Orange Krate.  (As Tom Wolfe pointed out in The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine Flake Streamline Baby, young men involved in the culture of custom muscle cars seemed to have an abhorrence of the letter "C".)  

I never, ever thought about what an Orange Peel might have looked like.  But I found out while I was surfing the web after riding home just ahead of yesterday's deluge:

They Didn't Bike To Work Today

Today, as you probably know, is National Bike To Work Day.

On the whole, I don't care much for designated days for one thing or another.  Ideally, we should ride our bikes to work every day, or at least any day we can, just as we should honor our parents every day, not only on Mother's and Father's Day.  I feel the same way about office assistants, teachers, veterans and other people and the days dedicated to them.

Still, I guess it's better to have such days than not to have them.  Perhaps this day might help to make some people realize that cycling is a viable mode of transportation.

And, I must admit, I expected--and rather hoped--to see a lot of people riding to work.  I have several commute routes; the one I took today led me down Kent Avenue on the Williamsburg waterfront.  Being the main artery, so to speak, of Hipster Hood, I expected to see throngs of two-wheelers.  Instead, this scene greeted me:

Don't get me wrong:  I rather enjoyed having the bike lane to myself. On the other hand, I was disappointed to see no other cyclists on what has become one of the main arteries, so to speak, of New York cycling.

Perhaps the reason for my solitude can be seen in this photo:

More precisely, it's what you don't see:  the skyscrapers just on the other side of the East River.  Normally, they're as visible and distinct as the stars on a clear night in the country.



The weather forecasts are predicting a deluge this afternoon.  Perhaps some people didn't want to risk riding in it, so they left their wheels at home--or didn't go to work at all.

At least, I hope that's the case. 

They're (We're) Taking Over!

What will I do when I'm no longer a minority?

All right...That sentence wasn't a cheap trick to get published in some right-wing think tank's house organ.  After all, in at least one sense I am not a minority, although I may become one if I live long enough:  I am white.  And, naturally, I don't see this country or any other developing a majority consisting of transgenders or transsexuals, contrary to Janice Raymond's most fear-addled fantasies.

So, to what "minority" am I referring?



Bike commuters, who else?

As I've mentioned in other posts, I can recall days, weeks and even months when I saw no one else riding a bicycle to work, or for any other purpose.  Such was the case even along the thoroughfares of Hipster Hook, where there are now, probably, more bicycles per capita than in any other place in the United States. 

Back in those days, the American media all but ignored cyclists and cycling.  Occasionally, some newspaper's sports section would include a line or two about the Tour de France or a race that passed, literally, in front of the doors of the editorial offices. 

I never, ever would have imagined hearing a story like the one aired today on National Public Radio.  It reports on the increase in bike commuting around the US.  Not surprisingly, small- to medium- sized cities with colleges or universities in temperate climates (i.e., Davis CA and Boulder CO) had the highest percentages of their populations riding bikes to work. Also not surprising was the fact that Portland OR has one of the highest rates among larger cities.




What also didn't surprise me--unfortunately--was the socio-economic makeup of bike commuters:  We are mainly people at the bottom of the income or the top of the education ladder.  Real progress in making places more bike-friendly--which is to say, developing a culture of cycling, not merely building bike lanes--will happen only when cycling is embraced by people in the middle.  That, by the way, is how almost anything becomes mainstream:  When middle classes embrace it.

Another facet of the report that confirmed my observations is that fewer people cycle to work in the South than in the rest of the country.  Some have said that it has to do with the long, hot summers.  I think that's one part of the story:  For a variety of other reasons, Dixie has developed more of a love for the internal combustion engine than us Yankees or folks in Seattle, Portland or Minneapolis--or even, for that matter, Detroit--have ever had.  Have you ever noticed that most NASCAR drivers--including the sport's elite--come from somewhere between the Potomac and the Rio Grande?

Cycle-commuters probably won't become mainstream--let alone a majority--any time soon.  But we are becoming more visible and numerous (Yes, cycling increases your sexual vitality!) in my part of the world.  What will we do?

Even Strivers Have To Walk

About two weeks ago, I bemoaned (OK, complained about) a sign ordering cyclists to walk their wheels across a bridge.  After all, it's a long bridge and it leaves you off on Randall's Island, which is about as far as you can get from anything else (Well, OK, there's Staten Island) in the city.

But I guess I shouldn't complain. As cyclists, we aren't the only ones beset by irrational rules.  

Which is more difficult:  walking a horse or walking a bike?  Since I've never walked a horse, I don't know.  

At least this gate faces West 138th Street between Frederic Douglass and Adam Clayton Powell Boulevards in Harlem.  The block is part of a district known as Striver's Row, which boasts some of the most beautiful and distinctive residential architecture in this city, if not the whole country. I ride through it every chance I get.

I Couldn't Cross This Bridge When I Came To It

This morning I rode to an appointment in the Bronx.  Although it's friendly to neither cyclists nor pedestrians, I take the Triborough/Robert F. Kennedy Bridge. 

The bridge is actually a system of three spans, all of which meet on Randall's Island.  One spur connects the island to Queens, where I live, and the other two link it to the Bronx and Manhattan.

Actually, when I say the bridges are connected, that's true for motorized vehicles.  If you're a cyclist or pedestrian, you have to find your way through a maze of poorly-marked streets and paths in various stages of construction, destruction, reconstruction and deconstruction. 

My appointment was in the southwestern part of the Bronx, not far from Yankee Stadium.  It's actually easier to take the Manhattan spur from Randall's Island and take the Willis Avenue Bridge in the Bronx, which lets cyclists and pedestrians off near Gerard Avenue, a north-south street that--almost surprisingly--has a bike lane. I may have been the only one who used it today.

Manhattan Spur of Robert F Kennedy Memorial Bridge (a.k.a. the Harlem River Lift Bridge)

Anyway, when I got to the Manhattan spur, the pedetrian/bike lane was blocked off.  I saw bulldozers and cranes; I don't know whether the path or the bridge itself is going to be worked on.  But the lot around the entrance to the walkway was all torn up.

I found no mention of this closure on the sites of the Triborough Bridge and Tunnel Authority (which administers the bridge) or the city's Department of Transportation.  I wanted to photograph the site, but the area was swarming with cops, and there are signs on the bridge itself that say photography is forbidden. 

Fortunately, I didn't have to go very far to get to the Bronx spur.  I rode about the same distance as I would have had I pedaled up the Manhattan span.  However, the ramp off the spur is a maze of 90 degree angles (Imagine a spiral staircase without the stairs or the curves, and with all matter of human refuse.) and it lets cyclists off in a spot where trucks enter and exit factories, a Department of Sanitation garage and the expressway.  And the nearest intersection, at St. Ann's Avenue and the Bruckner Expressway, is a nightmare because all manner of vehicles turn from and in all directions, including some you didn't even think were possible.

In spite of everything, I was still early for my appointment.  Still, I wish that there'd been an announcement of the closure and that it, and the way to the pedestrian/bike paths, were more clearly marked on Randall's Island.

Why Isn't Bike Share Booming In Beijing?

Someone I knew took a trip to China about twenty years ago.  Back then, it was still rare for an American to go there, except on business.  And, from her photos and descriptions, she experienced much of the "old" China, complete with streets as clotted with cyclists as the Long Island Expressway (a.k.a. The World's Longest Parking Lot) is clogged with cars during rush hour.



Back then, China was known as The Kingdom of Bicycles.  Even today, more bicycles are ridden in that country--by far--than in any other.  And 79 of the world's bicycle-share programs--including the world's two busiest, in Hangzhou and Wuhan--are found there.

So, one would expect that a bike-share program in Beijing would be as popular as some of the local delicacies.  However, the program in the Chinese capital is probably one of the biggest busts, so far, in the movement.

One explanation for the Beijing bike share bust is that more than in other Chinese cities, in Beijing automobiles became symbols of prosperity and bicycles as markers of poverty and downward mobility. That could also explain why a "bike culture" hasn't developed as it has in Hangzhou or in places like Copenhagen, Portland or New York. In other words, bicyling--even for recreation, let alone transportation--is not seen as "hip" in Beijing as it is in the other cities I've mentioned. In fact, from what I've read, there isn't even a subculture or "bike neighborhood" in the Chinese capital.

Of course, that doesn't mean that one couldn't develop. After all, about a generation ago, bicycling in Copenhagen experienced a devolution similar to (if, perhaps, not on the same scale) as the one Beijing is experiencing. Something similar happened in New York and other American cities a couple of generations before that. In New York, Copenhagen and other cities, people got tired of fighting traffic and realized that bicycling could get them to their destinations faster than driving and, in some cases, even mass transit. From what I've been reading, it seems that some people in Beijing aren't happy about the auto traffic congestion, let alone the poor air quality that's resulted from it..

Maybe Beijing is just one spike in petrol prices from a boom in its bike share program.

Happy Mother's Day, With Or Without Panniers

My Mom doesn't want or need anything.  That's what she says.  I believe her:  As I get older, I feel feel the same way,at least sometimes.   Maybe I'll always feel that way when/if I get to be her age.

I did,nevertheless, give her a Mother's Day gift.  I can assure you it was not this:

For the record, I did give her a basket of roses in her favorite color:  yellow.  It's simply  not possible to give her anything as good as she deserves, so I I bring her whatever bits of joy and pleasure I can.

To her, and all who've cared for someone when no one else could or would:  Happy Mother's Day!