Driver Who Plowed Into Arizona Race Charged, Cyclist Dies

 Today is Bastille Day.  On this date in years past, I have written about two of my favorite topics:  cycling and France.  Today, however, I shall relate a story I wish I didn't have to tell.

Last month, a driver plowed his pickup truck into Masters race that was about to start in Arizona.   Nine cyclists suffered serious injiuries.  On Monday, the family of one, 58-year-old Jeremy Barrett, announced his death.

Jeremy Barrett, R.I.P.

The driver has since been idenitified as 38-year-old Shawn Michael Chock. Turns out, he has a long history of encounters with law enforcement, including DUI charges.  After it was determined that he intentionally drove into the group of cyclists, he was charged with nine counts of aggrevated assault with a deadly weapon.  In addition, he was charged with fleeing the scene of an accident and unlawful flight.

Those charges, however, were brought against him before Barrett passed away. Now his family and friends are calling for additional charges. I am with them:  It's about time that folks like Chock stopped getting away with murder when it comes to cyclists. (I mean, what exactly is someone's intention when he plows into a group of cyclists with his pickup truck?)

It's bad enough when cyclists are killed or injured by intoxicated or simply careless drivers, as happened in Michigan five years ago.  But it's time for folks like Chock to be brought to account for willfully endangering and killing cyclists and pedestrians.

Why We Need The Idaho Stop--And The Paris Accord

When I saw this image in my Google browser, I thought it had something to do with Donald Trump's intention to withdraw the United States from the Paris climate accord Obama, along with the leaders of 194 nations, signed two years ago.

The smoke is thick enough.  As I write, DT hasn't officially pulled away from the agreement, and some of his advisers--including Secretary of State Rex Tillerson--are going to make appeals in the hope of changing his mind.  I can almost picture him, or someone else, using that image as part of his "pitch".

Alas, it is the opening frame of a video shown on an Arizona television news program, and posted to the AZ Central website.  The story is terrible:  A commercial truck collided with a bicycle.  Now, that description is strange:  I normally think of a collision as occurring between two people or things that are more or less equal in their ability to withstand the crash.  That hardly brings to mind, at least for me, a truck hitting a bicycle.

According to the news report, two cyclists were involved, "but only one was struck by the vehicle, according to Gilbert police."

With reports like that, El Presidente has absolutely no reason to trouble himself with "fake news".  Too many stories one reads or hears in the "news" media are so incomplete, so lacking in facts or context, or simply so ineptly or deviously expressed, that the "fake news" seems reliable, or at least predictable, for no other reason that you can dismiss it outright.  Stories like the one I've just mentioned have to be filled in, teased out or in some other way worked through in order to make sense of them, let alone make an evaluation.

Oh--the woman hit by the truck was pronounced dead at the hospital and the other cyclist, also a woman, "required no medical attention."

OK, I  don't want to seem like I'm nitpicking, but I want to know how two cyclists were involved if one bicycle was struck.  

I will give the reporter(s) credit for this, though:  The report mentions that both cyclists  and the truck were traveling east on Ray Road in Gilbert, Arizona,  when the truck driver made a right turn onto Val Vista Drive.

I wouldn't be surprised if the cyclists stopped for a red light and proceeded when the signal turned green.  As I have mentioned in earlier posts, that is the easiest way to get struck by a motor vehicle, especially a truck or bus.  The "Idaho stop" is much safer:  When a cyclist proceeds against a red light through an intersection where there is no cross-traffic, he or she is much safer than he or she would be by following the signals, as the law requires in most places. 

 Going through an intersection when no cross-traffic is present allows the cyclist to get out ahead of traffic moving in the same direction--which makes it more likely that bus or truck driver behind you will see you.  

However the truck came to collide with the cyclist, the image at the beginning of this post is not good news--whether or not The Orange One quits the Paris climate accord.

Truck Plows Into Bike Race

He shook hands with, and wished good luck to, a fellow cyclist.

Such a scene is repeated before races all over the world, especially if they are amateur or club races.

Each rider might go home to his or her family or friends after the race.  Or they might share a beer or lunch.

Neither, I reckon, imagined what happened next.

A few minutes after they shook hands, Tony Quinones would witness the other cyclist, whom he had just met, flipped onto the hood of a pickup truck, along with other cyclists and their bikes.

When that truck approached the road on which they were riding, Quinones said he expected the truck to turn toward a nearby parking lot.  Instead, its driver aimed straight for the group of cyclists--and accelerated.

He didn't stop until he hit a utility pole.  Other cyclists pounded on his window, screaming for him to get out.  Instead, he made a U-turn and headed back toward the cyclists.  Quniones feared he'd strike again.  Instead, the driver sped away.

Later, that driver--identified only as a 35-year-old male--was shot by police when he didn't comply with their order to stop.

As many as ten cyclists were hurt, six of them seriously. One is in stable condition.

Photo by Tony Quinones

Authorities in Show Low, Arizona--the site of the incident--haven't ascertained the driver's motives.  About all they know is that he didn't fall asleep or have a heart attack at the wheel.

Call me paranoid, but I can't help but to wonder whether resentment and the hyper-politicized environment of the past year and half had something to do with his motivations.  

As more people cycle, and more bike lanes and infrastructure are built, I sense--and have experienced--more hostility from motorists. Some believe we are taking "their" streets from them. I also sense that some see riding a bicycle the way others (or, perhaps, they themselves) see wearing a mask.  A former colleague of mine lives in an area full of Trump supporters and was, and is, ridiculed, harassed or even threatened for covering her face.  Although she's vaccinated, she continues to protect herself because of underlying medical conditions that aren't readily visible.

And it just so happens that Arizona is one of the states where the election was most contentious.  President Joe Biden was the first Democrat the state elected to the White House in decades, and the Secretary of State has been assigned a security detail because of the death threats she's received in the wake of her refusal to overturn the election results.

Of course, I can't speak of the driver's motivations.  But could he have seen those cyclists, or anyone who wears a mask, as an "enemy?"   

What You Need To Hydrate Properly

Paris in January is neither hot nor dry (at least, not yet). Even so, when pedaling down the boulevards, avenues and pistes cycleables of the City of Light on misty day, it's just as important to hydrate as it is if you're barreling down an Arizona canyon in summertime.

But drinking like a proper French person is not just a matter of choosing jus, eau, vin, cafe or some other libation. The proprietor of La New Cave, on Boulevard Malesherbes in Paris' fashionable 8eme Arrondissement, understands that one must also consider the spirit (pun intended) in which the beverage is presented:

I asked the proprietor whether there was a "frais supplementaire" for his charming accent,  to which he replied a resounding "Non!"  So, some of the best things in life are free after all!

Honor Among Whom?

Some of us have difficulty with authority figures.  It might be the result of experiences with teachers, parents, clergy people or agents of the law.  We might be scolded for talking back or other forms of defiance, but those who scold us sometimes tell themselves, and each other, that one day we will "grow up" and "grow out of" our distrust of people with power over us.

But some of us learn, as we get older, to be even more skeptical of anyone we're supposed to obey or "respect".  I mean, how many--ahem--elected officials make you want to be a more compliant and amenable to those who have license--however they might have attained it--to make decisions that affect us?  And, given the scandals we've seen everywhere from the church to the entertainment industry, what would persuade anyone to give more credence to someone just because he or she has a title, money or a reputation, however any of those things were acquired?

Of course, the question of who merits our obedience and respect has been around for as long as humans have organized themselves.  Practically all philosophers, and more than a few poets, writers and artists have dealt with this issue, if obliquely.  And past as well as recent events give us reason to wonder just who, exactly, should be obeyed, much less revered.

One such event occurred 75 years ago this month in Flagstaff, Arizona.  The previous month, gasoline rationing had begun in the US.  Interestingly, the reason was not that petrol was in short supply.  Rather, rubber was, because the attack on Pearl Harbor a year earlier cut off most of the supply--and military needed whatever was available.  Thus, it was believed that the best way to reduce rubber usage was to reduce driving.  So was gas rationing begun.

Five different kinds of ration cards were issued. One, the C ration, was given to "essential war workers" (including police officers and letter carriers) and did not restrict the amount of gas they could use.  In Flagstaff, one recipient of the C ration was a fellow named Reverend George Gooderham.

That didn't sit well with another Flagstaff denizen--one Perry Francis.  But he wasn't just an ordinary citizen:  He was the sheriff.  

So how did Sheriff Francis express his resentment toward the Reverend?  Get ready for this:  He took the minister's bicycle.

A few hours later, the man of the cloth realized his wheels were gone and went to the local constabulary.  The folks in the sheriff's office led him on for a while before "finding" his bicycle and returning it to him.

It's often said that there is honor among thieves.  But what about cops who steal--from clergy members, no less?

The Year Of The Bird Or The Year Of The Snake?

A few of my New Years have included resolutions to ride more.  At least a couple of times--when I was young--I kept them.  It was easier then.

Other times, I've made resolutions regarding skills or equipment. One year, I resolved to learn how to fix my bike.  That's when I got my copy of Tom Cuthbertson's Anybody's Bike Book.   

(Years later, when I first heard of Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States, I found myself thinking of Tom Cuthbertson's book.  If Zinn were a cyclist, he'd've been Cuthbertson's kindred spirit.   But I digress.)

Another year, I decided to learn how to build wheels.  Not long after, I came across an article Sheldon Brown--this was the first time I'd heard of him--wrote about it in Bicycle World, if I remember correctly.

And then there was the time I resolved to get myself a track bike.  No more silly fixed-gear conversions, I told myself.  Some time in the middle of that winter, I got a good deal on the Bianchi Pista (a real, made-in-Italy one), about which I'll write a post on some snowy (or rainy) day.

For all the times I've made resolutions (I don't make them anymore), there were others when I thought the year would start off on a good note with a book (whether or not it was bicycle-related) or some nice new piece of equipment--say, a jersey or an accessory.

Bicycling! magazine promotes that sort of thing.  It's a good way to launch new products, especially those you don't actually need but could enhance your cycling pleasure.  I thought this one, from last year, was cute:

Made by Portland Design Works

It's called, naturally, a "Bird Cage".  If I were to get one, I'd have to forget about the name:  One reason why I have never had, and don't want, a bird for a pet is that I can't think of any living thing as a pet if I have to keep it in a cage.  (Did someone mention boyfriends? ;=) )

It made me think of a bottle cage I had years ago.  I think I gave it to myself as a Christmas or New Year's gift:

I installed it on my Jamis Dakota.  I think I transferred it later on to my Bontrager Race Lite.  I liked it, actually:  It held the bottle securely, even when I rode over rocks and such.  If I recall correctly, it was made in Arizona or Utah or some Western state that's not Colorado or California by a company called Innovations that made some other cool bike accessories.

So...The year of the Bird?  Or the year of the Snake?  All right, I know I'm butchering Chinese cosmology here, so I'll stop and wish you a Happy New Year!

A Ride In His Imagination

One thing I would find funny if it didn't so enrage me is priests being sentenced to "a life of prayer and penance" after sexually abusing children.  Especially if said priest is old and has so exploited multiple victims.

I got to thinking about that when I heard the story of one Nicholas Clark.

Who is he? you ask.

He's someone important enough for USA Cycling to know about.  More precisely, the American cycling body has just suspended him from all of its activities for one year and from holding a coaching license for three years.

What did he do to earn such a punishment?

Oh, he more than earned it.  He'd built an enthusisatic following as a coach and owner of ProBike FC, a bike shop in Fairfax County, Virginia.  From that locale, he led training rides that included dozens of people, many of them in his thrall over his having raced for teams like AG2R-Casino on such prestigious races as the Tour of Flanders, Paris-Nice and Liege-Bastogne-Liege.

Nick Clark addresses a training ride at his shop.

The problem, as you might have guessed by now, is that his account of his racing history contained just about as much truth as any claim I could make of a blood relationship to the King of Sardinia and the Duchess of Savoie.  

Or that I gave Tim Berners-Lee that great idea he had.  But, really, I let him take credit for it because I didn't want the spotlight.

The other claims Clark made weren't so farfetched.  But his profile picture on his now-deleted Strava account shows him standing with Johan Museeuw, who gives him a thumbs-up and another prominent pro rider, Paolo Bettini, on a cloudy day in Belgium. 

 

The Casino team.  Where's Nick?

Now, I am not going to say whether that photo was "doctored."  As we say in the old country, I'll leave that up to you,  dear reader.  But it's come to light that some other things he used to burnish his C.V. were as fabricated as anything as anyone could assemble from three letters:   B.ec, LLB, MBA, CPA and CEO.  Oh, and he fudged other credentials and relationships to fit one scheme or another.

Of course, USA Cycling can't punish him for faking academic, military or corporate credentials.  But, it seems, there was some, shall we say, misconduct when he coached a women's cycling team.   

The thing that unraveled the world he fabricated, however, was recorded on that now-deleted Strava account. One day three years ago, he ascended a steep climb near his home at a faster pace--and lower energy output--than even an elite pro rider in the prime of his or her career could.  And Nick was a decade and a half past such a peak, if indeed he ever had one.

A screenshot of Clark's now-deleted Strava account.

Another Strava entry a few months later, at age 45,  showed that he rose up a hors de categorie climb in Arizona faster and with less effort than Sepp Kuss, a young rider who shepherded Primoz Roglic to second place in the 2020 Tour de France and later won a stage himself.

A few people looked into Clark's Strava account and found claims of his seeming to have defied the limits of physiology, the laws of physics and pure-and-simple reason.

Further digging revealed, among many other false claims, that he'd left his native Australia for Norway to compete in the 1993 Junior Road World Championships.  

The winner of that tournament's rain-soaked elite men's road race?  Lance Armstrong. The senior road race, that is.  That year's Junior Worlds, contrary to Clark's fable, were actually held in Perth, Australia:  his own hometown.  Still, there's no record of his having participated.

A fraud and a doper.  That's just about as rich as Donald Trump, another fraud,  endorsing Dr. Oz, a quack, for Senate.  Maybe they'll be sentenced to a life of prayer and penance--or a one-year ban from something.

These days, Nick Clark is working as a firearms instructor, claiming military experience and a background as a "former officer with the Department of Corrections having served in a number of units, from SuperMax wings, to emergency response and hostage response units and drug squad as an active drug dog handler."

If that turns out to be as true as his other stories maybe he'll, I dunno, have his license to shoot a cap gun suspended for six months or something. Of course, that's less harsh than any punishment he'd get from the UCI for any cycling-related infraction.

 

Annie Londonderry: Pedaling And Peddling Around The World

As a teenager, I looked forward to Bicycling! magazine every month.  Aside from learning about bikes and equipment I wouldn't encounter and couldn't afford, I learned that people did all sorts of things on, and with, their bicycles that I never imagined.  In fact, I think the people who did those things didn't imagine them, either, until they undertook them.

One such person was John Rakowski, who rode his bicycle around the world and wrote a series of articles (journal entries, really) for the magazine. As much as I admired him, I would soon learn that he wasn't the first to accomplish the feat:  Thomas Stevens did it eight decades earlier.  Seven years after he completed his journey, Annie Kopchovsky would make a similar voyage.

Well, sort of.  I'll get to that soon.  Ms. Kopchovsky was born in Latvia, but her family emigrated to Boston when she was a child.  At 18, she married Max Kopchovsky, a peddler.    Within four years they had three children.

Much of what comes after that is a matter of debate.  Kopchovsky said that her ride was the result of a bet two wealthy Bostonian men made:  One asserted that women could do whatever men could, and his friend took the bait.  They agreed on a wager that a woman could ride around the world in 15 months(!) and earn $5000 along the way.  Nobody is sure why she felt compelled to take up the challenge as she, up to that point, had never been on a bicycle. However, she, like many other young women of her time, were inspired by Susan B. Anthony's assertion that the bicycle had done more to emancipate women than anything else.

So, on 27 June 1894, she hopped her 42-pound Columbia women's bike (Well, it was lighter than my Collegiate, I think!) dressed in the long skirt, corset and high collar of that time and waved goodbye to her husband and children as she set off down Beacon Street.  From there, she rode to New York.  Before she took off, the Londonderry Lithia Spring Water Company (rolls right off the tongue, doesn't it?)  offered her $100.  In return, she would display their placard on her bike and adopt the nom de velo Anne Londonderry.

From New York, she pedaled west, arriving in Chicago in just under three months after she left Boston.   Along the way, she lost 20 pounds.  In the Windy City, she realized that she would need to make some changes.  First of all, she realizing her bike was too heavy, she switched to a Sterling men's model with one gear and no brakes.  It weighed tipped the scales at half of the Columbia's weight.  Second, she realized she would never be able to ride that bike in her attire.  So, at first, she wore bloomers, and eventually changed to a men's riding suit.

She'd planned to ride west, but the impending winter made her change direction.  She rode back to New York and set sail for Le Havre, France, where she arrived in early December.  Her bike was impounded, her money was stolen and the French press declared her too muscular to be a woman, assigning her to the category of "neutered beings."  Somehow she turned things around and, in spite of bad weather, made it from Paris to Marseilles in two weeks via bike and train.  

In Marseilles, she boarded the steamship "Sydney".  Her itinerary included all sorts of exotic ports of call.  To prove she'd been to those places, she got the signature of the United States Consul in each location.  

She returned to the US in San Francisco on 23 March 1895.  From there, she rode south to Los Angeles, then east through Arizona and New Mexico to El Paso. From there, she  turned north and rode to Denver, then Cheyenne, where she hopped on a train that took her to Nebraska.  She then hopped back on her bike to Chicago, arriving on 12 September.  Then she took the train back to Boston, arriving on 24 September, 15 months after she left.

As you might expect, some accused her of traveling more with her bike than on it.  Most people didn't seem to mind, though:  She was a tireless self-promoter who, while in France and Asia, told tales of being a medical student, the neice of a US Congressman, a lawyer, an inventor of a new method of stenography and an orphan.  Plus, she sold commemorative photographs, silk handkerchiefs, souvenir pins and autographs.  Upon returning to the US, she told tales of hunting with German royalty in India and nearly being killed by "Asiatics" who thought she was an evil spirit. She even insisted that she was involved in the Sino-Japanese War of 1895. On the front lines, she'd fallen through a frozen river and ended up in a Japanese prison with a bullet would in her shoulder.  Or so she said.

But, hey, if she biked even half as much as she told stories, she rode a lot.  And her pedaling brought her family more money, through sponsorships, her own entrepreneurship and articles she wrote, than her husband's peddling ever could have provided!

Riding In Dry Heat To The Sea--And An Old "Friend"

In my youth, one of the things I did when I was trying to figure out--or, perhaps, avoid--whatever it was I was supposed to be doing was to teach English in a language institute near the UN.  

In every lesson, I would give students at least one tip on "how to sound like an American".  One--as I've mentioned in another post--is never to call the largest city in California "Los Angeles".  To us 'Murikuns, it's "L.A."

Another one of my tips was to talk about the weather.  Americans are always talking about it, I'd tell them, and that's one of the easiest ways to talk with an American--and learn everyday English.

In that vein, I'm going to say something about the weather, as I did yesterday.  It was hot today, though not quite as oppressive as the last couple of days.  But there was a huge difference:  very low humidity.  Those of you who live and ride in places like "L.A." or Arizona are probably accustomed to such conditions.  But here in the NYC Metro Area--indeed, on most of the East Coast--heat=humidity, at least most of the time.

It's weird, at least for me, to ride in 90 degree F (32C) weather without sweating. I take that back:  the body sweats, but it doesn't drip.  Rather, the beads of sweat evaporate before you can see or feel them on the surface of your skin.  Meantime, you're sucking down water or your favorite color of Gatorade or whatever your preferred libation is for bike riding.

In some way, I guess it makes sense that I'd ride to the ocean on a day like this. Specifically, I pedaled to Point Lookout:  into the wind to Rockaway Beach, balancing the wind on my right side to the Point and on my left side back to Rockaway and, finally, with the wind at my back from Rockaway Beach.

The tide was in, so the sandbars and many of the rocks I've seen on previous rides were submerged.  However, I did get a glimpse of an old friend:


He's at the center of the photo.  Look closely and you can see--no, not Jaws

but the Point Lookout Orca!

I hadn't seen him in a while. Whatever he (somehow I think he's male) is, he deserves the same respect accorded other mysterious aquatic and amphibious creatures like the Loch Ness Monster.  I think he prefers that to being compared to Pac-Man:

Hmm...Could the inventor of that iconic video game have been working from some Jungian archetype?  Could that person have had the Point Lookout Orca in his or her subconscious without realizing it?

Whatever Point Lookout Orca is, he's never chased me.  I guess I'm not as tasty as the crustaceans and bivalves he can find in those waters.  After all, who ever paid $100 for a plate of me?  Orca, on the other hand, gets to eat what's served in the city's most expensive restaurants--for free.

And I get to have a great ride without breaking a sweat.  It all works out sometimes.

Who--Or What--Is To Blame?

Be forewarned:  Part of today's post will be a continuation of yesterday's rant, in which I lamented the terror and seeming inevitability of the mass shootings in a Texas school and Buffalo supermarket.

Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised that politicians and media pundits are blaming everything but guns.  I'm not talking about the "decay of moral values" or other talking points of the political and religious right.  Instead, I'm talking about flat-out lies spread by folks whose careers and reputations never could withstand the truth.

Paul Gosar, the Republican Congressional Representative from Arizona, is an example of who I mean. I must say, he has managed to concoct a non-reality not even the strongest drugs could induce and twist logic and reason in ways a pretzel-maker would envy.

To wit:  He tweeted that the shooter--18-year-old Salvador Ramos, born and raised in Texas--was a "transsexual leftist illegal alien."  Gosar's source for that bit of intelligence?  A social network called 4Chan, to which folks of his ilk are drawn like flies to, well, the stuff flies are drawn to.  That's bad enough, but I would really like to know where he got his thinking skills.  He followed up his out-and-out falsehood with this pearl of wisdom:  "Sandy Hook proved the need to enhance K-12 security."  OK. That's not too debatable. But then he made a leap into the (il)logical abyss:  "Congress armed Ukraine instead."

Now, as much as I sympathise with the people of Ukraine, I wonder about Congressional members' motives in voting to send even more weapons than President Biden demanded.  But talk about a false equivalency!  I mean, how can he link sending help to Ukraine with school safety, or a school shooting that happened nearly a decade ago?

Compounding the problem is that other voices in the media will amplify such nonsense--or other verbal bilge-- in the same way he was a loudspeaker for Trump's beloved "low-information voters."  Fox News, in following with a hallowed tradition, shifted the blame to parents.  

I have to hand it to the folks at Faux, I mean Fox:  They accomplished something I didn't think possible.  The excerable (even by their standards) Laura Ingraham interviewed someone even more vile than herself:  Andrew Pollack.  That I can unfavorably compare a man who lost his daughter in the Parkland shooting to a Fox host is really saying something. He, who has previously argued "guns didn't kill my daughter, Democratic principles did," in reference to the Texas shooting, declared, "It's the parents."

How he came to that conclusion took a turn of logic that rivals what brought Gosar to his blaming the shooting on helping Ukraine.  "It's your responsibility where you're sending your children to school," he explained.  "You need to check where your kids go to school."  He suggested that parents should take their kids "out of public school" and put them in "a private school, because a lot of these private schools, they take security way more serious."

Where to begin with that assessment?  Well, for one thing, private schools are not an option for most families. Most kids go to whatever public school is zoned for wherever they live and they (or, more precisely, their parents) have little or no choice in the matter.  Also, even if private school is an option, it might not meet some kids' needs.  And, finally, what does he mean by "security?"  Metal detectors?  Armed teachers?

Oh, and there are the usual diatribes about education and mental health treatment.  I would agree:  If someone were to ask me for an example of an oxymoron, I might say, "American mental health care system."  But that fixing that won't stop mass gun violence all by itself any more than better school security or any other action could.

Here's what I wonder: How the fuck did someone who couldn't even drink beer legally get his hands on a military-grade assault weapon?  Would Ingraham ask such a question?  Could--or would--Pollack or Gosar answer it?

So why am I taking up another post on a cycling blog with a discussion of a school shooting and its aftermath?  Well, what Gosar and his ilk do in these situation--blame everything but guns--reminds me of the ways law enforcement and some members of the public react, too often, when a driver maims or kills a cyclist.  Never mind that he or she was driving at double the speed limit, was distracted by a mobile device or impaired by drugs, alcohol or some other substance--or was simply driving agressively or carelessly.  The cyclist, especially if he or she is killed, is blamed.

 

If Old Barns Could Be Turned Into Bikes

Given that Summer is turning into Fall, I thought I'd share an image of some bicycles that look positively autumnal:

These classic cruisers were photographed at last year's Fall Bicycle Swap Meet in Tuscon, Arizona.  

I think of them as the old red barns of bicycling.  They're lovely and peaceful in a similar way, if not quite as melancholy.

A Ghost In The Morning

After a perfect summer weekend, another heat wave has swept over this city.

 Now, those of you who live in places like western Texas or southern Arizona might chuckle when folks like me complain about the heat in New York. I’ll concede that we don’t know (at least not yet) what it’s like when your nighttime temperatures are like ours in the afternoon.  But our hot days come with humidity that turn our streets into saunas.

Anyway, knowing that we are heading for The Nineties (in Fahrenheit temperature and humidity), I went for a morning ride that took me back and forth between Queens and Brooklyn.  

 Street destruction (Why do they call it construction?) detoured me onto Hewes Street, one of the narrow, warrenlike thoroughfares in the part of this city that most closely resembles a pre-war stetl: the Hasidic part of Williamsburg, where it borders Bushwick.

One way you know a neighborhood is changing: You see “ghosts.” I can’t help but to imagine the lives that filled and voices that echo walls of bubbling, flaking bricks and shingles. But I also notice another kind of “ghost”:  a long-concealed sign or banner from a business that served as past residents whom current residents will never know.

“Ghost” signs like the one I saw today on Hewes Street have led me down a rabbit hole or two. What kinds of “beauty preparations” did Nutrine make or sell? Who used them, and what image of “beauty” were they trying to achieve.

That image, I imagine, might have burned as brightly and hazily as a heat-wave afternoon in the imaginations of those in whom it was inculcated it—and those who inculcated it.

Judaism And The Art Of Bicycle Riding

If you're of a certain age, as we say, there's a good chance you've read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.  Some English classes--including a few at the college I attended--actually assigned it.  I escaped that fate:  I didn't have to take the English classes that assigned it because, when I entered my college, the person (or folks) in charge of placement decided that I was a better writer than I actually was, based on an essay I wrote as part of my entrance exam.  

I did, however, read Zen on my own.  I didn't expect to learn how to fix motorcycles or about Zen.  If I recall correctly, the book's author, Robert Pirsig, included a disclaimer advising readers not to have such expectations.  Even if he'd intended to instruct his readers on how to wrench their rice rockets (That was a term for Japanese motorcycles, which were much lighter than Harleys.) or meditate, I'm not sure of what I might've learned because, really, I had little idea about motorcycles except that my uncle rode one or about Buddhism save for guys in orange robes.

I'm not sure of what, if anything, I learned from the book.  That's not to say it wasn't worth reading:  At that point in my life, I was a sucker for stories about folks who left jobs, families and other bourgeois expectations behind, even if only for a time, to traverse the country or world, mainly because--you guessed it--I wanted to do something like that.  

Pirsig's prose had little, if any, stylistic grace.  He probably wouldn't have wanted to have any--which, I believe, was part of the appeal of his book.  You don't quote him the way you would, say, Thoreau, let alone Virginia Woolf or Shakespeare. (About my friend Bill:  I remember reading that some researcher found that the average English speaker quotes him at least 20 times a day, mostly without realizing  he or she has done so!)  But I remember this:  "The real motorcycle you're working on is yourself."  Or something like that.

So, what aphorisms can one glean from an experience of Judiasm and the Art of Bicycle Riding?  It's hard not to think that Abigail Pogrebin, the author of an article by that name, didn't read, or at least hear of, Pirsig's volume.  And she indeed reveals a thing or two she learned about herself from riding a mountain bike through Arizona brush--with a Native American guide named George. And, oh, her rabbi.

The irony is, as she says, that George imparted so much Jewish wisdom.  In particular, he offered this nugget that could have come straight from Moses (who, in my mind, always looks and sounds like Charlton Heston):

Always look way ahead of you.  Never look down.  As soon as you look down, you will hesitate, overthink, negotiate, get stuck.  Always be moving into the future. Bike into the future.

The last two sentences, she admits, can sound pretty corny, but, as Ms. Pogebrin points out, "How many times does our tradition ask us to 'go forth'? How many times in our history have we had to keep going despite what's thrown in our way?"  There is no other choice, really:  By definition, we can only move toward the future.  Living in what I call the Eternal Present--and I've known lots of people who've done, and who do, exactly that--is a pretty good definition of a living death.

But, of course, George wasn't trying to be rabbinical.  As Pogrebin learned, his admonitions were entirely literal:  "Once we were out on the trails, as soon as we looked down, we were screwed--the bike suddenly spun out of control, stalled in a mud crevice or jammed its tires between rocks."  When her rabbi and two other cyclists who accompanied them--a couple of guys from San Francisco--navigated a stretch on which she stumbled, George bellowed "GO BACK AND DO IT AGAIN, ABBY!"  But then he imparted what was probably the most important lesson of all, at least for her:

You're too clenched, too focused on getting it right.  You're not trusting the bike or the path.  Keep your eyes ahead and trust that you'll get where you need to go.  Breathe all the way there.

"Breathe all the way there."  Funny, how Zen that sounds to me. But it probably could have come from her rabbi--or anyone who understands that it's all a journey, and the bike is the vehicle.  That, as I recall, is also one of the messages of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

(If Abigail Pogrebin's name looks familiar to you, it means one of two things:  You watched Ed Bradlees 60 Minutes segments, for which she was a writer and producer. Or, you read Ms. magazine, of which her mother, Letty was a founder and editor.  I'm guilty on both counts.)

It Ain't "Breaking Away"

If you've seen Breaking Away, you probably remember this scene:



Of course, some things that are funny in a movie aren't so in real life.  Certainly, Bryan Blair isn't laughing.

On the evening 22 February, he was riding his bicycle in Scottsdale, Arizona.  A man entered the roadway and stuck a long metal object into Blair's front spokes, bringing him and his bike to a dead stop.

Unlike our the protagonist of BA, Blair suffered wounds to more than his pride.  He didn't get up and ride the next day.  In fact, he never rode again:  After three weeks in a hospital, he died from his injuries.

The man who ended his ride, and his journey, fled the scene in a car.  The police, who had no idea of whether the attack was random or targeted, enlisted  the public's help.

Daniel James Hinoto

Through surveillance videos, eyewitness accounts and other tips, Scottsdale police investigators tracked down the man they believe to be responsible:  49-year-old Daniel James Hinton.  The other day, they arrested him.

He's been charged with second-degree murder. As we all know, life doesn't always imitate the movies.

When It's Gone In Tucson: You Have A 3 Percent Chance

I feel like somebody broke my leg.

Tucson, Arizona resident Leif Abrell voiced what many of us felt when a bicycle was stolen from us.  He lost his custom-made mountain bike in the wee hours of 28 September.  Like most bike-theft victims, he didn't see that his trusty steed was gone until it was too late:  A noise woke him and he noticed the door to his carport was open.  He checked to see whether anything valuable was missing, but in his groggy state, it didn't occur to him to look in the dining room of his midtown home.  When he did, he saw that his treasured bike was missing.  And he found a much-inferior bike deserted on the side of the street next to his house.

The rest of his story is also all-too-familiar to those of us who've had our wheels whisked away:  He reported his loss to the police.  While he "didn't have high hopes" for recovering his bike, he clung to "some hopes that something would happen," he recounted.  Alas, "nothing really happened," he said.

I learned of Abrell's ordeal from an article on Tucson.com.  According to that same article, 1200 bike thefts have been reported to police in "The Old Pueblo".  Only about three percent of those cases ended in arrests of suspected thieves and, worse, there's really how many stolen bikes are returned to their rightful owners.  As in most cities, the police don't track that.

Perhaps most disheartening of all, 63 percent of this year's bike theft cases were marked as "cleared", meaning they reached some sort of conclusion. Why is that disheartening?  Well, most of those cases were closed because there wasn't enough evidence to continue an investigation.  

Everything I've mentioned confirms something known to most of us who have had bikes stole:  Once it's gone, you'll probably never see it again.

Chris Hawkins, a Tucson police spokesman, echoed a common refrain in explaining why it's so difficult to track stolen bicycles:  In most places, "bicycles don't need to be registered like vehicles."  And, he says, bicycle owners rarely record serial numbers, which can be entered into databases for access by owners of second-hand shops and other establishments where stolen bikes might end up. 

The lack of such records, Hawkins says, is one reason why, even when bikes are retrieved by cops and find their way to the evidence room, they are seldom re-united with their owners.  

While Hawkins makes good points, the cynic in me (I am a New Yorker, after all) wonders whether some police departments would actively pursue bike a bike theft even if they had serial numbers and other records.  While some officers, like some people in other professions and jobs, simply don't care, others are simply overwhelmed by competing priorities and directives. 

Sometimes I think one has the best hope of getting a stolen bike back if a shop owner or mechanic recognizes it--or if its owner encounters it on the street.

You Can Do That On A Bike

 As I pedaled across the bridge from New Brunswick to Highland Park, New Jersey, a police cruiser pulled up alongside me.

That should have been easy to do because no one else was crossing the bridge at that hour.  But I noticed that the cruiser approached me in an almost hesitant way. 

The officer in the non-driver rasped, “Stop.”  I complied.  He opened his door.

“You know, you were weaving all over the road.  I know there’s no traffic, but still...

I looked at him sheepishly.  “Where are you going’?”

He realized I was only a couple blocks from the apartment I shared.  “OK.  Be careful.  And next time, get a ride home.”

I don’t know whether he smelled the hooch or simply knew, from looking at me, that I could just barely see—let alone ride—straight.  (Had I understood then what I understand now, I would have realized that I can’t do anything straight!;-)

I was about 20 and since then, much fluid has passed under that bridge. It was one thing to ride home drunk from a party because of youthful folly combined with a lack of planning. So I have to wonder about the wisdom of a

bike ride with stops for alcohol consumption.

Apparently, some folks in Scottsdale, Arizona think it would be fun.  They’ve planned a  bicycle pub crawl  for Leap Year Day (29 February).

I wonder:  How does one crawl on a bicycle?  And how far do they ride between each pub? 

So You Didn't Marry The Girl Or Guy Next Door? Thank Your Bike!

If the love of your life is of a different race, ethnicity, national origin from your own, you have the bicycle to thank.  I might say the same if your significant other is the same gender as you, or identifies in a way you never heard of until you left home.

That's more or less what University of Arizona historian David Ortiz says.  As I've mentioned in several posts, no less than Susan B. Anthony said that the bicycle did more than anything to emancipate women.  Cycling would change the clothing women wore, allowing more freedom of movement.  The bicycle also allowed women to travel unchaperoned by males for the first time.

And, says Ortiz, it also allowed men to travel greater distances.  At the time the "safety" bicycle was introduced, most people never got further than about 50 kilometers from where they were born or raised.  For a young man, then, "the girl next door" wasn't a Hollywood stereotype (well, ok, Hollywood didn't exist then): If she wasn't the one he married, she didn't come from much further afield.

Now, I don't think there's anything wrong with marrying the girl (or guy) next door, if that is what you want.  I just think it's nice to know that it's not the only choice.  And, of course, having two parents of very different backgrounds can be a great thing for their kids:  What could give them a better education?

As a transgender woman, I can't help but to think that such heterogeneity, along with women's liberation, helped to bring about, however slowly, greater acceptance of LGBTQ people. It's no coincidence, really, that the first and most vibrant queer communities have been found in cosmopolitan neighborhoods and cities.

So, if I ever find myself hooking up with an Afro-Japanese Brazilian bisexual whose pronoun is "they", I know the bicycle is responsible!  

Seriously, though:  From what David Ortiz says, the bicycle made us freer.  Certainly, I feel freer when I ride!