What Michael Carries In His Back-Pak

In one of my earliest posts, I recalled the messenger bag I carried before messenger bags became fashion accessories for hipsters.  I used it as I sluiced through the streets of Manhattan (and, occasionally, beyond) on my bike to deliver things legal and otherwise.  In that bag, I carried everything from prints (from a Soho gallery to Judy Collins. Yes, that Judy Collins!) to papers (for contracts to, and possibly on) as well as, believe it or not, pizza.  It also bore the weight of secrets I was trying to keep and issues I was avoiding by working a job where I never had contact with anyone for more than a couple of minutes at a time.

Some messengers still use bags like the one I had, except that they're made from different materials than the canvas that formed my workday luggage.  Since then, I've seen bicycle delivery folks use everything from "pizza racks" on the front, to panniers on the rear, of their bikes.  Some also use baskets of one kind and another.

Lately, I've seen another conveyance that looks the kind of insulated rectangular bags that are sometimes attached to "pizza racks,"  with backpack straps attached.  I imagine that they are handy for making deliveries, but I don't imagine that I'd want to use one to  carry loads for any significant amount of time:  The boxy shape doesn't look like it would be very comfortable on my back.

They are used, however, for a good reason:  It allows bicycle (and, increasingly, e-bike and motorized-bike) riders to make more deliveries in one trip than other kinds of bags or baskets would.  That would be especially important, I think, if those who receive the deliveries haven't had much, or anything, to eat in a couple of days--or if you wouldn't find them by knocking on a door or ringing a bell.

Michael Pak uses such a backbox. (Is that a good portmanteau of "backpack" and "box"?) So do some of his fellow delivery people in Los Angeles' Koreatown.  But they're not delivering kimchi to young software developers or hipsters.  Rather, the grateful recipients of their deliveries live on the neighborhood's streets.

One Monday in August, Pak put out an Instagram post asking for volunteers to help him deliver lunch kits on Friday.  "I picked up groceries on Thursday and packed them in my studio apartment while watching a movie," he recalls.  "Within an hour, I'd packed 80 lunches and called it a night."  He went to bed that night with no idea of who, if anyone, would show up the next day.

To his surprise, about 15 people came out to help him distribute the meals.  He realized, though, that his meal distribution could not be a one-time effort. "I realized that for this to work and grow, I had to be consistent and not be afraid to ask for help," he says.

Now, with the help of his friend Jacob Halpern and local volunteers, "Bicycle Meals" is making deliveries in Koreatown, to those without homes, on Mondays and Fridays.  The meals they deliver include a sandwich, fruit, water, snacks, hand sanitizer and a mask.  "The long term goal is to feed our neighbors every day," Pak declares.

To make his deliveries, he rides a BMX bike "gifted from a friend."  The "backbox," is, however, key.  "It can store up to 15 lunch kits at once," he explains.  "It's one of those Postmates delivery bags I found on Amazon."  

I carried a lot in my old messenger bag.  But I don't think I delivered anything as important as what Michael Pak delivers in his Backbox.

(Hmm.. Should we call it a Michaelpak?)

Photos by Wray Sinclair.

No Saddle, But Plenty Of Seats

It's one thing to be forced off my bike.  It's another to be forced into this:

I know, I could have hailed a cab or Uber, or called a friend for a ride. But it seemed simpler to take the train, especially since it took me almost to the entrance of where I needed to be.

It had been at least eight months since I'd been on the subway.  I know that because I hadn't been on a train, or a bus, since at least a month before everything shut down and I started working from home.  Now that I think of it, I think my last subway trip, before yesterday, was in January, when I picked up a pair of wheels.  I've carried wheels on my bike before, but it's easier to take a train or bus.

I never imagined that while living in New York, I'd go for so long without using mass transit.  But we had a mild, dry winter before the pandemic struck, so I managed to ride to work every day.

It was almost surreal to be on the N train at the tail end of the morning rush hour and see empty seats everywhere.  And the MTA isn't even restricting the number of riders who can enter or blocking off seats:  There are just fewer people riding.

Still, I'd rather be on my bike.  I hope the more-optimistic prediction I got from the orthopedic doctor comes true!

It Wasn't Hiroshima, But....

Seventy-five years ago today, American soldiers dropped the world's first nuclear bomb on Hiroshima, Japan.

I will not try to debate whether the bombing, or the one in Nagaski three days later, was necessary or ethical.  The effect of those blasts was, I believe, best summed up two millenia earlier in a Calgacus speech, as recalled by Tacitus:  Ubi solitudenum facient, pacem appelant (They make a wasteland and call it peace.)

I have seen the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks, and of various natural disaster.  I cannot, however, pretend to have ever seen devastation resembling anything wrought by those weapons. 

Even what I saw yesterday pales in comparison.

On the day after a not-quite-hurricane struck this area, I went for a ride in the direction of Connecticut.  Along the Pelham Bay Park trail, I had to detour around downed limbs and other parts of trees.  Still, my ride was going relatively smoothly until I crossed into Westchester County:

Less than a mile north of the city/county line, this tree toppled onto Mount Tom Road in Pelham.  So I backed up a bit and took a right, figuring that the road would take me, if in a more roundabout way, the direction of my ride.

Didn't get very far.

On that road, a couple of guys were sitting in their car.  "Be careful out there," the driver yelled.  He explained that his friend had just been out cycling and encountered broken power lines as well as downed trees.

At his suggestion, I cut through the golf course into a residential area of Pelham Manor.  I knew that I would end up at or near Boston Post Road, a.k.a. US 1, where I could re-orient myself.  At worst, I figured, I could ride US 1 for a bit, as it has a decent shoulder--and, I thought, was less likely to contain obstacles and hazards like the ones I'd encountered and been warned about:

So much for that idea, right?  I turned down another road blocked by a tree.  For a moment, I thought perhaps the storm was some cosmic conspiracy that threw down those trees as a "wall" to keep riff-raff like me out of the upper reaches of Westchester County and Connecticut.

Of course, that thought was no more rational than any comparison between what I was seeing and what the survivors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki carried with them. 

Bicycle Street Leads To Disappointment

By now, you've heard umpteen stories about how the COVID-19 pandemic has spawned a new "bike boom":  New cyclists are pedaling up and down streets and lanes; bikes and parts are flying off showroom floors and shelves.  Meanwhile, some cities and other jurisdictions are making plans for new bike lanes and other forms of infrastructure.

While all of these developments are signs that a bike culture might be developing here in the US (at least in some areas), you know that a city already has a bike culture when merely creating new bike paths or other provisions for cyclists is not, in itself, a cause for joy.  In such a place, at least a few people know enough when a new policy or facility could be better--especially when good ones cost the same (or not much more than ) bad ones.

Berlin, Germany seems to be such a place.  Immanuel Marcus, in an article for the Berlin Spectator, says that a new "bicycle street" in the city's Kreuzberg district "disapppoints."  One problem, he says, is that the "Kortestrasse" sign was not fixed but was on a metal post that could easily be carried away.  The other "Bicycle Street" signs between the Sudstern subway station and Mariannenplatz share this defect.  To Marcus, this is an indication--to at least some people--that the bike lane designation is "provisional".

Worse, he says, some motorists don't know or don't want to know what the signs mean.  The only cars allowed on the "Bicycle Street" are those of local residents.  Apparently, there isn't a sign to indicate as much at any entry point to the Bicycle Street.  So, he says, cars "with number plates from places other than Berlin" enter the thoroughfare.  While they is a big sign painted on the street itself, those motorists may not see it--or understand it--until they have already entered. 

(From what Marcus says, it seems that people in other parts of Germany are unaware of the designated bike streets, or even the concept of them, because such things don't exist in their communities.)

Now, I haven't been on the Bicycle Street, so I can't comment on its usefulness or whether it's well-conceived in other ways.  But the fact that someone like Immanuel Marcus can so critique it in a publication that isn't bicycle-specific tells me at least something about the difference between bicycle culture in Berlin and almost anyplace in America.

Even Arnold Wasn't This Strong

If you were young, had cash to burn and wanted to believe you were tougher than you actually were, you drove a Hummer.

Styled after a military vehicle, the first Hummer rolled off the assembly line in 1992.  Fittingly, Arnold Schwarznegger bought it:  He was the one who lobbied American Motors Corporation, who'd been making Hummers (then known as Humvees) for the US Armed Forces, to offer them to civilians.  

The pseudo-tank was a cash cow for AMC and, later, for General Motors, who bought the brand in 1998.  It also helped to enrich the coffers of petroleum companies (and a few despots) because one gallon of gasoline would propel it for only ten miles.

Of course, those are the reasons why the brand tanked (pardon the pun) when the world's economy crashed and oil prices spiked.  A couple of years ago, while on a ride, I saw the first Hummer I'd seen in years.  Even in its bright yellow finish, it looked like a dinosaur to me.

Where are the Hummers now?  Are they in junkyards and other landfills with other motor vehicles?

Wherever they are, bicycles from that same period are still rolling along. 

This rider is even stronger than I ever was.  I mean, I've carried all sorts of things on my bike, but not a car(cass).

On Diet Floats And Hauling Trees

I used to know...all right, I dated...well, umm I...

Well, whatever my relationship to this person (I'll leave it up to your imagination), I remember her mainly for the way she kept her shape.  Or, more precisely,  she claimed that a dietary practice (along with consensual aerobic activity) maintained her fine form. 

So, what was her culinary custom?  Well, she drank Coke floats.  With supper.  With lunch.  Sometimes with breakfast.  And almost every time in between.

Now, you might be wondering how she kept her fine form with a regimen like that--especially when you consider that she made them with Haagen-Dazs, the richest, fattiest and most calorie-laden ice cream available at that time.   Her secret, she claimed, was that she used Tab--the "diet" version of Coke before there was Diet Coke.

She said that she was "making up" for all of the calories in the ice cream plopping scoops of it into a drink that had no nutritional value--not even empty calories--whatsoever.

To be fair, I should also point out that she really didn't eat a lot of sweets.  Perhaps she could have maintained her sinuous silhouette even if she'd made her floats from regular Coke.  At least she didn't follow another practice of "dieters" at that time:  ingesting "salads" made from pieces of canned fruit encased in Jell-O, sometimes topped with Kool-Whip or Reddi-Whip.  I am not a religious person, but I think a good working definition of "sin" is taking a natural food, stripping it of its nutritional value and fresh taste, and encasing it in something that looks and tastes like half-cooled plastic in much the same way animals were stripped of whatever made them alive when they were encased in amber.

I must say that I at least had respect for that old, er, acquaintance of mine for not letting one of those abominations pass through her lips.  In comparison, her "diet" floats were at least more palatable.  And the logic behind them made more sense, even if they didn't make sense in an absolute sense. (What did I just say?)

So why am I talking about a beverage (or dessert, depending on your point of view) preference of someone I haven't seen or talked to in decades?

Well, some of you, I am sure, are more diet-conscious than I am. (Actually, most of you probably are.) But, more to the point, something I saw today reminded me of the "logic" behind her "diet" float.

Here it is:

The photo accompanied an article on Canadian Cycling's website.  Said article opens with this:

Transporting a Christmas tree isn't the most straightforward endeavour.  With a car, it often involves ropes, bungee cords and a lot of pine needles to clean up.  Then, when you start moving, the fear that it may fall off the roof.  While there's still some creativity and preparation required to transport a conifer by bike, there's no doubt it's more fun and fulfilling.

Now, I don't doubt that "creativity" and "preparation" are needed to haul a Christmas tree on your bike. I've carried pieces of furniture while riding, so I understand.  I also wouldn't disagree that it's more "fun" and "fulfilling".  Even if I win a Nobel Prize for my writing (or anything), I don't think it would give me the same satisfaction as knowing that I once moved myself and everything I owned from one apartment to another, in another part of town, by bicycle.  

People have all sorts of reasons for doing things by bike, without a car.  For some, poverty is one. But others do it by choice--whether for exercise, or to save money or do something that's socially and environmentally responsible.  Actually, I think that most people who cycle by choice to work or school, or on errands, count environmental and social consciousness as one of their most important reasons for doing so.  

That said, I can think of few things less conscious, and simply more wasteful, than chopping down a tree that will be tossed away in a few weeks.  That is, of course, the fate of most Christmas trees.  Even if, at the end of the holiday season, the tree is cut or shredded for other uses, I have to wonder whether there wasn't a way the tree could have been more beneficial to the planet.  

Hmm...I wonder whether those folks who bring home their Christmas trees on their bikes are also drinking Coke floats made with diet soda--or fat-free ice cream.

His Travels With Mona

Many years ago, I read John Steinbeck's Travels With Charley.

In the book, he and his traveling companion set out on a trek that took them through 40 of the 50 US states.  He took this trip, he said, because he felt he'd lost touch with America.  If anything, he might have been trying to recapture his youth:  He was nearing 60, and his physical and mental health were failing him.  I suspect he might've been suffering from "writer's block."

So, he outfitted a three-quarter-ton pickup track as a camper and set out from his Sag Harbor, NY home.  And he allegedly recorded--and replicated in the book--a number of conversations with "ordinary" Americans.

Even at such a tender age, I had my suspicions about his account.  Some things just didn't seem quite right; later on, when I'd read more of his fiction, I felt as if some of those conversations sounded like the dialogue in his stories.  And I had to wonder whether he was alone--save for Charley--and roughing it as much as his book made it seem he was.

Still, I enjoyed it:  after all, Steinbeck could tell--or, more precisely, reveal--a story.  In fact, Travels With Charley might have been the first book that showed me how the truth of the story is more compelling than the mere chronological or spatial correctness of its facts.  Even if he wasn't in Alice, North Dakota at the exact moment he related in the book, what he was learning while traveling the windswept plains is interesting and, at times, compelling.

I'm mentioning Travels With Charley because of the traveling companion in Steinbeck's title:  his French poodle.  I must say that I like French poodles as much as anyone else, but I'm not sure that it would be the breed I'd choose to accompany me on a trip.

Perhaps I'd choose a hound--at least for a bike trip, as hounds generally like to be outdoors.  Now, I'm sure Paul Stankiewicz didn't choose his "Charley"--whose name is Mona--specifically for his trip across the USA.  But the pooch--an 8-year-old mixture of English fox hound and Egyptian Pharaoh hound--accompanied him on a drive from their New Hampshire home to California and, more important (for this blog, anyway), on an 8000 kilometer (5000 mile) bike ride back to the Granite State.

They arrived two weeks ago--he, 10 pounds lighter than he started and she having survived being struck by a car.  Fortunately, she suffered nothing more than a few scrapes and a stiff neck.  Perhaps not surprisingly, she and Stankiewicz developed a bond after spending four months on the road together.

He undertook this journey on a Trek 520 he bought used and "fixed up for touring" with lower gears and new brakes.  I'm sure he needed both in towing a trailer that carried Mona, as well as supplies for him and her.

Mona, recovering from her injuries

Now that he's home, he's looking for a job.  At least, the news reports and blog he kept of his journey can vouch for what he did during that four-month employment gap in his resume.    

And, on returning home there have been adjustments.  For example, he says that on such a trip, "You kind of lose track of time, like it's a Sunday afternoon."  That's a pretty fair description of how it feels in the middle of a multiday (or multiweek) trip.  That might be the reason why, he now feels like he's "going so fast" when he's driving his car at 30 or 40 miles per hour.

Arielle And Amber

You know a winter day in New York is mild if it doesn't seem cold after you've just spent a week in Florida.

Today was such a day.  Actually, I experienced a day or two in the Sunshine State that were even a bit chillier than today.  For me, it was perfectly fine for riding.

And it was for Bill, too.  What inspired us, aside from the sheer joy of being on our bikes, was the light of this day:

It wasn't only the clarity of the sky that so inspired us.  Rather, it seemed that on every street, in every field, sunlight became the bricks, reeds and even the trees--all of them amber momentos of days, of seasons.

One way you know you're in a park in New York is if you see a rodent and you know it's not a rat or a squirrel.  As we carried and pushed our bikes on a trail I'd ridden before, but was today submerged in mud and dotted with slates laid down as stepping stones, we saw rustles in the reeds.  I never realized muskrats were so quick!

So...How did we know they were muskrats?  Well, in that marshy area by Willow Lake--really a dot to the dash that forms an aquatic exclamation point in Flushing Meadow  Park--what other rodent-like creatures would we have seen?  A sign at the entrance to the trail--where we exited--listed muskrats among the "wildlife" in the area.

All of those creatures seemed to enjoy the light as much as we did.  

So did Arielle, my Mercian Audax.

N.B.:  I took the bike photo with my cell phone.  Bill took all of the other photo in this post.

The Power Of A Basket?

About fifteen years ago, I saw someone riding a classic Cinelli track machine (fully chromed!) adorned with one of those flowery plastic baskets you see on little girls' bikes.

Had I seen it a few years earlier, I would have winced.  Or, if the bike was parked and its owner wasn't anywhere in sight, I would have torn the basket off.

Instead, I smiled...knowingly.  I had finally come to the realization that whatever keeps a person riding a bike is good.  That day, I saw nothing in the basket and have no idea of whether that rider--who had maroon hair and high boots--ever carried anything in it.  But if that basket made that bike more fun--let alone made it more useful--for her to ride, it couldn't have been bad.

I also realized that baskets, racks, fenders and other accessories--as well as wider saddles, higher handlebars and stems with longer quills and shorter extensions, might well keep the bike on the road or trail and not gathering dust in a garage--or, worse, rotting in a landfill.

What got to thinking about that chrome Cinelli track bike with the basket was this:

Karl King, a partner in an Arkansas blacksmith shop, built the bike near the end of the 19th Century.  It might've been consigned to the local landfill, if not the dustbin of history, at the dawn of the automotive age had King not built that front basket on the front. 

He wasn't using it to bring home pizzas or six-packs of his favorite craft brew, however.   That basket had a seat belt in it, as its museum display sign notes.  Take a closer look and you will see pegs--footrests--"just below the gooseneck" and in front of the mini-seat on the frame's top tube, as its museum display sign notes.  

King's granddaughters, Kay Stark and Genevieve Jones, rode in those seats. Long after his death, they donated the bike to the Nevada County Depot and Museum, housed in an old railroad station in Prescott, 95 miles southwest of Little Rock.  According to a museum posting, "the old two-wheeler looks as if it carried its last rider long ago and luckily found its way into the museum just before someone consigned it to that last great bicycle resting place, the scrap metal yard."

Hmm...Did the basket have anything to do with it?

The Ban On Motorized Bikes In NYC

It's not often that cyclists and motorists agree on something, at least here in New York.

Then again, lots of other people who are neither motorists nor cyclists agree with us, at least when it comes to one thing.

I am talking about motorized bicycles.  Like many other New Yorkers, I have had a close encounters with them--including a time when a rider grazed my elbow when I was walking on a sidewalk around the corner from my apartment.

The rider was, like most motorized bikers, making a delivery for a restaurant.  Just after my encounter with him, he parked the bike.  I tried to talk to him, but we didn't speak any of the same languages.  So I went to the owner of the restaurant, who promised to talk to the guy and the rest of his delivery crew.

That the driver parked so soon after the near-miss, and that I therefore knew for whom he was working, made me more fortunate than others who've had similar encounters with motorized bikes.  So is the fact that I sometimes patronize the restaurant and the owner recognized me.  And, of course, the fact that I wasn't hurt.

Others, though, haven't been so lucky.  And I nearly crashed on my bike once when a motorized biker made a sudden turn in front of me.

More than a few stories like mine, and worse, have no doubt reached the Mayor's office during the past few years.  Perhaps as a response,  Bill de Blasio  recently announced a crackdown on motorized bikes.  When police officers have stopped motorized biker, in some cases, the biker has received a ticket.  Henceforth, said the Mayor, the city will fine owners of restaurants whose delivery workers use the bikes.

Now, I'm not a lawyer, but I have to wonder how that mandate is carried out.  You see, while it's illegal to operate such bikes in the five boroughs of New York--get this--it's not illegal to own one.  I would guess that some delivery workers own their wheels, but the vast majority of bikes are owned by the owners of the restaurants and other businesses who employ the delivery workers.  So, I have to wonder what will be the charge(s) against the business owners who are fined.

Does that mean the burden of penalties will fall to the riders, most of whom are eking out a living?  

Also, it's been pointed out that some delivery workers, mainly the older ones, can't pedal through an entire shift because of injuries or other debilitating conditions.  De Blasio expressed hope that such workers "could find some other kind of work with that restaurant or business."  There are two problems with that:  1.) Most of the restaurants and businesses are small and have few, if any, other jobs, and 2.) Most of the delivery workers are immigrants, many of whom don't speak English, lack other skills or don't have the documentation necessary to get other employment.

That said, I certainly think motorized bikes should not be allowed on sidewalks and bike lanes.  Ideally, I'd like to see them barred from the streets, too, but implementing such a ban might prove more difficult than the Mayor realizes.

R.I.P. Max

I've just lost a friend.

You've seen him on these pages.  He's one of the most loving and friendly beings I've ever known. 

Sometimes he would climb on me while I was sleeping.  I didn't mind: When I woke to him, I felt the sun rising.  He looked like a sunrise.

I am talking about Max, the orange cat who's lived with me for ten and a half years.

He came into my life on 9 April 2007.  My friend Millie rescued him from a street near us.  She told me that when she saw him, she walked right up to him.  He did the same for me the first time I saw him.

What that meant, of course, was that he is anything but a feral  cat.  "He must have had a home before," Millie observed.  When I saw him, I couldn't not give him one.

The vet said he was between five and seven years old when I brought him home.  So, that means he lived about sixteen or seventeen years--a pretty good lifespan for a cat.

Even if he'd been in my life for only a day, he could have given me a lifetime of happiness:  That is what he carried with him, and couldn't help but to give.  He greeted everyone who came to my apartment--including Marlee, the day I brought her home--like an old friend and playmate.

He died late Sunday night, after I'd come back from a nice ride, had a sumptuous dinner and talked to my mother.  I wrote yesterday's post about the ride I took Sunday, the day before, because it was just too difficult to talk about Max.

He won't be waiting for me at the end of my next ride.  Not physically, anyway.  I believe, though, that I'll see him at the end of many rides for a long time to come.

Note:  In a sad irony, I lost another cat--the first one I had who was named Charlie--on 16 October in 2005.

Does Nobike Fit All?

So why do you have six bikes?

If you have more than one bike, you have heard some variant of this question--from a spouse, lover, other family member, co-worker or friend who doesn't share your enthusiasm for cycling.  That person might see that one of your bikes has drop bars and the other has uprights or flats.  Or he or she might notice that one bike has fatter or skinnier tires, or has only one gear or multiple gears.  On the other hand, that person might see only that your bikes are different colors or have different names on them.

The reason nearly all of us give--if we actually ride the bikes we own (I do) is that they have different ride characteristics.  One bike might be better for long distances, another for speed and yet another for "rough stuff".  One of our steeds might carry our groceries, books r even furniture, while another can and should be ridden only in its most stripped-down form.

Now, if you've gotten this far in answering your incredulous friend or lover, he or she might ask whether there's one bike that can "do it all".  Some bikes are billed, by their makers or marketers, as Swiss Army knives on wheels, if you will.  Swiss Army knives are great (I have a couple.) and they can perform a number of different tasks in a pinch.  But, for most of those tasks, if you had to do them every day, you probably wouldn't want to rely on your Swiss Army knife.

Still, it seems that there's always someone trying to create a bike that can give a satisfying ride in all conditions.  Likewise, it seems that there's always someone or another who's trying to design a bike that will fit everyone.  Nearly every folding bike I've ever seen is touted as a machine that will fit everyone from about 150 to 215 cm (a little less than five feet to a little more than seven feet) tall.

When you've been riding for as long as I've been riding, you become skeptical about either endeavor.  So, it might seem doubly dubious when you hear that someone has designed a bike that not only can be adjusted to a wide range of sizes, but can also be altered to suit different riding styles and conditions.

Well, Dynalab has just designed such a machine. The frame is made from four triangular slabs of aluminum slotted together by three joints with cylinder spacers.

According to the folks at Dynalab, the frame has 80 cm (about 31.5 inches) of vertical adjustability, making it "suitable for men, women adolescents and adults alike".  The aluminum slabs can also be moved horizontally and the angles varied to change the frame's geometry.

The bike actually sounds interesting and I wouldn't mind trying one, if only out of curiosity.  If it works, I could see using it as a travel bike, as it looks as if it could be disassembled rather easily and carried in a relatively small piece of luggage.  And it could be made into whatever kind of bike would suit the conditions you might encounter upon arrival.  

Even if the ride and fit qualities are as good as Dynalab claims, I have to wonder how sturdy those slotted joints are. Just how much assembling, disassembling and moving around could the withstand?  And how much shock and abuse.

Still, even if it is what it's claimed to be, I might have a hard time shelling out my money for something called Nobike.  

How Many Bananas?

Last week, while out for a ride, I stopped at a Halal cart for a falafel.  It got me to thinking about how much the definition of "street food" has changed here in New York.  

In addition to falafel, hummus and those tasty chicken-and rice or lamb-and-rice dishes the Middle Eastern street cooks/vendors offer, it's possible to buy tacos, pizza, curries, waffles, sushi, various kinds of sandwiches, fried chicken, lobster rolls, crepes, salads, meat-on-a-stick and cupcakes as well as familiar fare like ice cream and almost anything based on coffee or tea from various trucks and carts all over the city.

It wasn't so long ago that "street food" in the Big Apple meant "dirty water" hot dogs (with mustard and barbecued onions), knishes and pretzels that were baked dry, then burnt on the hot plates the vendors used to warm them up.

Ruminating about such urban delicacies (as if I don't have better uses for my brain cells!) led me to recall the days when "energy bars" hadn't been invented.  Back then, we carried "trail mix" or other combinations of dried fruits, nuts (and, for some of us, chocolate) as well as other fruits--especially bananas.

In fact, when I was co-editing a club newsletter, we had a five-banana rating system for rides.  The most difficult rides, of course, got five while the easiest rides were marked with only one.

That system would have been entirely useless had someone shown up to ride in this:

From Extreme Mobility

A Nomad And A UFO

Whenever I am in Florida, as I was a few days ago, I see lots of recreational vehicles as well as "campers".  In fact, when I ride along A1A, I pass by at least one RV or camper park.

Although trailers towed behind cars or carried on the backs of trucks are referred to as "campers", and people who use them--or even RVs--say they are "camping", I have a difficult time equating them with the camping I have done.  
There were days when I pedaled until I got lost, or couldn't pedal or see--or just didn't want to ride--anymore and simply unfurled my sleeping bag in a field or stretch of woods, or under a bridge.  There were also times when I pitched a tent or simply strung a piece of canvas or plastic between trees or other immobile objects and slept under it.  Perhaps having had such experiences makes it difficult for me to think that a person watching a wide-screen TV, even if he or she is in the open air, is "camping". 

Still, I can understand why people travel with "campers" or RV's:  They want to travel whenever they want, wherever they want, with as many of the conveniences of home as they can take with them.  That is also one of the reasons why they don't, and probably wouldn't, tour or camp by bicycle:  Even if you have front and rear panniers, a handlebar bag and a seat pack, you can't carry many of the comforts of even the most basic homes.

Perhaps a UFO could get them to travel by bicycle:

UFO stands for Urban Freedom Outlander, and this trailer is the Mark II model.  If there were camper trailers in ET, they might look something like that!

If the space-alien look isn't your thing, perhaps you might consider this:


Would sleeping in either of those trailers fit your definition of "camping"?  Even if it doesn't, at least pedaling either of them constitutes a bona fide outdoor activity--and, I would imagine, a workout!

A Beast Of Burden

For one more day, one more post, I am going to keep up the silly "theme association" I started the other day.

My post on Monday mentioned, in passing, Jean Paul Sartre.  Tuesday's post featured a photo of him on Le Petit Bi, a French folding bicycle developed just as Europe was going to war.  Yesterday, I wrote about another folding bicycle (actually a sort-of folding bike), the Donkey Bike.

So now I'm going to show a bicycle--or its rider, depending on your point of view--serving as a donkey:

From Top At World

Perhaps he is employed by a certain Presidential candidate.  If that's the case, he might not get paid.  Worse, he might need to build a wall around himself if he presses said candidate for what's due, or anything else!

When I was a messenger, I might've built such a wall, or protected myself in some other way, when I went to some of the locales I serviced--especially when I knew what was in some of those packages I carried.  Let's just say that the contents of some of those packets were, um, plant-based and others were chemical.

In other words, although we were employed by a legitimate courier service, my fellow and messengers and I became, at times, offspring of donkeys and horses, if you know what I mean.  I don't think most of us signed on for that.  I know I hadn't.