As I have mentioned in earlier posts, Florida has had, for several years running, the highest--by far--bicycle fatality rate of any US state.
A number of factors contribute to the high body count: a car-centric culture, a lack of consciousness of cyclists among motorists, high rates of alcohol consumption and a lack of shoulders or sidewalks, let alone bike or pedestrian lanes, on most thoroughfares.
One notable exception to the dark side of the Sunshine State is Flagler County. It's the only county in Central Florida (roughly defined as anything within a two-hour drive of Orlando) in which a cyclist wasn't killed in 2018 or 2019.
I can attest that the county is indeed safer for bike-riding than other parts of the state (at least the parts in which I've ridden). In fact, I enjoyed riding there and immediately saw the difference when I crossed into neighboring St.John's or Volusia counties, especially when I neared St. Augustine or Daytona Beach.
You see, the largest city in Flagler is Palm Coast, where my parents lived. I've documented a few of my visits in this blog. There are a number of paths in the city and county, and most of the major roads have, if not actual bike lanes, then wide sidewalks where cycling is permitted. And, I must say, pedestrians, in my experience, were very courteous.
Plus, there just seemed to be more cyclists in Palm Coast and Flagler than in neighboring areas, or even in the areas around Jacksonville, Miami or Fort Lauderdale, where I've also ridden. I don't know whether more people ride because the conditions are favorable, or those conditions exist because of the cyclists.
My mother is gone and I don't know how much longer my father will stay in Palm Coast. At least I have pleasant memories of riding there. Little did I know that I was in an island in a storm of cycling mishaps!
Here's something romantic to tell your spouse, boyfriend, girlfriend, life partner, significant other or whatever you call him/her/them:
Of course, you would say it only if that person is also a cyclist. If he/she/they are/is not a cyclist, you might witness aviation history in whatever space you share!
One Valentine's Day many, many years ago, I was riding my bike by the Rutgers campus. I was flat broke, as I often was (and would often be on many occasions later). What would I give, or do with, my girlfriend? I could have made something, I suppose, but I wouldn't have felt right, knowing that I slapped it together in even less time than I wrote at least one of my papers. And, at that point, my cooking skills consisted mainly of boiling and frying.
While pondering all of the things I couldn't give, or do for, her, I pedaled by the botany lab. A blur of red, deep red, streamed into the corner of my eye. Rose, thou art sick. I'd read William Blake's poem at least a few times, but why was I thinking of it then--with a riot of deep crimson in my line of vision.
The dumpster outside the botany lab overflowed with those flowers. Roses, redder than any in the Queen's garden--or any upper Madison Avenue florist. Rose, thou art sick. They probably are not well if they're in that dumpster, I realized. But they were so, so red, like the bloom of one who grows more beautiful while drawing closer to death. (I'd recently read a Japanese story like that.)
Giving no thought to what might be keeping those petals redder than Mississippi in any election during my lifetime, I yanked my handlebar and made a beeline for that corrugated steel cornucopia of floral bounty. I propped my bike and scooped as many roses--their stems still attached!--as I could handle. I found a piece of twine lying nearby and used it to tie whatever I couldn't carry to my handlebars, top tube and seat tube.
On my way back to my apartment, I stopped by an art studio and appropriated some ribbon, and large vase from a conference room. Then I pedaled to the language houses, where my girlfriend stayed.
One of her housemates answered the door. Slackjawed, she darted up the stairs and summoned, it seemed, all the other girls in that house--and my girlfriend. They watched as I handed her more roses than any of them had seen in their lives. Oh, and those roses were redder--even if they were sicker.
About the only thing that's the same in my life is that I still ride my bikes. I have a few more than I had then, not to mention the memory of that day, when I might have made someone happier (and a few of her friends more envious) than I've made anyone since.
I still wonder what kept those roses so red--for almost two weeks after I found them! Rose, thou art sick. A few years ago, I looked her up, worried that those roses may have made her give birth to sick children. As far as I can tell, she remained childless. Because of the roses?
They don't seem to have affected me. I still ride, after all.
It's no surprise that cities like Amsterdam and Paris have "Bicycle Mayors." But what if, say, Detroit were to select such a person?
Turns out, the equivalent of that has happened in England. Adam Tranter, who runs a public relations and marketing agency, has just been appointed as the first Bicycle Mayor of Coventry, often referred to as Britain's "Motor City."
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| Adam Tratner |
Interestingly, during the 1950s, Great Britain was the second-largest producer of automobiles (after the US) and the largest exporter of cars. But the decline of Coventry, and the British automotive industry, mirrors that of its American counterpart and Detroit: more innovative and higher-quality machines, competitively priced, began to enter both countries from France, Germany and Japan from the 1960s through the 1980's, at the same time the perceived (and sometimes actual) quality of domestically-produced vehicles plummeted. The British decline was exacerbated by the introduction of low-priced cars from Eastern Europe and Asian countries not named Japan.
Ironically, both Coventry and Detroit were centers of their countries' bicycle industry: In fact, many developments--including the "safety" bicycle, with two wheels of equal size driven by chain and sprocket gearing--come from the Midlands area around Coventry.
The
fact that both countries were incubators, if not cradles, of their
nations' bicycle industry is one of the reasons why they became
automotive centers: Just as Henry Ford and other pioneers of the
American automobile began as bicycle mechanics or designers, British
bicycle designers transitioned into motorcycles and cars.
A further irony is that as the automobile manufacturing disappeared, both cities actually became more auto-dependent: According to one survey, 64 percent of all trips to work or school in Coventry were made by car, as opposed to 3 percent by bicycle. One of Mr. Tratner's jobs, in his voluntary position, will be to get more feet away from gas pedals and onto bicycle pedals.
Perhaps one day Coventry will return to its "roots," if you will. Could Detroit go the same way.
"So you ride your bike to work?"
"Yes. It's great."
"What do you do when you get a flat?"
I own the road: I pay road tax.
I've heard some version of this argument over the years. What drivers often forget is that those of us who don't drive are paying all of the same taxes as those who use their cars to get to the corner store. As I pointed out to someone who accused me of taking "his" parking space, the only tax I don't pay that a driver pays is the one levied on gasoline. But, in a sense, I pay for it, as other taxes, at least to some degree, subsidize the relatively low cost of petrol here in the US, just as the deductions from my paychecks help to pay for road building and maintenance.
The "I pay, I own" argument is even more emphatic, or vehement, in those places where a newly-emergent middle class is forsaking two wheels and pedals in favor of four wheels and gas pedals. That, of course, was the story of Chinese cities early in this century. Now it seems to be the narrative in Gaborone, the capital of Botswana.
Whereas most people rode bikes to school or work just a few years ago, now the bicycle has a double stigma: It is seen as archaic and something that you use only if you're poor.
I've never been to Gaborone, but according to BBC correspondent Sharon Tshipa, it's "the worst place in the world to ride a bike." Not only are the drivers as reckless as the worst kinds of teenagers, they are quite open in expressing their hostility toward cyclists. Some even threaten or promise to mow down riders.
These dangers to bicycle riders’ physical safety and mental well-being are compounded by hazards to their internal medical condition. Gaborone has some of the world’s worst air quality. The sheer volume of vehicular traffic would, by itself, be enough to degrade the city’s environment. But a particular quality of the city’s fleet makes things worse. While some new cars are imported from neighboring South Africa, many more used vehicles come from other countries, where they failed to meet emission standards.
Whether or not Gaborone is the worst place to cycle, it’s sad to see people forsake their bikes, and disturbing that such hostility has developed against remaining cyclists. From what I understand, some Chinese cities are re-discovering the bicycle. Perhaps Gaborone will do likewise one day.
