T Time

 Yesterday’s ride, though short (about 40 km) was interesting. I had previously ridden most of the streets as segments of other rides. Until yesterday, I didn’t realize how close or connected some of them are.  They will, of course, become strands I will weave into new itineraries.

One strange part of the ride began next to the Albert Einstein College of Medicine. (Don’t you feel smarter just reading that?) There begins this street:

A few blocks later, it runs along the Amtrak and Metro North rail lines and becomes this:

So how did Sackett lose one “T”? Did he/she/they not show up for the 4 p.m. ceremony? Or did the railroad’s builders need a “t” to turn a rack of land* into a track?

The street continues along its way beside the railway and, at Hering Avenue in Morris Park, regains its previous identity:

So how did Sackett regain its second “t?” Hmm…The neighborhood, Morris Park, has been an Italian enclave for more than a century. One thing I know about my people is that we drink coffee. (Growing up, I heard, “Tea is for sick people.”) So I imagine it wouldn’t have been difficult to get at least one of us to give up a “t.”

Anyway, I had coffee before the ride. I probably didn’t need it:  The sunshine and brisk breezes woke me up!

*—That, I imagine, is how the two sides of land might look with the trench, but without the tracks, running through them.

On The Right Track In Ghent?

 When I was in high school, I took my first organized charity bike ride. It was in the Spring of 1976: the tide of the 1970s Bike Boom was ebbing and few (at least compared to today) adults rode bikes.  In fact, most had not pedaled since they were kids, if they ever had ridden.

That is what made some of my sponsors hesitant before signing up:  They simply could not imagine anyone riding the distance of that ride: 25 miles.  Little did they know that I had already done rides twice and three times as long and a “century” was not far in my future.

Of course I finished that ride easily and my sponsors paid up. But the reason I am recalling that ride now is because of a near-tragedy. 

The ride crossed railroad tracks. Many riders were inexperienced and almost none wore helmets. (I didn’t!) Someone apparently didn’t realize that cyclists should ride across at a 90 degree angle, preferably while lifting themselves off their seats—or, if the tracks protrude too far off the ground or are wet, simply walk across.

That cyclist’s tire skidded against a rail and when he fell, his head struck the rail. At least that was the story I heard. About a week later, I heard that he’d recovered and was out of the hospital. I wonder, though, whether he suffered any permanent damage that wasn’t detected in those days before CAT scans (as they were called) were widely used.

I got to thinking about that incident, nearly half a century (!) later when I read about how the city of Ghent, Belgium is trying to deal with a similar problem.  Ghent and other European cities have trams—similar to the streetcars that once laced many American cities and “light rail” lines that have recently been built in Jersey City and other places. Those conveyances run on a narrower set of rails that are more likely to be at or near pavement level.  Also, in some places, cyclists and trams share the same spaces.

So while it is easier to traverse them, it is also easier to miss them or simply not to take the necessary precautions. In Ghent, with a population of around 264,000, bike crashes on tram lines send about 500 cyclists to the hospital every year.

The elastic solution would be injected in the area marked by green paint.

The city is testing a possible solution: Lining the cavity in which the track lies with a new elastic compound.  While it won’t sit completely flush with the pavement, there would be enough so that a cyclist could more easily move cross or move out of a tram’s way—and is less likely to get a tire caught between the track and pavement.

From Rough Stuff To Gravel

 When you get to, ahem, a certain age, you become very skeptical when you hear the word “new.”  It seems that every genre of bike introduced and every “innovation” coming down the pike has been done decades, or even centuries, earlier.

I am thinking about all of the new and “revolutionary” bike and component designs and materials that appear on the market every year. Carbon fiber frame’s didn’t appear during the ‘90’s any more than the first aluminum frames were made by Alan during the ‘70’s.  Likewise, “rapid rise” derailleurs and disc brakes appeared on bikes decades before they attained their current popularity.

It could also be argued that “mountain” or “off-road” bikes are derivatives of earlier machines made to be ridden away from pavement. Oh, and the newest and latest trend—gravel bikes—is really six decades old, at least.

As a teenager in 1953, John Finley Scott drew a design for a “cow trailing” bike that reflected his interest in riding dirt, gravel and railroad grades.  At that time, few Americans rode bikes once they got their driver’s licenses.  So he looked to England, where there was a culture of “rough stuff” riding. 

John Finley Scott, with his Jim Guard bike as it came from England 

In 1961, he contacted British framebuilder Jim Guard, who brazed together Reynolds 531 manganese-molybdenum steel tubes with Nervex lugs. That was standard for high-quality, high-performance frames of the time.  So was the geometry:  72 degree head and seat tube angles on a 22 1/2 inch frame.  

Little did Guard or Scott know that configuration would become standard for gravel bikes six decades later.

Of course, the frame was outfitted with components very different from today’s.  Disc brakes for bikes were years away.  So Guard brazed on bosses for the most powerful brakes of the time: the extra-beefy cantilevers made for tandems. They, like the Specialites TA Pro Vis 5 (Cyclotouriste) cranks and chainrings Scott chose, would grace early mountain bikes two decades later.

The brakes were originally configured for 27 inch wheels, typical on quality touring bikes in the Anglophone world. Later, Scott had the brake bosses moved to accommodate the smaller-diameter 650b wheels, which allowed him to use wider tires.

Scott rode his proto-gravel bike on and off trails.  He thought it was the perfect way to explore the wonders of the American West. He continued his adventures until 2006, when he was a 72-year-old retired University of California-Davis professor of sociology. He hired a handyman he befriended to trim the trees around his property. That handyman cut down branches—and Scott’s life.

I would love to imagine a 90-year-old John Finley Scott tearing down a mountain pass with riders young enough to be his great-grandchildren on bikes that they probably don’t even realize he conceived, however unwittingly.

He Didn’t Know He’d Made History

 Today I am invoking, once again, my Howard Cosell Rule:  This post won’t be about bicycles or bicycling.

Almost any someone breaks a barrier—whether it’s based on race, gender, social class or some other trait—that person is referred to as the “Jackie Robinson” of their field. In fact, I had that title bestowed on me when I was the first person to “change” gender in my workplace.

I took that both as a compliment and a warning: I think some were trying to alert me to what I might (and indeed did) face.  On the other hand, I felt honored to be compared to someone I so respect as a human being as well as an athlete.

That respect and admiration is not abstract or idolatory:  I actually met the man when I was very young and—as I could not have known—he was a few years away from the end of his too-brief life.  Years later, I met his widow Rachel, a beautiful and formidable woman.

The man I am about to mention also, when he was very young, met Jackie. At that time, Robinson was in the prime of his baseball career.  And the subject of the rest of this post would embark on his own athletic career, in a league where no one like him played before.

Sixty-six years ago yesterday—18 January 1958–Willie O’Ree’s skate blades glided across the ice in the Montréal Forum.  The hometown fans cheered him and the following day, the city’s sportswriters—lauded his fast, smooth skating.

That Montréal scribes could pay homage to the abilities of á forward who didn’t skate for the hometown Canadiens (Les Habitants) wasn’t unusual, Their praise, however, was particularly interesting given that O’Ree wore the sweater (they’re not called jerseys in hockey) of the Boston Bruins, whose rivalry with the Canadiens is as intense as the enmity between the Red Sox and Yankees.

Oh, and he just happened to be the first Black player in the history of the National Hockey League. That night, Willie was trying to prove himself and win a permanent roster spot in the sport’s top league.  “I did not realize I had made history,” he recalled.

Somehow it seems fitting that he is a descendent of slaves who escaped from the United States into Canada via the Underground Railroad. His family was one of two in Fredericton, the capital of the Canadian province of New Brunswick. Like many of his peers, he grew up as a fan of the Canadiens.

His NHL career was brief, but he played professional hockey—and won scoring titles—well into his 40s. I can’t help but to think that as supportive as his teammates and the league’s fans—in Boston, Montréal and Toronto, anyway—were, racism, conscious or not, on the part of management hindered his development. After all, he had enough natural ability for Montréal sportswriters and fans to notice. But he needed to stay in the NHL longer than he did—parts of two seasons—to refine his skills in the way only nightly competition with and against the best players in the world could have. That is what Jackie Robinson was able to do during his decade with the Dodgers.

Off The Rails

 When I had a mountain bike with suspension, I thought I could ride over anything.

That included railroad tracks. I assumed they were abandoned…until I heard a low rumble, clackety-clack and blaring horn.

It’s a good thing my reflexes were great. (I was younger!)

Even with suspension, riding those tracks was rough. Perhaps this is what I needed:

Sending Us Across The Bridge

Until recently, almost no transportation planning in the US included bicycles.  In a way, it's understandable:  For decades, few adults rode bikes for any reason, let alone to commute.  But in many parts of the country, people of all ages, from officers in organizations to students and retail workers, are cycling to their workplaces or classrooms.  Some cities and states have tried, often misguidedly, to "accommodate" cyclists.  Some of their efforts have been, arguably, worse than ignoring us altogether.

One such effort has been a proposal to allow cyclists to cross the Potomac River between Maryland and Virginia on the recently-opened Governor Harry W. Nice/Senator Thomas "Mac" Middleton Bridge. 

Even at my age-which is still, ahem, midlife because, well, I say it is!-- I probably could cross the bridge faster than I could say its name. But that, I suspect, is not the reason why folks like Jed Weeks are using words like "ludicrous," "unconscionable" and "malpractice" in reference to the proposition. 

Weeks is the interim executive director and policy director of Bikemore.  His organization focuses on the Baltimore area,  about 90 miles north of the bridge.  Washington, DC is about midway between them. and From the nation's capital and Chesapeake Bay, where the Potomac empties--a distance of about 100 miles--there is no other Potomac crossing.

The new bridge with a name even longer than its span replaced an old bridge called (relatively) simply the Governor Harry Nice Memorial Bridge. David Brickley, who owns the Dahlgren Railroad Heritage trail, led an unsuccessful fight to preserve that span for pedestrians and cyclists.  He argued that it would have been "good for tourism" with its views and its potential for linking bike lanes and pedestrian paths on both sides of the river, allowing for longer trips.

Aerial view of the new Governor Harry W. Nice Memorial/Senator Thomas "Mac" Middleton Bridge.  Image from the Maryland Transportation Authority

When construction began on the new bridge, Larry Hogan was Maryland's governor.  He and his transportation planners did not make any provisions for bike or pedestrian lanes.  So how does the Maryland Transportation Authority want to "accommodate" cyclists?

Get ready for this: The agency's newest proposal calls for allowing cyclists to use the rightmost traffic lane in either direction.  Upon entering the bridge, cyclists would push a button that would trigger flashing lights, alerting motorists to the presence of a cyclist.  The lights would continue to blink their warning for 10 to 15 minutes to allow the cyclist to cross--while sharing that 12-foot-wide traffic lane with cars, SUVs, trucks and other vehicles crossing the span.

No, I didn't make that up. (If only I could!)  Oh, but it gets even better or worse, depending on whether you're seeing this as a story or transportation issue. The bridge connects the Maryland and Virginia sections of US Highway 301, which is a spur of US 1. So, said motor vehicles are traveling at 50 MPH.  At least, that's the speed limit.

If someone was plotting a way to kill cyclists, that person could hardly have done better.  That's not my emotions talking.  "I wonder if (Maryland Transportation Secretary Paul) Weidfeld would feel this is a good, safe option for bicyclists to go from Virginia to Maryland and Maryland to Virginia," mused Brickley.  "I wonder whether he would feel safe bicycling over that bridge."

Weeks felt even though the issue is "sort of out of our jurisdiction" it was comment because the plan is "such a dangerous idea." He summed up his verdict thusly:  "Anyone affiliated with a decision like that has no business designing bike or pedestrian infrastructure and should be banned from the practice."

Actually, from what I've seen and experienced, I could apply Weeks' brilliant summation to the vast majority of transportation planners who design bicycle infrastructure in the US.  Sometimes I think they see us as a "problem," much as grandstanding politicians in places like Florida, Montana and Georgia portray transgender people, and their  way to deal with us is to eliminate us or, if you like, send us across the bridge.

You Don't Have To Ride To The End Of This Tunnel To See The Light.

 As a cyclist, I have an interesting relationship with tunnels. (A Freudian would have a field day with that statement!)  I've ridden, probably, my share and some long underpasses that could just as well have been tunnels.  (I think of one in particular that dips as it goes under the Long Island Railroad trestle at 130th Street in Queens.)  I can't say I seek out those long, enclosed passages, but when I enter them, I experience a mild adrenaline rush: Even if I know what's on either end of it, I like to imagine that I'm going to emerge in a different world from the one where I entered.

That said, one of the most gratifying experiences I've had as a cyclist took me through a tunnel. I detoured from one Alpine road--closed, probably, by an avalanche--to another, only to come to a tunnel in which an electrical outage extinguished the lights.    

A driver in a Citroen waved to me.  He told me to ride ahead of him, in the wake of his headlights, and the drivers behind him would follow.  And they did!

I thought of that day when I came across this news item:  A three-kilometer (1.8 mile) tunnel through the base of  Lovstakken mountain Bergen, Norway has just opened in Bergen, Norway.

While that, in itself, may not seem so unusual--after all, the Norwegians, French, Italians, Japanese and other people who live in or by mountains have been building them for centuries---the purpose of the tunnel makes it a record-breaker.  

Photo by Ronny Turoy

The Norwegian under-pasage is the longest such structure built specifically for cyclists and pedestrians.  There are separate lanes for each, and motorized vehicles are verboten. (OK, I know that's a German word.  I don't know Norwegian!)

Perhaps the most unique and gratifying part of the tunnel, though, is that its designers seemed to do everything they could to make it seem less like a tunnel.  The walls are lined with art and other visual delights, and the cave is illuminated with different colors of light in different parts of the tunnel, which helps to give people who pedal, walk and run an idea of how far they've progressed through it.  And, in the middle of the tunnel there's a "sundial" in a place where the sun will never shine.  It's intended, in part, to further break up the monotony of the tunnel, which is completely straight (which is something I never could claim) except for slight bends at the entrance and exit. 

Little Town, Little Criminals

Ask newspaper writers what annoys or frustrates them most, and the answers will include headlines.  My newspaper articles certainly weren't masterpieces of literature, but it drove me crazy when it was led off with something illiterate, clumsy or simply inaccurate.

So I felt for Nicole Rosenthal, a staff writer for Patch.  Her otherwise-good article began with a title that, while it caught my eye--for a reason I'll mention in a moment--it set a very different tone than, I believe, Ms. Rosenthal intended.

"Aberdeen, Matawan Kids Are Violating Bicycle Laws, Police Say." Matawan is a village in the northern Monmouth County, New Jersey township of Aberdeen.  Until 1977, the whole township was known as Matawan.  Just one township--which, like Matawan, includes a few villages--stands between Aberdeen and Middletown Township, where I spent my high-school years and first became a dedicated cyclist.  In fact, some of my early two-wheel treks outside Middletown took me through Matawan and Aberdeen.

(Snark alert) Li'l Lawbreakers!  (Photo by Rachel Sokol)

Then, as now, the township's and village's streets, aside from Routes 34, 35 and 79, are lined with neat homes of people who commute to New York (the railroad station is one of the busiest in New Jersey) and their kids who are like suburban kids in other places--which is to say that if you take away their electronic devices, they're probably not so different from the kids I knew in Middletown.

According to the article, police have received "numerous" complaints about children "disregarding" the state's bicycle safety laws.  Well, since most young people don't think very much about the laws are--if, indeed, they even have a vague idea of what they are--I don't think they "disregard" them.  Perhaps "violate" is a better word:  After all, people violate all sorts of laws and rules they don't realize they're violating.   

So what sorts of laws do the youngsters of Matawan-Aberdeen violate? Well, from what the article says, some weren't wearing helmets, which the Garden State requires for riders under 17 years of age. (No such law existed when I was that age; in fact, people would look at you askance if you wore a helmet.)  But the majority of complaints were about kids riding in the "middle" of roadways.

Indeed, the law in New Jersey, like its counterparts in most jurisdictions of the United States, says that cyclists have to right as far to the right as possible.  (If that's an attempt to influence our politics, it didn't work with me! ;-)) So, I guess some people would define any other part of the road as "the middle."  If that's the case, were the kids endangering themselves or holding up traffic--or popping wheelies, as kids have been doing for about as long as they've been riding bicycles?  

(If they were riding in the "middle" of the road on Routes 34, 35 or 79, people wouldn't have been filing complaints; they would have been filling out hospital forms or making funeral arrangements!)

Anyway, I saw the headline and wondered whether that town where I rode past other kids like the one I was in Middletown--white, suburban and, if they were anything like me, rather docile even if they were capable of being smart-asses--was suddenly turning out menaces to society.

Riding Into Their Sunset

The other day, late in the afternoon, I rode to East Williamsburg for my monkeypox booster.  Something told me to be sure I had my lights with me.  Good thing.  On my way back, I made a couple of wrong turns then took a couple of deliberate detours through industrial areas that straddle Brooklyn and Queens.

At that time of day, factories and warehouses close and the evening exodus begins.  On some streets, I zigged and zagged among 18-wheelers, pickup trucks and hipsters on scooters--the latter on their way to clubs found, sometimes, on the same block as, or around the corner from, the workshops where workers--none on scooters--were leaving.

 My wanderings took me to an industrial area on the Queens side--in North Maspeth, to be exact--that I'm not sure any of the scooter crowd is even aware of.  A railroad track that looks like it hasn't been used in decades (but still marked by a sign warning people not to stop or loiter on it) winds  through it:  the factories and warehouses on one side, the worn, sometimes shabby, tenements and small houses occupied, it seems, by families who have been there longer than the factories and warehouses, on the other.  

Whatever outsiders see in a place is almost never seen by those who have always lived in it.  So I wonder what they might have made of me, an outsider--the fact that I was on a bicycle was almost enough, by itself, to mark me as one--taking photos of their sunset.  Or, more important, whether they see the unique light it casts on the tracks and everything it divides.

What's That Bike Doing On The Railroad Tracks?

 In previous posts, I've written about bicycles that ended up in the canals of Amsterdam, Paris and Brooklyn as well as rivers like the Tiber and even larger bodies of water like Jamaica Bay.

Probably the most common reason why bikes meet the same fate as mob victims in the Gowanus Canal (accordig to legend, anyway) is theft:  The perps don't know what else to do with the bike once they've used it for a getaway or joyride or realize that someone will recognize it, especially if it's from a municipal bike-share program.  Old bikes also get dumped when their owners realize what it cost to fix them, or they don't realize those bikes can't be fixed.  Or, people just want to get rid of them because they're disused and decaying.

Whatever the reasons, none can rationalize tossing a two-wheeler into the turbid or turbulent waters of a canal, creek, river, lake, bay or ocean.  Particularly indefensible is an incident that seems to be part of a pattern developing in Leeds and other parts of the UK.

According to a BBC report, vandalism, tresspass and other kinds of anti-social behavior have been on the rise in and around British railway facilities.  The Cross Gates station in Leeds seems to have been particularly hard-hit by such incidents, which include young people leaving or tossing bicycles in or alongside railroad tracks.

The incident shown in the surveillance video also reflects a particular ritual that seems to have developed around the practice:  One young person abandons  the bike on the platform edge before one of his peers drops it onto the tracks.

That sequence of events suggests, to me,  that it might be some sort of gang ritual:  The first young man might be leaving it for the other to toss in order to prove something or another.  Or, perhaps, the first young man simply didn't want responsibility if the bike-tossing caused injury or damage.

Whatever their motivation, no bike, no matter how inexpensive or ratty, deserves such a fate.

A Chain Of Neglect

Police barricade tapes are bright yellow.  Construction-site cones are orange.  The bollards used to separate bike lanes from the street are finished in similar hues, or white.

Those color choices are not just fashion statements:  They are made for visibility.  It's pretty difficult for most people to claim they didn't see those tapes, cones or bollards.  

On the other hand, you don't have to be color-blind to miss chains--which are almost always dull gray-- drawn across roadways or bike lanes.  This is especially true in low-light conditions, such as night, the beginning or end of day, inclement weather, and under aqueducts, railroad trestles and highway overpasses. 

Such  chains are used to temporarily block off streets or paths for events like street fairs or for construction.  Unfortunately, cities and other jurisdictions that place them often forget to remove them when the event is done or construction work is finished.  Worse, an unsuspecting cyclist or scooter-rider who is paying attention to other road hazards can easily miss them.

The chain that entangled a cyclist--and his bike after the crash. Photo sent by reader of Bike Portland. 

That is what happened to one unfortunate cyclist in Portland, Oregon.  He was riding along North Holladay Street when he passed under the Interstate-5 overpass when he was suddenly entangled in a chain and thrown over his handlebars. He suffered significant injuries to his arm and both wrists.  He also incurred a minor impact to his head that, probably, could have been worse had he not been wearing his helmet.  

The street where he had his mishap, while not as popular for cycling as another nearby street, is nonetheless part of a designated bicycle route. The intersection is adjacent to the Oregon Convention Center. So, according to Bike Portland editor Jonathan Maus, the chain may have been installed to cordon off the street for an event. But, as he points out, that event was long over by the time the unlucky cyclist crashed.

I think that the neglect that led to the cyclist's injuries may have been a result of the auto-centric mentality of city planners.  A chain, debris or some other obstruction--like a sewer grate with wide slats that parallel the curb or divider-- might be mere inconveniences to cars, trucks or buses, but can snag bike tires--or cyclists themselves

I hope that cyclist has a swift and thorough recovery--and, as Maus recommends, city or other government agencies in charge of roadways, bike lanes and other infrastructure pay more attention to seemingly-small details--and basic maintenance.

On The Bridge Too Far

 Bells clang.  Lights flash.  A gate drops.

You have to stop for: a.) a railroad crossing or b.) a drawbridge.

I admit that on more than one occasion, upon hearing the bells, my legs pumped out a momentary burst of speed that would have impressed a Russian sprinter. OK, I'm exaggerating---only slightly! 😉 But I did manage to cross tracks before trains plowed through, or bridges before they opened.

It's been a while since I pulled such stunts.  These days, I envision the fate of a cyclist in this video:

 

He hung onto the North Palm Beach, Florida span as it opened.  According to a news report, the witness who took the video saw the cyclist on the bridge as it began to lift and, believing the cyclist would ride down, started to take the video.

When the witnessed noticed the cyclist was in trouble, he stopped taking the video and "rushed to help him down  off the bridge," according to police.

The bike was damaged but the cyclist suffered only "pain and discomfort" in his left shoulder from holding himself up on the bridge and a slight burn in his right inner bicep from sliding on the railing. 

He declined EMS help at the scene but went to the hospital on his own.  

The bridge tender claims she didn't see anyone crossing the bridge.

No More Passes For Bikes On Trains

 When you get to a certain age, you realize that you have things you’ll never use again.

The one I’m about to mention is small and its obsolescence, about which I have mixed feelings, but won’t pose any inconvenience for me.  As of 7 September, the Long Island Rail Road (The LIRR still spells it as two words!) and Metro- North Railroad will no longer require a pass to bring a bicycle on one of their trains.  The lines, part of the Metropolitan Transit Authority’s suburban New York system, will offer a one-day “grace period” on 22 August (a week from Sunday) before the new policy takes effect.

Metro-North President Christine Rinaldi described the new policy as an “effort to welcome back as many bicyclists as possible.”  I am willing to believe her, as train ridership plummeted early in the pandemic and is now approaching pre-pandemic levels.  Also, suburban enclaves are, like New York City, trying to get people out of their cars.  Making it easier and more convenient for people to combine bicycling with commuting by train would help to achieve this goal.

For a few cyclists, the abolition of the pass, and its $5 cost, might entice them to ride to the train. That fee, however, is a one-time fee:  I still have the same passes I  bought about a dozen years ago—to replace my old passes, which I had for about fifteen years, after I changed my name.

I think the real reason the pass and its fee will be eliminated is that administering it and enforcing its use was too difficult and costly.  More precisely, it wasn’t enforced: I can recall only one instance in which a conductor asked to see my pass. 

Also, all of the other policies regarding bicycles, which are more consistently enforced, will remain in place.  They include a limit of four bicycles per train on weekdays and eight on weekends, except on specially-marked weekend “bicycle trains,” which will allow more.  Also, the LIRR and Metro-North will continue to prohibit bicycles on trains during rush hours, on major holidays and on certain holiday weekends.

What They Brought, What I Took Away

Yesterday I pedaled out to the Brooklyn Army Terminal, better known today as a terminal for the ferries to downtown Manhattan and the Rockaways.

BAT has also been a vaccination site--which is the reason I rode there.  I got my second jab; the first went well, so I figured I wouldn't have any problem riding there or back.

I didn't.  I did, however, enjoy a beautiful early Spring afternoon.  I still find it ironic to be riding a bike for enjoyment in a place where men like my uncles and grandfather did difficult and often dangerous work.

And they weren't going there to look at the Statue of Liberty, the passing boats or the lower Manhattan skyline.  The latter looked very different in those days--which included my early childhood.  The Twin Towers that came tumbling down after the 9.11 attacks had yet to be built.  They may not have even been conceived, any more than the promenade or cafes were--or the notion that the piers would ever be used for anything other than unloading loading and unloading the ships that came and went, and the flatbed railroad cars that connected them to the factories were still other men (and some women) did other kinds of hard and dangerous work.

And to think--getting jabbed with a needle was the most pain I experienced on this waterfront, where so many others endured so much more, and ocean waves lapped against ships with cabins soaked within by their sweat, the blood of some and the tears of others.  

I rode, my wheels seemingly lofted by the sun and wind.

Did She Or Didn't She--Vote?

 Late yesterday, I zigzagged between Brooklyn and Queens on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bike.  I sometimes take rides like that with no particular destination, and turn wherever something looks interesting--or, sometimes, just to take the path of least resistance (less traffic, a better-looking road or just inertia).  Rides like the one I took yesterday inevitably lead me along streets never frequented by hipsters or the bourgeoisie and never visited by tourists.  Those streets are also among the increasingly-small number of byways not enclosed by towers built from beige Lego blocks, black metal bars and windows designed for people to look at, but not see themselves.

One such street--Borden Avenue--parallels the Long Island Railroad tracks in Hunter's Point, about five kilometers from my apartment.  It's still an industrial area, and sometimes interesting graffiti-murals (like the lamentably-gone Five Pointz) can be found.  

While pedaling along Borden, I chanced upon something I would have expected to see on Five Pointz but, surprisingly, graced a billboard.

I have to admit that I felt a bit of shame.  Sojourner Truth, Alice Paul and Ida B. Wells are familiar names to me, but until yesterday, Mabel Ping Hua-Lee wasn't.  All of them fought for human rights, specifically for women and people of racial "minorities."   The sad part is that, among them, only Ms. Paul (who died in 1977) lived long enough to fully benefit from the legislation for which she fought.  

Sojourner Truth was born into slavery and died decades before the 19th Amendment became law.  Ida B. Wells lived to see it, but not the civil rights legislation of the 1960s.  Ms. Ping Hua-Lee apparently (I'll explain) lived long enough to enjoy the right to vote and to be a benificiary of civil rights legislation--but it's not clear as to whether she could, or did, take advantage of those rights.

Ms. Lee was born in China but came to New York as a child when her father, a missionary of the Baotist church, was sent to take over a church in Chinatown.  The neighborhood--now endangered as a result of pandemic--could just as well have had a wall around it.  Back then, it was much smaller.  Some people, especially the women, almost never left their homes because of the hostility they faced and, like Lee's mother, had bound feet that made walking difficult.  And, in contrast to today (or, at least, say, a year ago, before the pandemic), tourists rarely visited, except to gawk.

Moreover, Lee's father was unusual, not only for being a minister, but because he was able to enter the United States at all.  The Chinese Exclusion Act was passed about a decade and a half before he arrived, but a few people like him--diplomats and other educated professionals--were sometimes allowed to emigrate.

Lee quickly took to the educational opportunities available to someone of her intellect and talents.  She attended Erasmus Hall Academy, whose alumni include Beverly Sills and Barbara Streisand and whose most illustrious dropout is Bobby Fischer.  After graduating Erasmus, she would attend Barnard College and become the first Chinese woman to earn a PhD in the United States--in economics, from Columbia University.

What she is best known for is her leadership in the suffragist movements, especially her role in the massive 1912 march.  Energized by these experiences, she wanted to return to China and spark a similar movement.  But those plans were thwarted when her mother fell ill and her father died.  Although she wasn't a minister, she became the director of his church and used her position as a platform to advocate for gender and racial equality.  Interestingly, she believed that Protestant theology could be used to advance causes of social justice, knowing full well that one of the goals of the Chinese Exclusion Act was to help keep a white Protestant majority in the United States.  Of course that, thankfully, failed:  Most of the mass immigrations that came from southern and eastern Europe between 1880 and 1919 wasn't Protestant. (Catholics and Jews, oh my!) 

Little is known about Mabel Ping-Hua Lee's later years.  She is believed to have died in or around 1966.  It's not clear as to whether she ever became a citizen--and, thus, whether she exercised the right to vote for which she fought!

Now, in case you were wondering:  After I got home from my ride and ate some vegetarian nachos I made for supper, I did a Google search on Mabel Ping-Hua Lee.  I often do such things after rides and, in the days before the Internet, I'd go to the library the first chance I got after riding.  You might say that bicycling has caused me to continue my education!

A Path From Work

Two of my uncles and my maternal grandfather worked on the Brooklyn waterfront docks. I don't think they could have envisioned anyone going there for a leisurely late-afternoon walk or bike ride.  They probably would have thought such an undertaking in the dead of winter was sheer insanity:  After spending the day working outside in the cold, they wanted to ensconce themselves in the warmth of their apartments and the suppers my grandmother and aunts cooked.  

For that matter, my grandfather and uncles probably could not understand how physical activity could be a way to "relax" at the end of a day.  To be fair, grandpa's last gift to me was a bicycle--albeit one I wouldn't be able to ride for a couple of years--and my uncles lived long enough to see that I would not give up two wheels and two pedals the moment I was legally old enough for four wheels and one pedal with a motor.

Then again, they might have thought it odd that someone would construct a bike and pedestrian lane along the waterfront where they unloaded ships--or that anyone would make a trip, whether by bike, bus or car, to it--and pay money to shop in the stores or eat and drink in the cafes around it.  

Really, I had to wonder what they would have thought of me, spinning my pedals along a path that zigs and zags around places where drinks are poured and shopping carts are unloaded--in the very places where men like them hoisted crates and even railroad cars from ships.

What might have been the strangest thing of all, to them, about the ride I took late yesterday is that I actually find beauty in those places--such that I would stop to take a photo of two bare trees in a copse of steel and brick at the time of day when they would have left the Red Hook twilight's metallic haze  for the incandescent glade of their kitchen tables.

Fewer Bikes In A Dutch Lane?

A city wants fewer cyclists to use a bike lane.

Yes, you read that right.  Oh, but it gets better:  that city is in what is often seen as one of the world's most bike-friendly nations.

That country is the Netherlands.  The city in question in Utrecht; the bike lane, alongside Vredenburg, is said to be the busiest in the nation.  It was widened a few years ago; even so, it's not enough to meet the demand.  

So many cyclists ride it because Vredenberg path is the main east-west corridor the city center.  As in many older cities, there simply aren't many options available:  Other streets dead-end at rivers, canals, railroad tracks or other natural or artificial barriers.  (This is also true in some older areas of cities like New York and Boston.)  In some places, it isn't possible to build bridges or other ways to navigate those obstacles--and, in some of the more historic and scenic areas of a city like Utrecht, it's too expensive or people understandably don't want to do such a thing.

Also, as the author of the Bicycle Dutch post points out, just as "we all know that more asphalt isn't the answer to too many cars," it's "probably also not the answer to too much cycling."  In other words, old European cities like Utrecht have very limited amounts of space on which to build anything, so adding more pavement would defeat one of the purposes of encouraging people to ride:  reducing congestion. The city is thus looking at other possible solutions, which including the closure of some streets to motor traffic and turning them into bike routes. Another suggestion includes using a former railway bridge as a crossing for cyclists.  

At least it seems that the city is trying to create a comprehensive plan to make movement from place to another safe, convenient and sustainable. Too often, American cities build bike lanes or other transit facilities without a coherent scheme.  That, I think, is why too many bike lanes are poorly constructed and maintained and don't offer useful routes, or even connections to other forms of transportation.  

From The Heights To The Cutoff—And Joe

Sometimes, when I ride through the industrial areas of Queens and Brooklyn, I feel like an archaeologist.

Tuesday afternoon I took Negrosa, my vintage Mercian Olympic, for a spin along some landmarked blocks in central Brooklyn.  I hadn’t planned to ride anywhere in particular; I just found myself spinning my pedals out that way.  

Brooklyn has, probably, the greatest concentration—and some of the best examples—of brownstone houses. Long-since-gentrified (and bleached, if you know what I mean) neighborhoods like Park Slope and Carroll Gardens regularly (during non-pandemic times) witness throngs of architecture students and tourists savoring the details of those buildings.  But some equally-beautiful areas like Stuyvesant Heights are less known because they are “off the beaten path. Stuyvesant Heights is still mainly an African- and Caribbean-American neighborhood.  Hmm...Could that be a reason why tourists (or White New Yorkers, except for those in the know) don’t beat a path to it?

These houses on Decatur Street have details even more intricate than what I saw every day when I was living in “the Slope.” 

I would love to see this neighborhood to keep the characteristics—including some interesting shops and cafes—that make it worth seeing.  But I hope it doesn’t turn into a masoleum, I mean museum or, worse, a Brownstone Theme Park.

Likewise, I could see this railroad underpass—under which I passed on my way home—turning into what many of us hoped the High Line would become.  The Montauk Cutoff, as it’s called, bears striking resemblances to The High Line before it became  catwalk for the well-heeled high-heeled:  Like the HL about 20 years ago, the MC is a weed-grown railroad right-of-way previously used by freight trains making deliveries to and from an old industrial area that’s starting to de-industrialize.

As I understand, the MC belongs to the Long Island Rail Road. (Yes, the LIRR still spells “Rail Road” as two words, just as they did in 1834!) Some reports say the Rail Road wants to add some trackage and connect it to their recently-expanded Sunnyside Yards.  Others say it’s structurally unsound and will be torn down.  Then there are stories that some city or state agency or investors want to acquire it and create a High Line, especially since some of the industrial sites could become upscale residential and commercial areas.

Me, I’d love for it to become a High Line for the people. It would include a bike lane (of course!), green spaces and art studios, galleries, craft shops, educational centers and cafes that could represent the many communities of Queens, the most culturally and linguistically diverse county in the United States, if not the world.

(Examples of the diversity include members of Central American indigenous groups who may or may not speak Spanish and Africans who might speak Wolof or some other native language and practice a religion far older than Christianity or Islam.)

Hmm...If someone takes me up on my idea, there might be a plaque or something with my name and likeness. Perhaps someone would look at it and wonder who, exactly, Justine was

just as I wonder what happened to Joe, or whether Marty and Janet stayed together. I mentioned these bits of graffiti on the Review Avenue wall of the Calvary Cemetery eight years ago.  I first saw it many years ago—if I recall correctly, with my family, on our way to visit relatives who were living in Queens.

I never know what I’ll unearth on a ride!

This Isn't An Experiment

Some people simply cannot abide any toe-clip overlap.  Me, I can stand a little, depending on the bike and how I'm riding it.  But this is, shall we say, a bit out of my range.

What's worse is the way it was achieved, if you will:

I'm thinking now of Rigi bikes from about 40 years ago. Its creators made the wheelbase shorter by splitting the seat tube in two--rather like the top tube on a mixte frame--and running the wheel between the smaller tubes:



I've heard of a bike that does the same thing with the down tube:  The front wheel runs through it.  I don't know how one steer such a machine.  The only possible use I can see for it is a motor-paced time trial.

Now I'll dispense with the levity:  As you probably have surmised, I didn't try to alter Arielle's geometry. Rather, it happened--in front of a nondescript tenement on Bonnefoy Avenue in New Rochelle.

I was pedaling, at a pretty good pace, home from Connecticut.  Well, I thought I was going home:  I hit something and, the next thing I knew, I was getting stitched up.   Then someone in the New Rochelle hospital decided I should be observed in a trauma unit, to which I was sent. 

Poor Arielle.  As for me, I still feel pain on the sides of my neck down to my shoulders.  Oh, and I have a headache and have been tired.  A trip to the drugstore felt like a century or a marathon.

When I got home, my face looked as if someone had superimposed a railroad map over a satellite image of the Martian surface.  It's a little better now, but I don't think I'll be modeling for Raphia any time soon.

I hate asking for money, but I think the real pain will begin when I see what my insurance doesn't cover.  So, I've set up a GoFundMe page.

I hope, more than anything, to be back in the saddle soon.  Until then, I'm going to catch up on some reading, writing and a project.  And Marlee is going to catch up with, well, the cuddles she misses when I'm out of the house!

Thank you!