Armed conflicts often lead to a form of hyper-vigilance I’ll call “war paranoia.” (There’s probably a clinical term for it.) Everyday people, objects and situations are seen as threats or dangers and met with brutal or deadly force.
Such was the case in Gaza, where an Israeli military strike targeted what was believed to be a rocket propelled grenade launcher.
It was bicycle, and its rider died in one of the most horrifying ways possible.
Today is International Women’s Day.
Whatever your gender identity or your anatomical configuration, if you are a cyclist, you should recognize the importance of women in cycling and, well, the world. For one thing, we are the majority of humanity. For another, there have been many great female cyclists, most of whom have ridden without recognition and support. A few, including Beryl Burton, have even beaten men’s records.
But perhaps the most important reason of all is that anyone who cares about gender equality needs to recognize the role the bicycle has played in the long journey toward that goal. After all, Susan B. Anthony said that the bicycle did more to liberate women than anything else. (That is why oppressive regimes like the Taliban forbid or discourage women and girls from riding them.) Bikes provided, and continue to provide, independent mobility. They also released women from the constraints of corsets and hoop skirts which, I believe, helped to relax dress standards—and thus make cycling easier—for everyone.
Today also happens to be the anniversary of two events that occurred during my lifetime. One is one the greatest aviation mysteries of all time: the disappearance of Malaysia Flight 370 ten years ago. Such an incident would have caused consternation in any time, but have become much rarer over time.
While that tragedy may not seem to have much in common with bicycles or bicycling, the other event is somewhat more related. On this date in 1971,”the fight of the century” took place between Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali. Joe won that bout, but Ali would win two rematches.
To this day, I can’t recall another sporting event-and very few events of any kind-that were preceded by as much anticipation and hype. I’m no boxing expert, but I doubt that there has ever been a title match between two opponents so equally matched in talent and skill but so different in style. Also, Ali had been stripped of his titles—and his boxing licenses—for three years because of his refusal to register for the military draft that could have forced him to serve in the Vietnam War.
So why is “The Fight” worthy of mention on this blog? Well, as I mentioned in a previous post, a boy named Cassius Clay might never have grown up to become Muhammad Ali, “The Greatest,” had his bicycle not been stolen. In recounting his loss to á police sergeant, he vowed to “whup” the thief. The sergeant, who just happened to train boxers on the side, admonished young Clay that he should learn how to fight first.
So..did you ever expect to see Susan B. Anthony and Muhammad Ali mentioned in the same post—much less one that includes Malaysia Airlines Flight 370?
One week ago, I noted the birthdays of Abraham Lincoln—and Charles Darwin.
When I was a child, Lincoln’s and George Washington’s birthdays were commemorated with their own holidays on the 12th and 22nd of February, respectively. Some time in my early puberty—when the deluge began!—that tradition ended in favor of the generic Presidents’ Day, on the third Monday of February: today.
OK, now I’m going to get political on you, dear reader. On one hand, I’m offended that this holiday, in essence, elevates Donald Trump to the same plane as Washington, Lincoln and Franklin D. Roosevelt. On the other hand, it’s part of the reason why February is Black History Month, which I wholeheartedly support. Originally, there was a Black History Week that included Lincoln’s Birthday. When Abe lost his own billing, the commemoration of a long-deleted part of this country’s heritage was expanded into the month.
Anyway, in an earlier post, I mentioned that during the late 19th Century Bike Boom, Washington’s Birthday was Bicycle Day. Dealers and manufacturers debuted new models and offered special deals, often accompanied by a lavish party. Bicycle Day morphed into Auto Day, which became part of the current Presidents’ Day.
When Washington’s Birthday was Bicycle Day, electoral campaign images often included bicycles, sometimes with the candidates riding them.
The “bad” government on the left (!) was that of Democrat (!) Grover Cleveland; the “good” on the right was the prospective administration of William McKinley.
So, since I broke a promise I never made to never discuss politics, I will mention one of my beefs with McKinley: His administration included the lynching of, I mean war against, Spain, which was predicted on a lie. (Sound familiar?) The spoils, if you will, for the US included Puerto Rico, Cuba, Guam and the Philippines (which, ironically, gained its “independence” from the US on the 4th of July, in 1946). Some historians argue that the war also made the invasion, I mean annexation, of Hawai’i possible.
Although I believe he would be on the right side of just about any cause you can think of, I try not to speculate too much because, well, we can’t know for sure. For example, many in the LGBTQ community, and our allies, have made him into one of our would-be advocates. I think he would have spoken up for us, but he would have joined with us slowly and carefully, as he did when he voiced his opposition to the Vietnam War. He was, after all, a pastor in a church that included many socially conservative congregants and clerics. Even many of his more secular political allies saw homosexuality, let alone any sort of gender variance as a pathology or even a form of criminality.
I have little doubt, however, that he would have endorsed, or at least approved of, bicycling for transportation as well as recreation. After all, he was known to ride—and he looked happy on his bike. But more important, I believe, was his growing awareness that he was working for economic justice. (This is a reason why some believe that he might have joined forces with Malcolm X had they not been assassinated.)
He probably would have seen the bicycle as a vehicle, if you will, for achieving those goals. Not only are bicycles relatively inexpensive and accessible, they help to reduce the environmental ills that disproportionately affect people of color and with low incomes. Also, cycling, like other forms of exercise, helps to combat diseases that—wait for it—also afflict the poor and people of color.
Hmm…Perhaps Transportation Alternatives and other cycling-related organizations should have a portrait of Martin hanging in their headquarters.
I hesitated to write this post. But even if what I say seems irrelevant or simply wrong, I have to say it.
As you’ve heard by now, sixty years ago today, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated.
I was a very, very young child that day. My memories of that time are not of the event itself, but of people expressing grief or—to use a word that I wouldn’t learn until many years later. Even in Brooklyn, where I lived at the time, there were people who hated Kennedy as much as any Klan member, and for the same reasons.
I would say, though, that grief or, at least, shock. He was the first Roman Catholic to become President, and most of the people in my neighborhood shared his faith or, at least, attended the same kinds of churches. Most of the non-Catholics in our community were Jewish—working-class, like us—and felt as much as we did that JFK “belonged” to them.
I’ll spare you all of the hackneyed rhetoric about the youthfulness and optimism he radiated. And I won’t insult your intelligence by repeating that oft-echoed canard that the nation “lost its innocence” that day. This nation was never innocent; nor was any other, ever.
And for all that he accomplished, his re-election in 1964 probably wouldn’t have been a “slam-dunk.” People referred to the states south of the Mason-Dixon Line as the “Solid South:” Democrats had won most elections, from those for Congress and governors’ mansion all the way down to dog-catcher, for the century that had elapsed since the Civil War. But the “Dixiecrats” had completely different ideas about race relations and other issues from those of Democrats like Kennedy and Franklin D. Roosevelt. They, however, needed Dixiecrats’ support not only to win elections, but also to pass legislation.
It almost goes without saying that if JFK had lived and won the next election, we would be living in a very different—and, I believe, better—country. For one thing, it would be easier (though not easy; it never is) to be non-White, non-male, non-heterosexual non-cisgender and non-wealthy. I think legislation intended to guarantee the rights of people I’ve mentioned (who include me) would have passed sooner and wouldn’t have been weakened.
I also think we’d be in a “greener” country. JFK was the first President since pre-war JFK whose guiding principles included environmental consciousness. Most of his efforts focused on coastal landscapes because those were most familiar to him as someone who sailed from Cape Cod. But I believe that his consciousness about the natural world would have expanded—which would have helped to foster an environment that encouraged research and development of cleaner energy sources—at least in part because of his friendship with Rachel Carlson.
Who knows? If Kennedy had lived and served longer, the bicycle might be seen as a mode of transportation and not a toy for kids-or adults. Might we have more and better bike lanes? Would my hometown of New York be the new New Amsterdam?
That last title is fitting. It should be a day to remember—the living as well as those who are gone.
As I once told my brother, I have become more pro-veteran as I have become more anti-war. Whether they volunteered or were conscripted, anyone who serves should never want for anything—including mental health care—again.
And I believe in honoring them in other ways—which can include taking a ride for a veteran who can’t. That’s what I’m about to do.
After a great weekend of cycling, I had a busy and somewhat tumultuous couple of days. They weren't bad: I just didn't have any time for anything besides work, some business I had to attend to (more about that later) and, of course, cycling to it.
Today I will once again invoke my Howard Cosell Rule and write a post that's not about bicycles or bicycling. Well, I'll briefly mention some of my riding but it will hardly be the focus of this post.
Instead, I want to talk about this date--9 November--which, as it turns out, is one of the most momentous and tumultuous in history, particularly that of the 20th Century.
I'll lead off with the event that touches, if indirectly, on my cycling. Some of my most memorable rides took me through the countryside and among the temples of Cambodia. Seventy years ago today, the home of the Khmers and one of the world's greatest human-made structures gained its independence from France, the country that colonized it along with neighboring Laos and Vietnam.
Now, if you ever wanted proof that correlation does not equal causation (or, more precisely, that coincidence does not equal correlation or causation), consider this: On that very same day, in 1953, Dylan Thomas ("Do not go gentle into that good night...") died in St. Vincent's Hospital, in the heart of Greenwich Village. He had turned 39 years old a couple of weeks earlier and, as with any artist who dies young, legends and rumors grew around him. One I often heard--but for which I could find no corroboration--was that he "drank himself to death in the White Horse Tavern." Though he was a heavy drinker, he didn't suffer from cirrhosis of the liver. He did, however, suffer from respiratory ailments and, a week before he died, a heavy smog that would kill 200 people enveloped New York.
This date also witnessed two of the most important events in 20th-Century Germany. They both involved breaking things down, but nearly everyone saw one of those events as triumphant while the other would become a harbinger of one of the human race's worst tragedies.
Joy, at least for a time, came for many people in 1989 when, on this date, the Berlin Wall was opened. So, for the first time since the city's (and country's) partition by the US, Britain and France on the western side and the Soviet Union in the east. Soon after, people who lived on both sides, and tourists, hacked away at the Wall for souvenirs. Contrary to another rumor you may have heard, this event didn't inspire Pink Floyd's "The Wall," which preceded it by a decade.
But in contrast to those who gleefully broke those bricks away, the folks who shattered glass along the streets of Berlin, Vienna and other German and Austrian cities--on this date, in 1938--were angry, vengeful and hateful, stoked by a demagogic autocrat. (Sound familiar?) While Kristallnacht, the "night of shattered glass" may not have been the opening salvo of World War II (I believe Japan's invasion of Manchuria, seven years earlier, was, but what do I know?) it almost certainly was, if not the beginning of the Holocaust, then its signal bell. The kristall came from windows of Jewish-owned and -operated shops, and that night, 91 Jews were murdered, about 30,000 were arrested and more than 200 synagogues were destroyed.
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| Olivia Hooker |
I invoke my Howard Cosell Rule to discuss important historical events and people because I have come to understand, at least somewhat, how necessary it is to commemorate them. There are very few remaining witnesses to Kristallnacht, just as there were only a handful of living people who experienced the Tulsa Race Massacre of 1921 when I wrote an article about it. That piece's publication on Huffington Post brought me into contact with one of those survivors: Olivia Hooker, who saw the bombings, shootings and destruction as a little girl. She was 101 years old when that article appeared and we corresponded until her death two years later.
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| Eve Kugler |
I cannot pretend that I understand, let alone feel, what she or Eve Kugler, who was seven years old on that awful night when those windows were shattered “in the land of Mozart” have carried with them through the rest of their lives and, in the case of Olivia Hooker, whatever came after. But Elie Wiesel has written that when we listen to witnesses, we become witnesses. Perhaps that is the best I can do--and why I am invoking my Howard Cosell rule.
Even if I’ve grown more cynical about the human race—which is an occupational hazard of being in, ahem, midlife—I have continued to believe that bicycles and bicycling can bring people together. After all, I have seen people from almost every set of circumstances imaginable on bikes.
And, although I have neither had nor wanted children, I believe that people and societies are no better than how they treat children (and old people)—and those who try to help them.
So, one bit of news out of Taibe, an Arab Israeli town, shocked and saddened me.
A week ago, Alaa Amara was asleep, with his phone silenced. One could understand if he wondered whether the news he received after walking was a bad dream. Of course it wasn’t—but he wasn’t surprised.
A few days earlier, Amara, an Arab Israeli who owns a bicycle shop, decided to help evacuees from Gaza-adjacent communities. He told the Times of Israel that his friends “gave them items, food, they had what they needed.” The children, however, “didn’t have anything to do, no school,” he noticed.
So he brought a donation of 50 children’s bicycles. “I did it to benefit the children. They don’t know about war,” he explained.
Images of him delivering the bikes appeared on social media. They won Amara a champion in Yosef Haddad, an Arab Israel commentator who is pro-Israel and therefore controversial, to say the least.
Oh, and the children are Jewish. That, and Haddad’s endorsement, put a target on Amara and his business.
Which is why the news he got last Saturday didn’t surprise him: While he slept, his shop was torched.
A friend has set up a Pay Pal account and a crowdfunding effort has raised, so far, 550,000 Israeli New Shekels (about USD 137,000). Amara estimates damage at NIS 800,000 and he had no fire insurance. So, while donations could increase, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do next. If he opens another bike shop, it will be elsewhere, he said. “I am afraid to be in Taibe now,” he said.
(N.B. Please do not take anything I’ve written as an endorsement of one “side” or another in the conflict. As Alaa Amara and his situation show, the background of the conflict is too complicated to be reduced to “sides” and has as much to do with colonialism, from outside as well as within the region, as any current grievances.)
There are moments that change history. Everyone knows some of them; others, we think we know. Then there are the ones that, while documented, are forgotten even though their significance is both deep and broad.
We've all heard the story of how Martin Luther nailed his 95 theses to the Castle Church door in Wittenberg, Germany five centuries ago. While almost no one doubts he actually wrote the theses--and he sent copies of them to church and political officials--the story about him hanging them on a church door is in doubt.
On the other hand, there is a video of an unknown taxi driver who, perhaps unwittingly, launched the movements for sustainable transportation and economies--and the backlash against them that has launched a culture war between drivers and cyclists, among other people.
In 1972, the unnamed livery driver was incensed that his "right" to drive wherever he wanted was "taken" from him by city officials who had the temerity to close off a street. Why would such overbearing functionaries arrogate unto themselves the authority to keep someone like him from driving down a thoroughfare paid for with his taxes?
Well, if the answer is that the driver in this story paid a larger share of his income in taxes than his counterparts in other places, it would be almost understandable. Somehow, though, I don't think that he was preoccupied with that fact. Like many drivers, he simply wanted to take the shortest, most direct and convenient, route to wherever he was going. If he were being paid per-trip rather than per-hour, his frustration would have been a bit more understandable, if not justifiable.
But I think he simply was impatient in the ways drivers often are: I guess it can be frustrating to have something that can get you somewhere quickly and with minimal effort, only to be stalled by something, animate or not, that doesn't "belong" in the roadway.
That something, in the driver's way was a set of barricades. Their purpose? To designate a "children's only" street.
Perhaps it had something to do with having children--perhaps the ones who would have been on that street--that led citizens of that city to denounce the driver and push for safer streets for pedestrians, cyclists and other non-motorized travelers.
That city was Amsterdam which, in 1972, was as choked with auto traffic as many other European capitals. Now, of course, it's known as one of the world's most bike- and pedestrian-friendly cities, and has led the way--along with cities like Copenhagen--in developing walkable, cycleable city centers.
That taxi driver may never be as famous for pulling down barricades as Martin Luther was for (allegedly) hanging up what might have been the world's first viral message. He did, however, ignite a culture war that has been largely won by those he fought against. Such a story gives me hope because in more car-centric places, the reactionaries (who abound in, but are not limited to, conservative political factions) are riling up their constituents against an imagined "war on cars" from the borough of Queens, NYC (where I live) to Queenborough, UK and Queensland, Australia.
We are a nation of drivers.
— Rishi Sunak (@RishiSunak) September 30, 2023
Most of us use a car every day and, for many, life would be difficult without their car.
But too often, drivers feel under attack.
That changes today with a long-term plan to improve drivers' experience on the road.
Here’s how 👇🧵 pic.twitter.com/yJvotPyyYy
Those would-be defenders of the diesel tend to be older, while those who don't want to spend three hours of their day driving to work and parking tend to be younger, in chronology and, like yours truly, in spirit---even if I am in, ahem, midlife!
Believe or not, bicycle manufacturers were major, or at least significant, employers in the US until World War II.
I’m not talking only about Schwinn. A few years ago, I wrote about the Shelby Bicycle Company, which took its name from the Ohio community in which it was based.
Another example of such a relationship between a town and a bike-maker is that of Emblem Bicycles and Angola, a New York Stare village 3.3 kilometers (2 miles) from Lake Erie and 50 kilometers (22 miles) from downtown Buffalo.
Unless you are even deeper than I am into pre-War bikes, you probably haven’t heard of Emblem bicycles. Apparently, they began making bikes during the first Bike Boom in the late 19th Century and continued until the eve of World War II. During the 1910s, Emblwm, like some other bike-makers, began to make motorcycles, which hadn’t evolved into their own category. As a matter of fact, Emblem, like other fabricators of two-wheeled vehicles, were identified—and identified by the public—as a bicycle company even when their production of motorized bikes exceeded that of traditional pedaled bicycles.
So, yesterday, when a fire burned in the historical building that the company called home, local media reports identified it as the “historic Emblem Bicycle building “—even though Emblem bicycles haven’t been made there, or anywhere, in about 80 years.
Two dozen fire companies fought and contained the blaze. Fortunately, no one was hurt.
The other day, before I wrote my 9/11 commemorative piece, I took a ride: a ramble through Queens and Brooklyn on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear.
My ride included some familiar streets and sights. But I also took in some streets--or, more precisely, segments of them--I hadn't ridden before.
One of those thoroughfares, Carroll Street, spans the breadth of Brooklyn in two sections. The first begins at Hoyt Street, near the borough's downtown hub and cuts through the brownstone neighborhoods of Carroll Gardens and Park Slope on its way to Prospect Park. On the other side of the Park, Carroll continues along through neighborhoods less known to tourists: Prospect-Lefferts Gardens, Crown Heights and Ocean Hill-Brownsville. It was along that second section, in Crown Heights, that I chanced upon these houses:
They combine the brownstone facades one sees on the other side of the park with Victorian-style cornices--and rounded, almost turret-like fronts I've seen only in Ridgewood and a couple of other Queens neighborhoods. That block of Carroll--between Kingston and Albany Avenues--lies in the heart of the Hasidic neighborhood of the Heights.
After I took the photos, I walked Tosca (Carroll is a one-way street) to check out a store where I didn't think I'd buy anything but I wanted to see because it's unlike any in my neighborhood of Astoria, or in most other places.
Turns out, the place moved around the corner, to Kingston Avenue. I peeked in; the young man working in it knew full well that I wasn't from the community and therefore wouldn't buy the mezuzahs (Star of David medallions found on the doorways of homes), prayer shawls or other items ultra-Orthodox Jews use in their daily lives and worship. But he didn't seem to mind my being there and we exchanged greetings of "shalom" on my way in and out.
As I turned to my left, I noticed an alleyway in the middle of the block.
The first painting, closest to the street, seems like a conventional representation of a Torah lesson--until you look closely. But the sky-blue background gives the scene an almost ethereal feel and the rabbi's expression makes him seem, simultaneously, like a relative and an ancestor, as if the kids might be in a room with him or that he might have come to them in a dream or vision.
To their left were two other murals. Is the girl--woman?--in awe or fear? I couldn't help but to think about Edvard Munch's "The Scream"--which, I'm sure, the artist intended. But is it a scream of ecstasy or terror, or something else? I might've asked the same questions about the man in the other mural which, of course, evokes Van Gogh's "Starry Night."
Even though the compositions echo (pun intended) Munch and Van Gogh, I felt that the artist's real inspiration may have been one of the greatest Jewish modern artists: Marc Chagall. At least, the colors--themselves and the way they play off, with and against each other--reminded me of his paintings and the stained-glass windows he created for the cathedral of Reims, France, to replace the ones blown out during World War II. In fact, in walking past the murals with Tosca, I felt as if I were in an open-air temple or synagogue.
On the other side of Kingston is another alley, with this portrait by the same artist:
I thought it was interesting how that artist used blue differently from the way it's used in the painting of the Torah lesson. Here, it makes the man--whom I assume to be, if not a rabbi, then at least some sort of elder in the community.
It never ceases to amaze me how taking a random turn during a ride in my city can take me on a journey!
One of my early posts discussed Beryl Burton.
She was one of the dominant competitive cyclists of her time. Not one of the dominant female cyclists, mind you: one of the dominant cyclists.
Whether or not she could beat most male cyclists of her time wasn't a matter of speculation: It was a settled answer. Among other things, for two years in the late 1960's, she held the distance record for twelve hours. Mind you, she didn't beat the old record by a few yards: Her 277.25 miles was five miles more than any other cyclist, male or female, had ridden over that amount of time.
I am mentioning her in relation to something that only indirectly relates to cycling or, more precisely, women's cycling. When the US Women's National Team in soccer (football to the rest of the world) won the World Cup in 2015 and 2019, some wondered whether they could beat most men's squads. That question seemed especially relevant given that the team's star, Megan Rapinoe, grew up playing on boys' teams against other boys’ teams.
This year, the team won its group. Last week, however, for the first time in the history of the tournament, the US Team lost in the Round of 16. While self-styled "patriots" like the ones at Faux, I mean Fox, News and Donald Trump are using the occasion to display their prejudice against women, LGBTQ people and "wokeness," the question remains of whether that team, at its peak, could play against the US men, who haven't had nearly as much success internationally. Some also wonder whether teams like Sweden's, Japan's and perhaps those of England, France or the Netherlands might be as good as, or better than many men's teams.
Well, such a question is not new. In fact, another women's team answered it a century ago.
During World War I, large numbers of British men--many of whom just happened to play football--went off to fight. That meant women kept guns, locomotives and other machinery running--and rolling off factory lines. (Think of them as forerunners of "Rosie the Riveter" in World War II USA.) During their lunch and tea breaks, some of those women played pickup games in the factories’ lots.
Some of them became quite good--enough to beat young male apprentices. Such was the case of the women who worked in the Dick, Kerr and Company factory in the northwestern city of Preston, which had a well-regarded men's professional team. An office administrator, Alfred Frankland, recognizing their talents and skills, organized them into a team that played exhibitions to raise money for injured servicemembers.
Soon, spectators weren't showing up only out of curiosity: If nothing else, English fans know when they're seeing good football. They filled venues like Old Trafford (home of Manchester United), Liverpool's Goodison Park (Everton) and London's Stamford Bridge (Chelsea). They beat not only local factory and semi-professional teams, they also took matches from France's national squad during an international tournament in 1920.
Whatever the English fans thought of those women, the sport's governing authorities were not amused. The following year, the Football Association banned its members from allowing women's teams to use their fields. Their stated reason: "[T]he game of football is quite unsuitable for females and should not be encouraged." Some have speculated that the F.A. feared that the popularity of teams like Dick, Kerr and Company would eat away at the attendance--and profits--of men's teams.
The Dick, Kerr women, undeterred, went on tour--to North America. Upon arrival in Canada, that country also barred them from playing. The United States--which was experiencing a brief soccer boom (only baseball, bicycle racing and boxing were more popular) proved more receptive, though there were no organized women's teams. So they played nine games against men's teams of the professional American Soccer League (yes, such a thing existed!). winning three, losing three and playing to three draws.
While public reception of them was generally favorable, some newspaper coverage reflected stereotypes of the time: One account referred to them as "brawny Amazons" and another was accompanied by ads for corsets, skin cream and dishwashing soap. Perhaps the worst indignity was this: The money their games raised was used to cover the expenses of sending the US men's soccer team to the 1924 Olympics in Paris.
But, through such difficulties, the women continued to play, renaming themselves the Preston Ladies in 1926. The F.A. finally lifted its ban in 1971--some six years after the Ladies played their last game.
In the team's history, they compiled a record that I doubt any other team--male, female or otherwise--could boast: They lost only 24 of the 828 matches they played. Perhaps most impressive of all was a record set by the team's best-known player. Lily Parr, a 6 foot chain-smoker "with a kick like a mule" netted 43 goals in her first season. When she retired three decades later, in 1951, she was believed to have scored 900--many more than any other English soccer player of any gender identity. In 2002, she would also become the only female player enshrined in the English Football Hall of Fame's inaugural class.
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.
On this night in 1969, New York City sweltered. And, not surprisingly, tempers flared and a fight erupted. Then things exploded—and burned over the next few days.
You probably know that I’m talking about the Stonewall Revolution. Some historians or other scholars might quibble with my use of the terminology, but I think it’s as much of a revolution as other conflicts that are so labeled because it, and they, changed the world.
For one thing, I might not be who I am—or I might not be here at all. And you wouldn’t be reading this blog. What would you do?😉
Anyway, to give you an idea of what has changed, I am posting a New York Daily News article from 6 July 1969, three days after the uprising simmered down. While it certainly wouldn’t be published today, and I doubt that even Fox News would broadcast commentary as demeaning today, it was far from the most derogatory commentary of its time—the Village Voice’s coverage arguably trafficked in more stereotypes and caricatures. (Also remember that Lisker probably didn’t write the headline.)
The New York Daily News, July 6, 1969
By JERRY LISKER
She sat there with her legs crossed, the lashes of her mascara-coated eyes beating like the wings of a hummingbird. She was angry. She was so upset she hadn't bothered to shave. A day old stubble was beginning to push through the pancake makeup. She was a he. A queen of Christopher Street.
Last weekend the queens had turned commandos and stood bra strap to bra strap against an invasion of the helmeted Tactical Patrol Force. The elite police squad had shut down one of their private gay clubs, the Stonewall Inn at 57 Christopher St., in the heart of a three-block homosexual community in Greenwich Village. Queen Power reared its bleached blonde head in revolt. New York City experienced its first homosexual riot. "We may have lost the battle, sweets, but the war is far from over," lisped an unofficial lady-in-waiting from the court of the Queens.
"We've had all we can take from the Gestapo," the spokesman, or spokeswoman, continued. "We're putting our foot down once and for all." The foot wore a spiked heel. According to reports, the Stonewall Inn, a two-story structure with a sand painted brick and opaque glass facade, was a mecca for the homosexual element in the village who wanted nothing but a private little place where they could congregate, drink, dance and do whatever little girls do when they get together.
The thick glass shut out the outside world of the street. Inside, the Stonewall bathed in wild, bright psychedelic lights, while the patrons writhed to the sounds of a juke box on a square dance floor surrounded by booths and tables. The bar did a good business and the waiters, or waitresses, were always kept busy, as they snaked their way around the dancing customers to the booths and tables. For nearly two years, peace and tranquility reigned supreme for the Alice in Wonderland clientele.
The Raid Last Friday
Last Friday the privacy of the Stonewall was invaded by police from the First Division. It was a raid. They had a warrant. After two years, police said they had been informed that liquor was being served on the premises. Since the Stonewall was without a license, the place was being closed. It was the law.
All hell broke loose when the police entered the Stonewall. The girls instinctively reached for each other. Others stood frozen, locked in an embrace of fear.
Only a handful of police were on hand for the initial landing in the homosexual beachhead. They ushered the patrons out onto Christopher Street, just off Sheridan Square. A crowd had formed in front of the Stonewall and the customers were greeted with cheers of encouragement from the gallery.
The whole proceeding took on the aura of a homosexual Academy Awards Night. The Queens pranced out to the street blowing kisses and waving to the crowd. A beauty of a specimen named Stella wailed uncontrollably while being led to the sidewalk in front of the Stonewall by a cop. She later confessed that she didn't protest the manhandling by the officer, it was just that her hair was in curlers and she was afraid her new beau might be in the crowd and spot her. She didn't want him to see her this way, she wept.
Queen Power
The crowd began to get out of hand, eye witnesses said. Then, without warning, Queen Power exploded with all the fury of a gay atomic bomb. Queens, princesses and ladies-in-waiting began hurling anything they could get their polished, manicured fingernails on. Bobby pins, compacts, curlers, lipstick tubes and other femme fatale missiles were flying in the direction of the cops. The war was on. The lilies of the valley had become carnivorous jungle plants.
Urged on by cries of "C'mon girls, lets go get'em," the defenders of Stonewall launched an attack. The cops called for assistance. To the rescue came the Tactical Patrol Force.
Flushed with the excitement of battle, a fellow called Gloria pranced around like Wonder Woman, while several Florence Nightingales administered first aid to the fallen warriors. There were some assorted scratches and bruises, but nothing serious was suffered by the honeys turned Madwoman of Chaillot.
Official reports listed four injured policemen with 13 arrests. The War of the Roses lasted about 2 hours from about midnight to 2 a.m. There was a return bout Wednesday night.
Two veterans recently recalled the battle and issued a warning to the cops. "If they close up all the gay joints in this area, there is going to be all out war."
Bruce and Nan
Both said they were refugees from Indiana and had come to New York where they could live together happily ever after. They were in their early 20's. They preferred to be called by their married names, Bruce and Nan.
"I don't like your paper," Nan lisped matter-of-factly. "It's anti-fag and pro-cop."
"I'll bet you didn't see what they did to the Stonewall. Did the pigs tell you that they smashed everything in sight? Did you ask them why they stole money out of the cash register and then smashed it with a sledge hammer? Did you ask them why it took them two years to discover that the Stonewall didn't have a liquor license."
Bruce nodded in agreement and reached over for Nan's trembling hands.
"Calm down, doll," he said. "Your face is getting all flushed."
Nan wiped her face with a tissue.
"This would have to happen right before the wedding. The reception was going to be held at the Stonewall, too," Nan said, tossing her ashen-tinted hair over her shoulder.
"What wedding?," the bystander asked.
Nan frowned with a how-could-anybody-be-so-stupid look. "Eric and Jack's wedding, of course. They're finally tieing the knot. I thought they'd never get together."
Meet Shirley
"We'll have to find another place, that's all there is to it," Bruce sighed. "But every time we start a place, the cops break it up sooner or later."
"They let us operate just as long as the payoff is regular," Nan said bitterly. "I believe they closed up the Stonewall because there was some trouble with the payoff to the cops. I think that's the real reason. It's a shame. It was such a lovely place. We never bothered anybody. Why couldn't they leave us alone?"
Shirley Evans, a neighbor with two children, agrees that the Stonewall was not a rowdy place and the persons who frequented the club were never troublesome. She lives at 45 Christopher St.
"Up until the night of the police raid there was never any trouble there," she said. "The homosexuals minded their own business and never bothered a soul. There were never any fights or hollering, or anything like that. They just wanted to be left alone. I don't know what they did inside, but that's their business. I was never in there myself. It was just awful when the police came. It was like a swarm of hornets attacking a bunch of butterflies."
A reporter visited the now closed Stonewall and it indeed looked like a cyclone had struck the premisses.
Police said there were over 200 people in the Stonewall when they entered with a warrant. The crowd outside was estimated at 500 to 1,000. According to police, the Stonewall had been under observation for some time. Being a private club, plain clothesmen were refused entrance to the inside when they periodically tried to check the place. "They had the tightest security in the Village," a First Division officer said, "We could never get near the place without a warrant."
Police Talk
The men of the First Division were unable to find any humor in the situation, despite the comical overtones of the raid.
"They were throwing more than lace hankies," one inspector said. "I was almost decapitated by a slab of thick glass. It was thrown like a discus and just missed my throat by inches. The beer can didn't miss, though, "it hit me right above the temple."
Police also believe the club was operated by Mafia connected owners. The police did confiscate the Stonewall's cash register as proceeds from an illegal operation. The receipts were counted and are on file at the division headquarters. The warrant was served and the establishment closed on the grounds it was an illegal membership club with no license, and no license to serve liquor.
The police are sure of one thing. They haven't heard the last from the Girls of Christopher Street.
Sheldon Brown dubbed the quarter-century or so following World War II as the "Dark Ages" of US Cycling. Few adults cycled and nearly all of them were clustered around a few cities. So, perhaps not surprisingly, high-quality cycling gear was difficult to come by, as nearly all American bicycle manufacturing consisted of bikes for kids. Those tiny number of shops and mail-order companies that offered high-end parts and bikes, as often as not, ordered them for their customers from Europe or a few companies in the US.
As for the bikes: Some frame builders, like Dick Power of Queens, New York (who, interestingly, sponsored and mentored female riders) and George Olemenchuk of Detroit, turned out some well-crafted machines that rode well. But they made small numbers of frames that rarely, if ever, were ridden by cyclists beyond their immediate environs. Quite possibly the only nationally-availabe, US-made, world-class (Did I use enough modifying phrases?) bike was Schwinn's aptly-named Paramount. But you couldn't buy one of the showroom floor--unless, of course, your local Schwinn dealer stocked one (and if they did, the probably stocked only one) and it happened to be the right size for you.
1971 Schwinn Paramount
Then came the 1970s "Bike Boom." High-quality racing and touring bikes from England, France, Italy and Japan appeared even in small-town bike shops. Some might debate that they had ride qualities that the Paramount lacked, but few argued that the workmanship of those imported bikes was better. But they--especially the Japanese bikes--offered much better value for the money, as the Paramount's price doubled within three years.
More to the point, though, the newly-available bikes made Paramounts, as nice as the were, seem stodgy. And, according to people in the industry, the Paramount's production facilities and methods were dated. Moreover, by the end of the decade, a number of American custom frame builders like Albert Eisentraut and Bruce Gordon were turning out bikes that rivaled those of their overseas counterparts.
So, in 1980 Paramount production moved to a new facility in Waterloo, Wisconsin. (Not long after, much of Schwinn's other production shifted from Chicago to Mississippi.) These changes occurred around the same time Schwinn ownership and management shifted to a new generation. But the company failed to keep up with changes in the industry--they were late to the mountain bike and very late to the BMX game--and declared bankruptcy for the first time in 1991.
In the wake of those developments, two members of that new management generation--Richard Schwinn and Marc Muller--took over the Paramount facility and started a company familiar to a generation of American bike enthusiasts: Waterford. It focused on building, essentially, updated custom versions of the Paramount: hand-crafted lugged frames from Reynolds, Tange or other high-quality alloy steel tubing. Later, they added another line of bikes--Gunnar--with TIG-welded steel frames that weren't available in custom sizes or colors.
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| A late-model Waterford |
Last month, Schwinn and Muller announced that Waterford/Gunnar was closing up shop. The reason, they said is that they and several other key employees are retiring. They fulfilled their remaining orders and sold the building. This Saturday, the 24th, there will be a "farewell" ride beginning at the factory, where there will be an "open house." On that day, an online auction will begin. Running until 10 July, there won't be many frames or forks available for sale. But it might be a good source for current or aspiring builders or manufacturers or a collector with "an interest in something from the legendary Waterford factory," according to the company.
