Taking Flight In The Snow

So...How am I ending 2018 or beginning 2019?

The more accurate questions are "where?" and "with whom?"

As to the first question, here is a clue:

I arrived in Florida yesterday.  Palm Coast, to be exact.  That's my parents' yard, complete with canal.   

So I answered the other question.  The last few years, I've come down to the Sunshine State around the 6th or the 7th of January, to avoid the holiday rush.  But I decided to come earlier this season for a couple of reasons I'll mention later.

It started to snow in New York about five minutes after my flight took off.  When I got off the plane in Daytona Beach, it was warm enough to jump in the ocean. I didn't do that, of course. But I might today, during the course of the ride I'll take.

Then I'll join my parents in sending out the old year and bringing in the new one.  It's funny that in my advanced middle age, I am doing something I did as a child.  The difference, of course, is that this is a choice.  And, of course, it will be preceded by a bike ride.

What If We'd Worn Them?

If you're of my generation, you didn't wear a bike helmet when you were a kid.  But, if you have kids, you probably are making them wear helmets when they ride--at least if you're in the US.

That got me to wondering:  What would our childhoods have been like if we wore bike helmets?

From Pixabay

You Don't Need Math To Do This

A few years after graduating from college, I bumped into a classmate in the Columbus Circle subway station.  Working for a then-new technology company, she said she liked the work and it paid decently but "nothing is what I expected it to be."

She explained that she got into the work she was doing after being a lawyer for a couple of years and "hating it even more than I thought I would."

"So you went to law school even though you didn't think you'd like practicing law?"

She nodded.  "Why?," I wondered.

"Because I didn't know what else to do.  And I can't do math."

That, for a time, was a running joke:  You got your undergraduate degree in whatever and you can't figure out what to do with it.  You may not know what you can or want to do, but at least if you can't do math, there's always law school.

I considered law school for about 15 minutes, but of course never went.  I must say, though, that some of my other choices have been influenced by my numerical ineptitude:  majoring in English literature and history as an undergraduate, working in publishing and public relations, writing and, of course, teaching.   None of the work I've done has required more computational skill than balancing a checkbook.

Now I'm going to make a confession:  One of the reasons I'm such a dedicated cyclist is that it, too, does not require any math.

All right, that's not really true.  But whether you are an astrophysicist or someone who uses a calculator to figure out how much your lunch cost, you can enjoy cycling. Just ask Nick Charalambous.

Nick Charalambous.  Photo by Ken Ruinard for the Anderson Independent Mail

The Anderson, South Carolina native undertook around his home state.  Yes, literally around it:  His route zigged and zagged along its Atlantic coastline, Savannah River banks and the border with North Carolina.  He'd been battling a rare form of lymphoma, and his ride was a way to celebrate his recovery and raise money for the Lukemia and Lymphoma Society.

He completed the ride.  But two mathematical calculations made it even more of a success than he'd anticipated.

First of all, he calculated that his 14-day ride would span 820 miles.  But, at the end of his ride, he realized his tabulations were erroneous:  When he looked at his maps and other information, he found out he'd actually pedaled 930 miles.

His second numerical mistake had to do with the money he raised.  His original goal was around $1000, and his pledges, he thought, would bring him to that amount.  But he underestimated his sponsors' generosity:  In the end, he raised $5250.

Nick Charlambous may not be very good at math.  But he makes up for that with his determination, which is how he completed his trip, even though he had never before taken a bike ride approaching its length or scope.  He also credits his faith which, he said, showed him that he was given "a body new" after his illness.

What he didn't gain, of course, was mathematical ability.  But he doesn't need it:  After all, who said you have to be any good at it to ride your bike?

The Sidewalk Was The Path To His Death

One thing I've learned during my trips to Florida is that many sidewalks are de facto bike lanes.  

More precisely, there are ribbons of concrete that wind and wend alongside multilane roads where the speed limit is 45 MPH (70 KPH)--which, in Florida, means 65 MPH.  One rarely sees a pedestrian on those "sidewalks", so there are no prohibitions against cycling on them.  

The good thing about them is that they are usually separated by at least a meter of something--usually grass or other vegetation--from the roadway.  Interestingly, I almost never see motorists pulling into them. I don't know whether there's a law against doing so.  My theory is that the drivers know some of those little "lawns" might actually be mini-swamps, and their vehicles could get stuck in them.

Riding on the "sidewalks" isn't bad:  Most are well-maintained and rather spacious.  But there are two major hazards I've found, both of which might be reasons why Florida has, by far, the highest death rate for cyclists in the US.

One is crossing traffic intersections.  Nearly all of those sidewalks lead cyclists and pedestrians into the path of right-turning vehicles, who are often going fast.  To make things worse, sightlines are often poor, so even the most conscientious of drivers could hit a cyclist who's clad head-to-toe in safety yellow.

Another is that, sometimes, parts of those sidewalks are blocked, without warning.  So, if you are moseying along and suddenly you find a crew from the power or water company drilling into your path, you have nowhere to go--except the roadway which, as often as not, doesn't have a shoulder.

Dr. Robert Dalton Jr.

Dr. Robert Dalton Jr. encountered such a scenario while pedaling from his home to the Maitland Sun Rail station where, on a normal day, he'd catch the train that would take him to Orlando Health, where he practiced his profession as a cardiologist.

His work no doubt saved more than a few lives.  But nobody could save his on 17 December, when he was struck by a driver.

The sidewalk was blocked for construction of an apartment complex.  This has led to some finger-pointing between the local officials--who say that the construction company should have erected scaffolding that would have allowed cyclists and pedestrians to pass underneath--and the construction company, who say that the city or county or whomever should have put out blinking lights or other warnings for drivers to slow down.

Of course, the scaffolding would have been the better alternative.  But even that would not have addressed other problems, like the ones I've mentioned, that are found on Florida sidewalks-cum-bike lanes.  And, of course, nothing will bring back a well-regarded doctor and beloved member of his family and community.

Needy Kids Have Homeless Man To Thank For Their Bicycles

One of the best-known non-profit organizations in the New York area started because a homeless woman died.

On Christmas Eve 1985, Metro North Police ejected the woman from Grand Central Terminal.  The temperature outside had fallen below the freezing mark and the woman, suffering with pneumonia, returned to the terminal--specifically, to an area that, at the time, wasn't enclosed--in the early hours of Christmas morning.  

She fell asleep on a bench and never woke up.

If you've been in the Terminal recently, you've seen a well-lit terminal that, even when it's jammed with rush-hour commuters, really earns the moniker "Grand" with its ceiling mural and sweeping staircases. But when the nameless homeless woman died there, the mural was covered with soot (mainly from tobacco smoke) and everything else was covered with filth or worse.  

When the "Jane Doe" lived and died there, a man named George McDonald--a garment-industry executive--was feeding homeless people and even got to know a few of them.  They all knew about the "Jane Doe"--whom they called "Mama" and alerted him to her death.

She spoke little English; later, it was determined that she was an Eastern European immigrant.  She seemed to know almost nobody besides the other homeless people who frequented the Terminal--and Mr. McDonald.

Her death led McDonald to a career change:  He would start the Doe Fund, which he still co-directs.  The organization's work includes career training (as well as transitional work), education and helping to provide housing so that people like "Jane Doe" can break cycles of poverty and homelessness--as well as addiction and other problems.

Although the woman's death was a tragedy, it at least led to something that might help others in her situation.  The Doe Fund doesn't perpetuate her name (at least not the one she had before it was forgotten), but at least it helps to provide some people what they need--and what she didn't have.

In Asheboro, North Carolina, the death of another homeless person has led to a charitable program.  It's not as big as the Doe Fund--at least, not yet.  Maybe it never will be as big because its scope is different.  But it's at least an attempt to help some people who have very little.  And it bears the name of the man whose death motivated it.

Gary Long

Gary Long was known to area residents who saw him riding his bicycle loaded with aluminum cans he was hauled to the recycler.  As poor as he was, area residents--including congregants of the West Asheboro Church of God, which he attended--saw him as a generous man.  Matt Gunter said of Long, "His heart was, 'If I had a million dollars, I would love to give kids bicycles.'"

His metaphor might have been a bit jumbled, but Gunter's intentions were good--and he acted on them.  He's the pastor of the church, and he appealed to congregants for monetary donations. 

They gave him enough to buy 12 bicycles, which were delivered to the Salvation Army for distribution to needy children.

Gunter says this donation won't be a one-time event:  He plans to repeat it next year and in years to come.

Pastor Matt Gunter (left) and Luis Viera (of the Salvation Army) with bicycles donated in name of Gary Long.

He is doing it in the name of Gary Long, a homeless man who died on 21 October.  At least Gunter knew his name--which is more than anyone knew about a woman who died in the bowels of Grand Central Terminal in the wee hours  of a Christmas morning 33 years ago.