A Comparison Of Bike Share And Subway Systems: Paris And New York

Although I didn't use Velib when I was in Paris, I couldn't help but to marvel at some aspects of it.

For one, it seemed that quite a few riders on Velib bikes weren't tourists.  Now, here in New York, some people ride Citibikes to and from work, while others who don't own bikes sometimes take out those familiar blue bikes for spins around the neighborhood.  But such riders seemed more common on Paris streets.

But what really impressed me is how well-covered the city is:  One doesn't have to go more than a few blocks, even in the outlying arrondissements, to find a Velib port.  Also, one can find those ports and bikes in areas outside Paris proper:  I saw them in Vincennes, and along the way between the famous Chateau and the City of Light.  I also spotted the ports and bikes in several towns along the way to Versailles.

By contrast, the borough of Queens got its first Citibike stations earlier this month, in Long Island City--not very far from where I live.  Critics say that the new port doesn't really represent an expansion into the Borough of Homes because the ports are next to the subway stations closest to Manhattan, and on the Queens side of the Queensborough/59th Street Bridge.  Many people regard Long Island City (and my 'hood of Astoria) as satellites of Manhattan rather than true Queens neighborhoods.

The same criticism can be made, I think, about the placement of Citibike stations in Brooklyn:  Williamsburg, right next to the eponymous bridge that links it to Manhattan, was the first non-Manhattan neighborhood to get Citibike.  Nobody expects to see the blue bikes in the far southeastern and southwestern neighborhoods of the borough any time soon.  And it would be more than surprising if the bike share program ever came to Staten Island at all.

To be fair, Velib started in 2007, while the first Citibikes didn't roll down city streets until two years ago.  Still, the difference in how each program covers its city reflects another pattern in each city's transportation infrastructure.

You see, all of the neighborhoods that have, or are getting, Citibikes, are ones that are well-served by New York City's subway and bus systems.  They have major lines linking them to midtown and downtown Manhattan, and they are the sorts of neighborhoods in which many people (myself included) live car-free.



New York City Subway map, 2015.  Manhattan is the island to the left; Staten Island is the one in the inset.  Brooklyn and Queens are to the right, and the Bronx is at the top. 

There are large swaths of the city that have no mass transportation at all.  None of the subways cross the city lines into New Jersey, Long Island or Westchester County, and most of the eastern half of Queens--as well as parts of southwestern and southeastern Brooklyn--have never had subway service.  Kings Plaza Mall, the largest retail area in Brooklyn, is about seven kilometers from the nearest subway stop.  So is JFK International Airport--which, until five years ago, didn't even have a light-rail link to the city's subways or the Long Island Rail Road.

Even in Manhattan, there are transportation "deserts", if you will.  One reason for that is that most of the subway lines on the island run parallel to each other, in  north-south ("uptown-downtown" in Big Apple parlance) routes.  Only two lines run across Manhattan:  the #7 train under 42nd Street and the "L" under 14th Street.  The lines that enter Manhattan from Brooklyn, Queens or the Bronx become part of the "uptown/downtown" grid once they reach Manhattan.



Paris Metro map

In Paris, by contrast, the lines are spread in patterns that have been likened to the circulatory system of the human body.  One result is that no point within the City of Light is more than 500 meters (about 1/3 mile, or six New York City blocks) from a Metro station.  Some of the inner suburbs, such as Levallois-Perret, are nearly as well-served as central Paris.  Even so, there are proposals to not only add service within the city and inner suburbs, but to extend several lines further out.

I find it fascinating that both rapid transit and bike sharing systems in New York and Paris reflect the history of planning (or, in some cases, lack thereof) in each city. 

In my hometown, the first subway lines were built by private financiers who operated them, under city contract, in much the same way they would conduct their other businesses.  All of the city's transit lines were not brought under the umbrella of one governmental organization until the 1950's.  In a similar fashion, the city's bike share program, while initiated by the city, is run by Citibank--which can make (or lose) money as it could with its banking, real estate and other businesses. 

On the other hand, the Paris Metro system was centrally planned from the beginning.  That, I believe, is why lines aren't duplicated and, if you want to transfer from one line to another, you don't have to go all the way to the other end of town, as switching trains in New York sometimes necessitates.  And, interestingly, Velib was started by the Mairie  (City Hall) of Paris, which still owns the system although JC Decaux operates it.

Knowing all of this, I don't feel I'm being cynical or pessimistic in saying that Velib will be in Orleans before Citibike comes to Staten Island!

 

Seeing The Coming Heat Wave

Every few years, it seems, we get the sort of summer we've been having this year:  Not exceptionally warm through most of June, July and August--until a heat wave comes right around Labor Day. 

Officially, today wasn't part of a "heat wave". But tomorrow is supposed to be the beginning of one.  Today, the temperature reached 33C and the air grew more humid:  a  marked contrast to the dry, almost crisp conditions we'd had for a few days.

I went for a ride anyway, out to the middle of Long Island and back.  I sweated, but no more than I have on other rides, and I wasn't really tired after 120 km.  But tomorrow will be toasty, the forecasters say:  about 35C.  And the two days after that will be hotter, and more humid.

I'll be working, so I'll probably ride late in the day, or the evening, when--at least in theory--it should be a touch cooler, if not less humid.


Even if I hadn't heard the forecast, I think I would have known the heat wave was coming.  I believe I saw it in the slightly reddish hue of the full moon that loomed over the Amtrak trestle that transverses Randall's Island when I was riding home last night:

 

Get Out Of My Way!

If you read the post I wrote yesterday, you might not believe what I'm about to say.

OK, here goes:  When I sluicing the glass and concrete canyons of Manhattan--delivering everything from the title for land on which towers would be built, pizza with anchovies and pineapple (it smelled even worse than it sounds!), an Andy Warhol print (to Judy Collins, no less!), payroll documents and little packages with their unwritten, unspoken "don't ask, don't tell" policies, if you know what I mean--cab, truck and limo drivers actually used to back or steer out of my way when they saw me coming. 

Then again, if you knew me in those days, you'd know I'm not exaggerating.  Heck, people used to cross the street when they saw me.  I was young, full of testosterone--and angry, about being full of testosterone as well as other things, real and imagined.

Being a bike messenger was probably the one job (OK, one of the two or three, perhaps) in which being young and angry--and stupid enough to believe that my anger was a sign of how smart and sensitive I was--served me well.  I was quick; I got lots of deliveries and tips and a few gifts.  And, oh yeah, a couple of dates:  I guess it has something to do with what you've heard about sex with crazy people.  (It's true.  The only problem is that, once the act is done, you have that crazy person to deal with.)  It's probably a good thing I was a bike messenger:  It's probably one of the few jobs in which I could physically channel my rage and not get myself into trouble--let alone get paid for it! 

Now, if you've been reading this blog--or if you know me--you know I'm not the badass I imagined myself to be--or, at least, tried to make people believe I was.  I know that and, honestly, I'm happy about it.  Everything in life--including bike riding--is better even if I don't have the physical strength I once did.

Still, I take pride in knowing this guy has nothing on the bike messenger I was back in the day:

From Engadget

 

Mama Mechanic

This afternoon I took a ride out to the Rockaways on Tosca, my Mercian fixie.

The weather was lovely, as it was yesterday:  warm, but not overly so, with high puffy clouds floating across expanses of blue sky.  And, as luck would have it, I rode into the wind on my way out to Rockaway Beach and Far Rockaway.  That meant, of course, that on my way home, I could pedal about 20 RPM faster without trying.

Anyway, I was coasting through an area of Gateway National Recreation area frequented by bird-watchers and wildlife photographers--in plain view of JFK International Airport!  My external reverie seemed to embody the one that was playing out within me at that moment:  I am still in the afterglow of my trip to Paris and of the wonderful late-day ride to Connecticut I enjoyed yesterday.  I have been doing some writing away from this blog (I don't want to give too much away!) and I'm feeling optimistic about the semester that's about to begin. Now all I need is to hit the Lotto jackpot and meet the love of my life.  Hmm...I'm not so sure about the latter.  Being single isn't so bad after you've been in an abusive relationship or two.


Wouldn't you know...a cute young guy approaches me from behind.  "Sir!"  "Sir!"  He sounded distressed, so I turned to look at him.  (His distress was the only reason I looked at him, I swear! ;-))  "Do you...Oh, I'm sorry, Ma'am."

"Don't worry."

"You don't see a lot of women riding here.  And, from behind, you were pedaling like a dude."

I said nothing. (I didn't want to give too much away!)

"Do you have an allen key?"

"Yes, I do."

Just then I saw the reason why he asked:  His handlebar slipped and rolled inside the stem.

"We can't let you ride like that," I said.

"I swapped this handlebar today.  I guess I didn't tighten it enough."

"Well, let's hope it's the right diameter."

"I thought they were all the same size."

I shook my head and, from the corner of my eye, saw the source of the problem.  He had a stem with a faceplate that bolt in the four corners. He'd tightened the top two bolts much more than the lower ones.  So, in addition to the usual hazards of a loose handlebar, he ran the risk of shearing off the faceplate and, possibly, taking an even nastier spill than he might have had he only leaned on loose bars. 

Before I tightened the stem bolts, I asked him to move the bar to a position he likes.  Good thing: I noticed that his grips slipped on the bars.

He said he'd used water to slide the rubber grips onto the bars.   I grabbed the edge of the right grip and rolled it up to the end of the bar.  Then I unrolled it, and the grip--an Oury--stayed as if it had been epoxied to the bar.  I did the same for his left grip.

Then I told him to grab the grip and try to roll it, and to try to move the bar in the stem.  Everything was as firmly in place as the pyramids.

"Lady, I don't know how to thank you enough."

"Just be careful," I said in my most maternal tone.  Really, he's a nice kid--he's been working as a lifeguard--and want him to live and ride long.
 

In Twilight And Afterglow With Arielle

It was a gorgeous late-summer day...and life intervened.  The new semester is starting, so I had various things to attend to, including course outlines and finding and restoring links to readings and films I'm assigning my students.

At least I got out to ride in the middle of the afternoon,.  I took Arielle, my Mercian Audax, off the peg and inflated the tires.  I knew she would feel great after spending a week on a rented hybrid, but Arielle exceeded my hopes and expectations. I felt as if I were in a race car suspended by hot-air balloons.  Or maybe a flying carpet with jet engines.

Whatever the metaphor, the bike overcame the deficiencies in the human engine.  Possibly the best part of all was riding a Brooks Professional--which is starting to feel really broken-in--after whatever was on the rental bike and the cheaper leather seat on my LeTour.

The bike felt so good I just wanted to keep on riding it.  And that's what I did, all the way to Connecticut.

I'd've gone even further than I did into the Nutmeg State, but I really didn't want to ride back in the dark.  I have lights, but riding back from ConnectIicut means passing through a couple of dodgy neighborhoods.  I've ridden them in the dark, with no problems, but I prefer to avoid nocturnal rambles in them.

I descended to the Queens side of the RFK-Triborough Bridge just as the sun was setting.  From there, it's only a kilometer to my apartment after 120 kilometers of delightful cycling. 

I arrived in a glow of twilight, and in an afterglow of an invigorating ride--and, of course, my adventures of the past few weeks!

 

This Bike Is Like A Tatoo Because...

I've never had a tatoo, and I probably never will have one. Every once in a while, I see one I like.  However, even seeing such a tatoo has never made me want one.  

It's not that I have any religious or philosophical objection to tatoos.  Nor am I afraid of the needles, at least not anymore:  After all, I have had surgery.  And, even though I grew up in a time when tatoos were associated with outlaw bikers, prisoners and the sorts of military folk who live, work and die by the motto Caedite eos.  Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius, I have never had any fear of, or prejudice against those who have their bodies pricked and painted.  Perhaps my attitude is a result of having two uncles--one of whom is my godfather--with tatoos.

Even when I see a tatoo I like on someone else, I have no wish to get one for myself.  Perhaps it's hypocritical, but I find myself thinking, "Good for him (or her)."

I feel something similar about some of the wild bike finishes and color schemes I see.  I saw an example parked near Columbus Circle today:

I had to go inside a Starbuck's to take the photo because the bike was parked too close to the glass wall for me to take a photo from the outside. Believe it or not, I actually liked the look:  In some strange way, those colors and shapes actually work together.  

Still, I would never make any of my own bikes look anything like that.  And I definitely would not put wheels like those on any bike of mine.  But if that bike makes its owner happy, that's what matters.  Right?

After Paris....A Ride In The Bronx?

Two years ago, the former chief of the French National Police caused a stir when he said that certain parts of Paris were starting to resemble the Bronx.

He was making reference to the increasing crime in those Parisian arrondissements--namely, the 18th, 19th and 20th.  (It also just happens that those neighborhoods contain the city's greatest concentrations of African and Middle Eastern immigrants.)  He is not the first Frenchman, or European, to make such a comparison:  the worst parts of cities, or the banlieues are often likened to New York City's northernmost boroughs, usually based on impressions gleaned from such films as Fort Apache, The South Bronx.  While I certainly wouldn't compare Port Morris with the Place des Voges, not all of the Bronx is poor and crumbling and even its worst parts aren't quite as dangerous as some other urban neighborhoods.  But I guess "Camden" or "North Philadelphia" or "The South Side of Chicago" doesn't have quite the same ring.

Anyway, there is a certain irony in the former police chief's comparison.   It can be seen in certain areas, such as a stretch of the Grand Concourse near Yankee Stadium where I rode today:

 

 

 

 

 

While the buildings are in need of maintenance, some are quite nice:  People actually lived in them by choice.  More to the point (for the purposes of this post, anyway), they bear the influences of Art Deco and classical architectural styles found in many Paris buildings.

Also, you may have noticed that the Grand Concourse, like the Boulevard des Champs-Elysees, is wide, has a parklike median and is lined with residential as well as commercial buildings. 

The parallels I've described are not merely coincidental.  At the end of the 19th Century, most of the Bronx was still wooded or farmland; all of its industry as well as most of its population was concentrated in the southernmost part of the borough.  But new waves of immigration would fill Manhattan's tenements and trains almost to their bursting point, and many longtime Manhattan residents sought bigger apartments as well as more open space but wanted a manageable commute to work.  The city's subway and trolley lines were extended into the Bronx, and new street and apartment buildings were constructed. 

Around this time, a man who had been a surveyor, mapmaker and engineer for the New York Central Railroad (then the second-largest corporation in the US, after the Pennsylvania Railroad) was appointed the chief  topographical engineer for New York City.  His name was Louis Aloys Risse. At age seventeen, he emigrated to the US from France, where he was born in 1850.  Thus, it comes as little surprise that while on a hunting trip (!) in the hills of the North Bronx, he conceived of a boulevard, inspired by the Champs-Elysees, that would connect one end of the borough with the other, and with Manhattan.

So...Do you still think it's so odd that I'd take a ride in the Bronx while still in the afterglow of my trip to Paris?


 

In The Year Of '39

One of my favorite Queen songs is '39.  In it, a group of space explorers go on what they believe to be a  year-long voyage.  However, when they return, a hundred years have passed due to the time dialation effect in Einstein's Theory of Relativity.  So, the loved ones they left when they embarked on their journey are dead or aged beyond recognition.

Brian May, who composed and sang the lead vocals for the song, had studied astrophysics before embarking on his music career.  He has always insisted that '39 is "a science fiction folk song" (hmm...) and denied any political, social or historical references.  But it's difficult to hear the song without thinking of the year 1939, after which the world would not be the same because nobody who survived would be innocent (if they ever were) again.

They would never again be like these boys, who were discussing what would be the last Tour de France for another seven years:

Photo by Robert Capa

 

Cycling In Paris, Then And Now

If you've been reading this blog during the past week-and-a-half, you know that I did a pretty fair amount of cycling during my stay in Paris, which ended just the other day. 

When I went to the City of Light in 2004, I didn't do any cycling.  However, I rode there during eight previous trips from 1984 to 2000, and during the time I lived there before those trips.  (On those previous trips, I rode to and from Paris as part of longer tours in addition to riding in the city itself.)  Now, I'll admit that I can draw only so many conclusions from spending only ten days there, as I did on my most recent trip.  Still, I feel confident in saying that pedaling in Paris this year was a very different experience from that of previous years.

One reason is, of course, that I am a decade and a half older--and my body is very different now, due to the hormones and surgery.  Naturally, those factors make all of my riding different:  I simply cannot rely on pure strength and chutzpah, as I did when I was younger.  Also, I am more careful about where and when I ride, though I must say that I felt less hesitation about taking a midnight ride alone in Paris than I do in New York.  Then again, I stayed in neighborhoods and on streets that were well-lit and full of pedestrian traffic even at a late hour.

But the main reason why riding in Paris was such a different experience this time had to do with how the nature of cycling itself in Paris has changed.  The two most obvious changes are the Velib program and bike lanes.  The former was non-existent, and the latter were nearly so the last time I cycled in the French capital. 

As I have said in previous posts, I am not as enthusiastic as some other people are about bike lanes.  In Paris, as in other places, lanes end abruptly or at rond-points or other intersections that are more difficult or even dangerous for cyclists to traverse than they would be if cyclists had been riding among automobile traffic.  Also, it's not always easy to see where lanes begin or resume.  To be fair, these problems--which also exist in New York and other cities--may be a consequence of the fact that the system of lanes is still a work in progress.  But I think that if the lanes are to become part of a true transportation alternative, they must be integrated with each other, and with the points at which they intersect with motor vehicle traffic.

Also, as in other cities, taxis pull into the lanes (at least, the ones that aren't separated from the streets by physical barriers) to pick up and discharge passengers, and trucks use them to make pickups and deliveries.  Worse yet, in overcrowded districts, such as that around Barbes-Rochechouart, people walk and even congregate in the lanes because there simply isn't enough room on the sidewalks.  Those neighborhoods are also home to African and Middle Eastern immigrants, who don't seem to ride bikes as much as Caucasian Parisians or tourists (at least, those from other European countries and North America).   I think that's why when I rode through those areas, some people looked a little surprised to see me riding in the lane--though, again in fairness, I must say they were very prompt and courteous in stepping aside for me.

Which brings me to another point about how cycling in Paris differs--or, actually, doesn't--from times past, but differs from riding in New York:  One doesn't find nearly the level of hostility from drivers and pedestrians toward cyclists that one can encounter in the Big Apple.  Part of that, I believe, has to do with something I've mentioned in earlier posts:  A culture of adult cycling continued in Paris, and in France, when it was all but dead in the United States.  Thus, as I've mentioned, many drivers and pedestrians are also cyclists, or were recently.  And those who aren't or weren't are at least familiar with cycling and cyclists. 

The one time a driver cursed at me, I deserved it: I made a wrong turn and rode the wrong way on a street near Bonne Nouvelle (ironic, isn't it?) as said driver approached.  I apologized; he yelled "Faites attention!"  Good advice.

As for riding the "wrong" way:  Often, one sees the international Passage Interdit (Do Not Enter) sign with a caption that reads "sauf velos" or "sauf cyclistes".  In other words, it's a one-way street for motor vehicles, but not for bicycles.  I have never seen such a thing here in New York, and for me, it was strange to see it in Paris because the streets are narrower. 

Also, I saw only a few cyclists on sidewalks, and they were riding only from a curb to a door.  They didn't experience the admonishment, let alone the hostility or attention from the police one can experience (especially if one is a Black or Hispanic male) for riding on a New York sidewalk.  Mainly out of habit, I didn't ride on sidewalks:  I rode to wherever I was going, dismounted and walked my bike to the store or museum entrance.

Given what I've described in this post, I will be very interested to see if cycling seems like a different experience yet again should I return to Paris and to the rest of France, as I hope to do one day (year?) soon.


 

On Time Changes And Food

Landed at JFK on one side of midnight. Got back to my place on the other.  A day change, on top of a time change.  My body is in a kind of temporal spasmosis, drifting off and waking up between Eastern Daylight Time and Greenwich +1, which is six hours later.  So, even though there's been nary a cloud in the sky, I haven't ridden today. 

In the past, it's taken a day for my body to acclimate to time shifts.  I'm hoping the same holds true this time.  The trip that just ended was the first I took across multiple time zones in four years.  Does age diminish one's ability to acclimate to time changes?

I'm sipping an iced tea and thinking about some of the food I ate in Paris.  As I was there for only ten days, I decided to stick to more or less traditional French food and not to try, for example, the Korean barbecue  near the hotel or any of the other "exotic" restaurants one can find in the City of Light. 

On previous trips, when I spent more time in Paris and in France, I tried and enjoyed local versions of Chinese, Vietnamese, Middle Eastern and other cuisines.  I also have eaten French regional specialties on their home turf:  bouillabaisse on the Cote d'Azur, cassoulet in the Toulouse region and quenelles in Lyon, for example. 

I have eaten enough meals in France (I once lived there and have returned several times before the trip I just took) that I can say that not every single one of them was wonderful. However, some were and I can say that, on average, one has as good a chance of enjoying a savory meal in France as in any other country.  

Of course, good food is always a result of good ingredients and preparation. But part of the sensual pleasure of eating has to do with its presentation:  something the French seem to understand better than just about anyone else.  Nearly all foods have at least some inherent appeal; it seems that the only people in this world who rival the French in their ability to enhance that appeal are the Italians.

One sees such skills on display equally in four-star restaurants as in local cafes, in the homes of French people (the ones into which I've been invited, anyway) and in hotel kitchens.  It can even be seen in a local fruit shop, like this one just up the block from the hotel in which I stayed:

 

There are definitely worse things to see on one's way out of a country.