Riding Into Public Service, And Through History

He starts every morning with a ride.  He's retired, and the rides are for his health and fitness.

Back in 1965, however, he pedaled to get around.  He was 19 then and looking for a job.  So he pedaled 2 1/2 miles (4 kilometers), resume in hand, to someone who might be able to help him.

Now, I should mention that the fact he was doing so in 1965 was significant.  For one thing, relatively few Americans rode bicycles if they were old enough to drive.  For another, Reginald "Reggie" Brown was applying for a job for which his mother was rejected two decades earlier.

She had done military service during World War II.  Still, she didn't get the job in her local post office because it didn't have segregated bathrooms.

Now, as a transgender woman, I know a thing or two about being denied the use of a bathroom--and about not getting a job because of an identity you've always had!  I can understand whatever anger, grief or resignation she might have felt.  And I imagine that those things were on Reggie's mind when he tried to get a job as a mail carrier.

Governor John McKeithen and his staff were so impressed with young Reggie that they passed on his information, and added their own recommendation.  Two months later, he was working as a substitute mail carrier.

As satisfying as the job was, Brown did not see it as an end unto itself.  His goal, he said, was public service, and his real passion and dream was to work in law enforcement.  

Eventually, he joined the East Baton Rouge Sheriff's Office, where he became the first African American to become a Chief Administrative Assistant and attain the rank of Major.  After 25 years in the office, he was elected to the Constable's Office, where he served another 18 years.  There, he worked on raising standards for the deputies as he started community programs to do everything from raising public awareness of their rights and responsibilities to helping the needy.

He has written My Bicycle Journey.  Proceeds from the sales of that book will go to St. Vincent de Paul charities.  He hopes, however, that its message will benefit everyone.

Who wouldn't be inspired by someone who rode his bike into public service, and through history?

How Not To Go To Court

A guy has a court hearing.  He rides a bike to it.

This could mean he doesn't have a car or can't drive.  Or, perhaps, it's the easiest and most convenient way to get there.  Another possibility is that he's trying to turn his life around by getting sober and exercising.

That last possibility seems plausible given that one of the charges against him is drug possession.  

But he arrives late.   All right, maybe he got lost or got a flat along the way.  Or there might be some other reason.  Perhaps it might have to do with the stolen property he's was charged with receiving.

Turns out, that stolen property included a chainsaw, an iPhone and groceries--in addition to an adult tricycle and two bicycles.

Oh, and those two bikes aren't the only stolen wheels he's had in his possession.  When he arrived at the courthouse in Laconia, New Hampshire, police detained upon the request of police in nearby Gilford.

Two nights previous, there'd been a break-in at Piche's Ski & Sport Shop on Gilford Avenue.  Guess what was taken during that burglary.  

Jeffrey T. Wyatt, a local transient, admitted knowing that the bike he rode to the courthouse--valued at $1800--was stolen.  He denied, however, any involvement in the burglary.

In addition to the thefts, receiving stolen property and drug possession, he also has charges of threatening with a deadly weapon, criminal trespass and willful concealment pending against him before he was arrested at the court house--for arriving on a stolen bicycle.

20 Million Hacks

Mumbai has two and a half times as many people as my hometown of New York.  Its population is also about half that of Canada, and a third of the UK or France.

It's been said that there are 8 million stories--the same as the number of people--in the Five Boroughs.  Well, one might say that there are 20 million ways of using a bicycle--one for every resident--in the City of Seven Islands.

At least, that was the impression I got from yesterday's post on Hackaday.  In the Gateway to India, it seems that bicycles are used, not only for transporting one's self, but also for moving other people, cargo that seems better suited for ship containers, hay, livestock and even gas cylinders--12 to 16 at a time!-- that weigh 15 kilos empty and 30 when full. 

I don't know which would scare me more:  the potentially-explosive cargo, or that those bikes, with 300-kilo loads, have the same brakes found on typical roadsters.  Come to think of it, I shudder thinking about maneuvering such rigs through winding, narrow, crowded streets that make Broadway in lower Manhattan seem like a Dutch bike lane.

They Aren't Blamed. So Why Are We?

In each of the past five years, more Americans have died from opioid drug overdoses than from car crashes or gun violence.

One reason for this, of course, is improvements in automotive safety.  Another is the campaigns to reduce gun violence, which have succeeded in a number of cities.

But no one would suggest that we should celebrate those developments when people are dying because they were prescribed drugs that they, and possibly their doctors, didn't realize were so addictive.  If anything, people from medical experts to the loved ones of those who've died will say that everything from the pharmaceutical and insurance companies' roles in creating and fueling the epidemic of addiction, to the ways in which the drugs act in the body, needs to be investigated.

And one rarely, if ever, hears anyone blaming the overdose victims themselves for dying in greater numbers than people involved in car crashes or shootings.  Thankfully, most Americans now understand that addiction is a health problem, not a moral failing, and that addicts need help in overcoming the ways in which the drugs overtook their bodies and minds rather than condemnation for "letting themselves" become addicted.

Would that such understanding were extended to cyclists and pedestrians.

In 2017, 27 cyclists and pedestrians were killed in San Jose, California.  An equal number of people were homicide victims.  

As in other large urban areas, the homicide rate in the San Francisco Bay Area, which includes San Jose, has been falling for a number of years.  I don't think anyone is unhappy about that, and don't believe they should be.  It shouldn't, however, be used to trivialize the number of cyclists and pedestrians who are killed.  While not many people are doing that, they are engaging in a kind of victim-blaming they would never direct at someone who dies from an overdose.  Such people believe that cyclists and pedestrians are "over-entitled" for having the right of way, or for having lanes dedicated to them.  

I won't deny that there are careless pedestrians and cyclists.  I would submit, however, that there are far more motorists who are reading or sending text messages, talking on their cell phones, or doing any number of other things that distract them from their surroundings. But it's odd that they are seldom blamed when they crash into other vehicles, let alone pedestrians or cyclists.

So, yes, we should be happy that fewer people are being shot, stabbed or beaten to death.  But we mustn't lose sight of the fact that increasing numbers of people are meeting premature demises while walking or pedaling to school or work, or for exercise.  In other words, a cyclist or pedestrian who is run down by a motorist is as likely as not to be an experienced, responsible cyclist or pedestrian who follows the rules of the road and takes all of the necessary precautions.

Opioid addicts, homicide victims and other people who die from causes not of their making are not blamed for their own deaths.  Why should it be any different for cyclists and pedestrians?

She Wants Girls To Have Fun

It's hard for us to believe, perhaps, that in the early days of cycling, a woman astride two wheels was seen as provocative or even transgressive almost everywhere.

These days, it's hard to picture any major European city, and even a few American cities, without women pedaling to work, to school, or even for fun--sometimes alone, other times in the company of friends and, often, with a baby or toddler in a rear seat or trailer.

In much of the world, however, the situation for women and bicycles isn't much different from how it was in the western world in the 19th Century.  If anything, in some places, the sight of a woman on a bike can incite outrage, revulsion or even violence.

Pakistan is one of those places.  It's one of the more conservative Muslim countries, where women aren't even welcome to sit at tea stalls, congregate in parks or ride a bike for fun.  In fact, a woman in a public space without a purpose--like going to the market or school--is viewed as a threat to public morality.  It's uncommon even to see a woman riding a bike for a purpose, as straddling a seat is seen as a vulgar and sexlike act.

One woman who dares to challenge this social taboo is Zulekha Dawood.  The 26-year-old activities organizer at a community center organizes and leads rides through the streets and alleys of Karachi.  A year ago, when the weekly rides began, only a few young women participate; now as many as 30 women and girls join Dawood.

Zulekha Dawood leading a ride in Karachi.

What makes her efforts all the more remarkable is the part of the city in which the center is located, and where most of the rides go.  It's not a leafy enclave of professionals who were educated in London or New York or Toronto; rather, it's Lyari, a gritty working-class area in the southern part of Karachi.  

This illustrates a criticism that's been made of women's equality movements in Pakistan and elsewhere:  They're usually led by affluent or upper middle-class women, who have access to the education and networks that make it more possible for them to bring their visions into reality. On the other hand, the girls and women who participate in Dawood's rides face more opprobrium because their poorer and less-educated families tend to be more religiously and socially conservative.  

And, to be fair, many such families see marriage as the best hope for their daughters.   They believe that a woman who isn't "modest", or is simply "too independent", will make her less desirable to the "good" families of young men who could provide for her.

Although Dawood's rides are for the sake of riding, she understands that for participants--some of whom she herself has taught how to ride--riding a bicycle is mobility, pure and simple.  If a girl or a woman can ride just because she wants to, she is also more likely to ride to the school or job that will allow her to live a more independent life.  

Surely she understands something my favorite Woodhaven native sang in her best Queens English:  Girls just wanna have fun.  And her critics are upset that she and those who join her rides are doing just that.

The Shadow I Saw

Last week, I wrote about the coldest cycle-commute I've pedaled in many years.  The temperature rose gradually during the week, reaching the freezing mark on Friday and the 10-15C (50-60F) yesterday and today.

We didn't get much snow during the cold spell--the squall we experienced brought more wind than anything else--but the fallen flakes stayed on the ground and froze until the thaw.

The result has been mud everywhere.

Neither Punxsutawney Phil nor Staten Island Chuck  saw his shadow.  According to legend, that means Spring will soon arrive.  But I still anticipate more cold weather before the thaw becomes permanent (at least until next winter):  After all I saw this shadow

of a bare tree.  

The Morning After--A Game And A Guy Losing His Shirt

While out riding yesterday, I stopped in Recycle-a-Bicycle's Brooklyn shop.  I left a few things with them that I know I'll never use but they might need some time.  They were happy for it.

Then I told them the real reason why I stopped there:  I figured it's one place where I might find people who care less about the Super Bowl than I do.

Turns out, I was right. Two of the fellows working there didn't even know which teams were playing.  And I was so proud of myself for knowing only that the game pitted the New England Patriots--who, it seems, everyone outside of New England hates--and the Los Angeles Rams, who used to play in St. Louis and before that in Los Angeles.


Today I'm hearing about how "boring" the game was and that some guy took off his shirt during the halftime--and why it was or wasn't OK for him to do that fifteen years after Janet Jackson's "wardrobe malfunction".  Interestingly, I've heard nothing about the advertisements during halftime, which are usually among the most creative, or simply oddest, to be seen on TV.

Me?  I didn't watch, didn't listen. And I rode to work this morning, refreshed, on my bike.  I hope not sound smug, but I thought it ironic that I was getting healthy exercise on my way to the college on the morning after a game when a few dozen guys pounded at each other's bodies for millions of spectators who ate and drank the most unhealthy things imaginable.

Fitness And Birth Control In One?

If you peruse the listings on eBay, Craigslist or other selling sites, you'll find bikes for sale from sellers who have no interest in cycling or no idea of what they're selling.  Those bikes might be part of an estate sale, or they might have been left behind when someone moved.  

Most of the time, the ads read something like "I don't know anything about bikes, but I know this is a good (or expensive) bike."  The bikes usually are misrepresented, though not deliberately, and are often overpriced because, as an example, the seller knows the bike is a Peugeot but doesn't know a PX-10 from a U-08 and tries to sell the latter for the price of the former.  

Then there are those ads in which the seller tries, unsuccessfully, to describe what he or she is selling.  Parts are misnamed; brands are confused with other brands, and wheels and frames are mis-measured.  

Rarely, though, does one find so much disdain expressed for a bicycle and for cyclists as I found in this Irish ad:

Description

Do you want to spend several hours of your day staring at a man's spandex clad buttocks? Do you want to preplex co-workers and family with details of how you spend most your weekend in uncomfortable, sweaty, silence? Or do you just want an excuse to escape from your significant other for large periods of time? Then look no further, for I have a racing bike for sale!

It has a carbon fibre fork but the rest of the frame is aluminium. It has those pedals that clip your feet in, this is apparently good for cycling but it sucks if you need to stop suddenly because you'll probably fall over, to much pain and embarrassment. It also has a saddle that goes up ridiculously high. This is also good for cycling, I'm told, but I think it really goes up that high so you can present your posterior to other, similarly engaged cyclists as a form of mating ritual. 

The seat is also designed with racing in mind, by which I mean it's light, by which I also mean that it's not padded a huge amount. It can't imagine it does much good to your reproductive health, but maybe that's the point. Fitness and birth control in one.

It has many toothy wheel things, which I am reliably informed are called 'gears'. My brother says it has 20 but I count 12, but I never was any good at maths. There is no combination of switches you can press on this thing to make climbing hills any more pleasant, unfortunately.

It's got twirly handles, I haven't got much to say about those. Probably aerodynamic or summat. It also has kevlar tyres, which I assume makes them bulletproof. Now, I'm not the biggest fan of cyclists but I would draw the line at shooting at them.

Comes with a free helmet to protect your brain when some braindead Irish driver inevitably knocks you into a ditch, despite the fact that your colour scheme is so fluorescent that you could be radioactive.

(In all seriousness, my brother gave this to me as he spent god knows how much on a new carbon-fibre bike, and I have no interest in it. Here's more details on the bike:

http://www.roadbikereview.com/cat/latest-bikes/road-bike/trek/1000/prd_290760_5668crx.aspx )

Shipping: To be arranged

Payment: Cash

Justice Pursues And Is Pursued On A Steelman

What do you do when you realize you can't achieve some youthful dream of yours?

Well, if it involved the creative or performing arts, you can teach them and, perhaps, practice them on a smaller scale or stage--say, in local theatre or gallery exhibits.  You can also teach if you wanted to be the Great American Novelist or a poet--or you can do some other kind of writing like, say, blogs (not that this one makes any money!)

Now, if your dream was an athletic pursuit, you might find a career as a coach or in one of the industries that serves the sport to which you'd devoted yourself.  Or you can keep yourself in shape and become a trainer, or go (back) to school and become a nutritionist or some other professional who helps athletes maximize their potential.

Of course, many people who don't realize dreams with long odds enter careers very different and far from the ones they'd envisioned for themselves:  They might become everything from insurance salespeople to social workers to engineers.  If nothing else, those occupations can provide long-term stability that is lacking in  most of the things we envision when we're young.

Then there are those who simply don't get over not having "made it" and drift from one thing into another--or try their hands at metiers that are dangerous, foolish or even criminal.

When he was still pursuing his dream

One would-be Olympic sprinter made a list of occupations that, he hoped, would offer him thrills or at least satisfaction for the instant gratification he got from pumping his pedals on the velodrome.  He compiled that list after--get this--washing out of the French Foreign Legion.  On the list were jobs that were dangerous, foolish (for him) or criminal.  He tried to enter a couple of them before finally settling on the last one--which was dangerous, foolish and criminal.

As for the foolish (for him), he applied to a Catholic seminary. From what I read about him, he's about as religious as I am, but it seemed, as he said, like a "fresh start."  The admissions officer, however, knew better and advised him to do some "soul searching."

As for the dangerous (and possibly foolish), he talked his way into an informational interview with the Drug Enforcement Agency.  The interviewer, like the seminary's admissions officer, quickly sussed him out: "You don't seem like the kind of guy who's going to kick down doors fighting the war on drugs."

Finally, he got involved with something illegal--ironically enough, dealing cocaine.  To finance it, he would embark on a career that was dangerous, foolish and criminal:  bank robbery.

Not surprisingly, to make his heists, he used one of the skills he honed while trying to achieve a dream of his youth.  You guessed it:  He escaped on his bicycle.  Because he could mount and take off with a burst of speed, he could ride just far enough into some alley or parking garage where the cops couldn't follow him and peel off the neat shirt,tie and slacks he'd worn into the bank. Then, in his billboard jersey and spandex shorts, and with is messenger bag slung over his shoulder, he looked like any bike messenger.  

He actually spent three years robbing and dealing before he was finally caught.  And, as was the case with many serial criminals, he was stopped because someone noticed a detail others might not have seen.

That someone was a police officer whom the rider-turned-robber eluded.  And the detail he noticed was the bicycle itself.

Officer Sean Dexter of Walnut Creek, California might not have been a bike aficionado.  But he knew that the bike--which the thief abandoned when he fled across a creek--wasn't some commuter's Schwinn.  "This bike is special to somebody," he observed.  "We gotta find out who."

It's no surprise that an Olympic aspirant and local champion would ride a bike better than the ones sold in Wal-Mart.  But the bike stood out even on the club training rides our rider-turned-robber did to keep himself in shape. It wasn't only the frame's bright orange color, or the matching deep-V rims that distinguished the machine.  It was the frame's pedigree:  custom-built by Brent Steelman.  

The getaway vehicle

Since he only built about 50 frames a year, it was relatively easy to trace the bike--even though the bank robber who was using it as his getaway vehicle bought it second hand. Dexter and other investigators followed a trail from Steelman to the shop that sold the bike to the person who ordered it and ultimately sold it to the pedaling pilferer.

Now, if it isn't ironic enough that someone was pulling bank heists on a bike built by Steel-man, the name of the racer-turned-robber seems like even more of a cosmic joke:  Tom Justice.

Maybe he should have gone to law school.  I imagine that winning a case can be quite a thrill--and lucrative.

What Did Dr. Graves and Mr. Rhodes Have In Common?

I recall reading that people were always astonished to see Dr. Clifford L. Graves, a renowned surgeon, arriving on his bicycle.  Doctors of any sort were expected to show up for surgery or visits with patients in a Cadillac--the luxury car of choice at that time--or something like it.  

Consternation at seeing him on two wheels instead of four was not alleviated by the fact that he wasn't riding just any old bike:  He rode custom bikes, including a Rene Herse. Of course, most Americans at that time didn't know the Cadillac of bicycles, if you will, from the VW Beetles of the two-wheeled world.

Then again, in those days, almost any adult riding a bicycle in the US would raise eyebrows.  A few, like Dr. Graves, pedaled by choice.  But more often than not, an adult rode a bicycle because he or she couldn't drive a car, for whatever reasons.  And that was (and still is ) a source of shame in America.

Whether the cyclist was a doctor or drifter, the adult cyclist in the States was seen as, if nothing else, an eccentric.  As often as not, they were:  Dr. Graves had a number of interests that ranged far from cycling or surgery.  As an example, he was an accomplished classical pianist and founding President of the La Jolla Symphony Association.

Floyd Rhodes, a.k.a. Bicycle Charlie

Floyd Rhodes' musical tastes, on the other hand, ran more toward country and blues.  And he played guitar, mainly for people who knew him.  As for a career, he wasn't a surgeon or doctor of any sort.  Rather, he supported himself through odd jobs and collecting leftover food from Safeway and W.T. Grant's Bradford Room restaurant.  



He moved to Waynesboro, Virginia with his family in 1916, when he was five years old. Previously, they'd lived in Covington, about 85 miles away.  While the work and bicycle tours of Dr. Graves, born five years before Rhodes, took him all over the world, Rhodes never seems to have ventured much beyond Waynesboro, where he lived in a trailer by the river.

Still, in his own way, he seemed to have garnered respect, and even affection, from his community. When they called him "Bicycle Charlie," it wasn't a taunt or joke:  While they didn't understand his lifestyle, they admired him for his sense of himself.  He was also said to be gentle and generous with everyone.

These two men who lived by their bicycles could hardly have died in different ways.  On the night of 24 July 1981, Rhodes attended a concert near Waynesboro.  After it ended, he rode along Route 250.  A teenager driving along that road struck what he thought was a mailbox.  He continued home and told his father about the accident.  They went to the scene and found, not a mailbox, but a crumpled bicycle.  Not long after, they found "Bicycle Charlie's" broken body in a nearby ditch.

Dr. Clifford Graves

Graves, on the other hand, died on 7 December 1985, after a bout with pancreatic cancer.  Just three days earlier, he'd written a letter to members of the International Bicycle Touring Society, which he'd founded, saying that he had "six weeks to six months" of life left.

In the end, these two very different men had a common legacy:  They reached the corners of their worlds, and other people's lives, on their bicycles.  For as long as they are remembered, they will be remembered for that.