Bike Love NY

Painkillers

1/23/2018

Anyone who has had a bike accident which required them to go to the ER, will be asked about their pain level. In my case, as I sit dizzily on the bikeway trying to get my bearings, my hunky lifeguards arrive cheerily bearing first aid, and offer me - wait for it...

Fentanyl.

Fentanyl?! That seems a bit of a stretch. I haven't broken my back. I need an addiction like I need another broken arm. My wailing obviates the need for a siren as the ambulance speeds over bumpy streets to the ER (I turn down the offer). There, I’m told Fentanyl is all EMTs are allowed to give me. Not morphine (50% less potent, but also less dangerous), not Ibuprofen, not Tylenol - not even an aspirin (not that that would have helped much).

Clearly, there's money in opioids, and it's turned the entire medical profession into pushers - even the lifeguards! There's money in prescribing opioids, and there's even more money in getting people off them. A whole industry in fact, of rehabs (when the 12-step programs were always meant to be free). But guess where else there's money?

Medical marijuana. And I'm in California.

OK, it's not the same, but a couple of days after leaving the ER, (with a prescription of Oxy I never asked for), I opt for a more holistic approach. I go online, talk to to a doctor, and get a prescription for medical marijuana.

A veteran of New York's Blue Laws, I'm unschooled in the ways of cannabis, and quickly encounter a learning curve. Active ingredients, I’m told, can generally be divided into CBD (no associated high) and THC (join Weight Watchers now). CBD is used as a mild painkiller, often for people with arthritis, and also as a sleep aid. Since the pain from my broken arm has been keeping me awake at night, CBD sounds like a good idea.

I find a dispensary nearby.

The waiting room is small and subdued with subtle lighting, and a receptionist in dreadlocks. But it is distinguished from any waiting room I've ever been in by the pungent stink of muscular, well tended cannabis. The receptionist takes my ID and I peek through the teak slats behind him. It looks like a deli. It looks like a candy store.

It looks like the Herbology class at Hogwarts.

“Budtenders” stand patiently behind the counter. The atmosphere is quiet and professional. One person at a time is allowed into the dispensary. Alas I am not one of them; my New York ID invalidates my California prescription.

Before I can ponder what to do next, The receptionist tells me that it is possible to order for delivery. He gives me the number of his sales rep: “Tell him you are a friend of Sonny who's a friend of James, Sarah’s boyfriend, who...” This “Rep” is sounding more and more like a dealer. Do I really want to go down this road?

But it turns out I don't need to. A quick call to a friend as I am leaving, reveals I never needed a prescription to begin with. In California, recreational pot is just as legal as medical! Will wonders never cease? Next stop: MedMen.

There's a 10-minute wait outside the place, and ID is checked, but except for the familiar odor when you get inside, there is a 180 degree difference between this and the dispensary. Designed to look like an Apple Store...

There is a central island with iPads showing photographs and Peterman-like drawings of plants, accompanied by text detailing the strains, the origins of harvest, percentages of CBD to THC. There are also flat, covered dishes with magnifying glasses built in, and spring-loaded latches so you can sniff the product.

Assorted marijuana products line the walls: bubble bath balls, dropper bottles, vaping pens, sublinguals, chocolate-covered cannabis-infused blueberries (5 mg THC per bite), weed for rolling. Wandering salespeople are knowledgeable and available to help - and business is booming: the noise level rivals Macy's on Christmas Eve (before Amazon). By the time I leave, the line stretches around the corner.

I wonder what's going to happen to those little dispensaries when word gets out about this place?

I emerge with 2 salvs for my sore shoulder (one with THC), and a bubble bath ball. Oddly, these come in both CBD as well as THC versions (seniors bring your Life Alert pendant with you into the tub). Oh, and a bottle of drops for sleeping.

The sleeping drops are lovely, the salvs only go so far. Broken bones are too much of a challenge for marijuana it seems, and I wind up resorting to Ibuprofen, Tylenol, and the strategic application of cold packs.

I am lucky my pain is manageable with just these. I pass no judgement on anyone who needs more powerful pain relief. There are meds for that.

But to my knowledge, no pain killer has ever been invented for the pain of a broken heart. As I'm leaving MedMen, I spy this.

Like the lover who dumped me but lives nearby, this is a sight I know I'm going to have to get used to every time I leave the house. Especially back in New York where bike lanes are increasingly ubiquitous. The first protected crosstown lanes are going up right near me. I was the one who recorded the ride to illustrate the need for them.

I still believe in cycling, and I will always love it. I will always admire the riders: working cyclists, commuters, day-trippers and racers. They are road warriors extraordinaire. But in three years, I've visited three different ERs. The best I can do now is to continue to advocate for cyclists, help keep them safe, and on the road - out of the ER and off painkillers.

7 Comments

Unrequited Love

1/10/2018

10 Comments

He's bad for you but he makes you feel so good. Attractive, powerful, even immortal. It's a fallacy of course. Haven't you been listening? Self-worth comes from within! And yet, there's something about him. You've never felt this way before about anybody (and you've been around). He’s irresistible. There are a growing number of red flags, but you are confident you will be the exception.

Your life opens up. So THIS is what love is about! The more you learn about him, the more fascinating he becomes. You can see a future here. You travel together. You begin to record and write about your experiences. Then one day for no reason, he hits you - hard. You are in shock. What happened? You did nothing wrong. You hope this is a one-time event. You vow to be better. You tentatively recommit. Then out of the blue, he hits you again and the cycle repeats itself.

Did I say cycle?

Once again in Los Angeles over Christmas, I rent this beauty.

We do a number of great rides together. Cheviot Hills (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJDlPG2nCJ8). Patricia Avenue (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vgldZ1wznO0). This bike is sparky and fast. As the “Bomb Cyclone” ravages New York a continent away, what better act of defiance than a protracted ride along the beach in LA?

I start from the entrance to Ballona Creek.

And ride almost 30 miles. At Manhattan Beach, I learn this is where beach volleyball started.

But ultimately, I become less interested in the beach itself, than the creative ways people have found to look at it.

I wish I had started this ride earlier. It goes all the way to Palos Verdes, and I would love to make the entire trip. But winter light is shortened even in Los Angeles, and I reluctantly turn back so as not to have to cycle in darkness.

I'm running at a good clip, passing a fellow cyclist. The path is not congested, there are no sharp turns to be made. But there is by definition a fine, invisible sprinkling of sand. And before I know it, I hit the ground too fast to even brace myself. I hear the familiar and terrifying clattering of the bike. My head bounces off the pavement. I'm wearing a helmet, but when I sit up, I can't move my arm.

And here is the great difference between New York and California: in a twinkling, I am surrounded by 5 beef cakey lifeguards, the front line for EMT here, all focused on me with concern, and smiles that would light up a stadium. If only I could reach my phone! No one will believe I could ever attract babes of this caliber. It's the one highlight of my final escapade.

I will not take the reader through the painful ambulance ride, the drudgery of the ER, the x-rays, the scans showing a shattered humerus - and having to once again be taken care of by my long-suffering sister. My heart is too broken for that anyway. I know it's going to be 4 to 6 weeks. I know my riding days are coming to an ineluctable end.

And like any woman in a halfway house who looks back on her abusive relationship, I can no longer ignore those red flags. Bono. My late friend Jamie Johnson, who died on his bike. A woman in her twenties I heard about just a year ago, riding in a group with helmet, not particularly fast, who hit a pothole and went down at an odd angle. Paralyzed for life. Friend of a friend who spent 3 months in the hospital with a hip injury. Twice. The wife of my internist who will never walk again without a walker. Young still. My own orthopedist, former cyclist, who was so badly injured on a downhill in Europe that he was out of work for a year and a half. In short, every cyclist I know on one level or another. There may be people this never happens to. I am not one of them. The fact is, I love the bike, but the bike does not love me back. Not the way healthy people define love.

In my heart of hearts, I knew this day would come eventually. I just didn't think it would come so soon. And it’s jarring to be here so abruptly, having just recommitted to this blog.

I have no regrets. I wouldn't take back a moment of it. There is nothing like cycling: the exploration, the sense of adventure, the pure joy of being alive. The breathing of outdoor air, of real air. Discovering parts of New York, of Missouri, Ireland and France I would never otherwise have seen. Riding has made me healthy and strong - but not invincible. In the space of 3 years, I have had three injuries, and three lengthy recoveries. This does not bode well.

Many years ago, having suffered a romantic betrayal, I consulted a friend in a healthy marriage. I will never forget the question she asked me. “How can you love someone you don't trust?” And how long, I ask myself, before the betrayal has much worse consequences?

For the record, and before you even suggest it, spinning is not a viable alternative. That would be like giving up the Goth bad boy for the stamp collecting guy in high school who wears the pocket protector and whose idea of adventure is rearranging turtles for the class science project. This guy might one day make a good provider, but no woman in an abusive relationship is ever gonna trade her abuser for this. Love is still love.

I’m not ready to give back the ring. The thought of selling Lola, even worse Lucille, is more than I can bear right now. I will put those decisions off for another day.

For now I just need to heal, and think about how I can look for joy in other ways. Nothing will give me what cycling did. But somewhere out there is a healthier love.

10 Comments

What I Didn't Know (part 1)

11/24/2017

4 Comments

It’s everyone’s dream to be able to go back in time with the wisdom we have now, but in the circumstances of the past; to experience life with a sense of predictability and control, and make better decisions. Living our lives with the advantage of hindsight is a fantasy forever plaguing us second-guessers (“If only I had known!”). But what if the chance to do that still doesn’t give you the answers?

When I began this blog, I was just starting breast radiation, a grim and very real procedure following surgery (which was bad enough), and what was left of my denial was running on fumes. Waiting rooms of neon light, whose rock music mocked hairless patients with searing radiation burns; sessions on the gurney bombarded by the mechanical whip-sawing sounds of medical equipment – all of these were hammering home the fact that no matter what I did, I was from hereon in an eternal member of the Pink Ribbon Club.

My mother had died just weeks before. Time off the gurney was spent grieving, shutting down the bureaucracies of her life, planning a memorial (amid thoughts of my own), and sorting through a history of acquisitions precious to her after years of decline.

So the sight of two people joyfully carrying their Bromptons down the steps of a Mexican restaurant on a Spring evening startled me, long in a deficit of hope. I was primed for anything that held promise of life. I saw them and touched with an imaginary finger, the filmy membrane of memory - bike rides of my youth, speeding along sandy streets between tall dunes, surging with independence and optimism, the sense of having life ahead of me, of freedom and possibility. I felt something within me spring alive I had not felt in years. On the strength of that vision, I brought Lucille home the next day, and never looked back. Until now.

What would I have said to my then-self in that moment if I had known the future? If I could have foreseen a fractured wrist, or 5 months stranded away from home healing from a knee fracture; if I could have understood the physical - and worse mental - pain of learning how to walk again. Would I take back any of the rides I’ve gone on - through Manhattan, over its magnificent bridges, through the five boroughs? Would I prefer never to have ridden in France? In Ireland? In short, would I have thought the risks worth the experience?

Cyclists, when discussing these things, usually answer “Oh, it’s just a part of it. You heal and keep riding.” As if these things were never permanent (I've learned sometimes they are). And my circumstances have changed. The results of a recent bone scan show the stakes for falling are much higher for me now. So the question arises: is there a point to keeping a biking blog if at any moment a sudden injury could put an end to it? And more importantly - should I be riding at all? Wrestling with these questions explains – if anyone is interested – my silence lo these many months.

The thing is, hindsight isn’t always 20/20. Given the warnings I’m now aware of, given my own personal experience, I still find myself attracted to riding. And I ask myself all the time why, since I'm not a daredevil by nature. To be sure, I ride for exercise. I also ride for transportation. I ride to experience my city in a different way, to see more of it, to rejoice in it. I ride for the sense of empowerment I don’t always have in other areas of my life. And of course, I ride for joy. In the end though, I think I ride because I ride. I don’t know if I can explain it any better. I ride because there’s just nothing else like it.

And so I have decided to continue this blog. Because there's still so much I don't know, and riding for me is the best way to discover it.

4 Comments

Crosstown 21st Street East to West

9/22/2017

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21st Street: East River to 1st Ave
21st Street is subsumed by Stuy Town

Cyclists going west are forced onto 23rd Street

21st Street 1st Avenue
First Avenue bike lane only goes north forcing southbound cyclists to ride to 2nd Ave.

23rd Street 2nd Avenue
Parking Protected Bike Lane on 2nd Ave

21st Street 2nd Ave-3rd Ave
Street too narrow to accommodate bike lane

21st Street Grammercy Park South

Crossing Park Ave South
No LPI

21st St Park Ave South-Bway

21st Broadway Intersection
No LPI

21st Street Broadway-5th Ave

21st Street 5th-6th Aves

21st Street 6th-7th Aves

21st Street 7th-8th Aves

21st Street 8th-9th Aves

21st Street 9th-10th Aves

Crossing 10th Ave
Bike lane disappears, forcing cyclists to ride 10th Ave in traffic to 22nd St.

22nd Street 10th Ave-Hudson Greenway

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Crosstown 20th Street West to East

9/22/2017

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20th Street 11th-10th Aves
No bike lane coming off Hudson Greenway, forcing cyclists to "salmon" up 20th which runs in reverse on that block.

20th Street 10th-9th Aves

20th Street 9th-8th Aves

20th Street 8th-7th Aves
Bike lane disappears

CitiBike dock forces cyclists to right, where cars are also turning right onto 7th Ave (no LPI); bike lane up ahead starts on the left.

20th Street 7th-6th Aves

20th Street 6th-5th Aves

20th Street 5th-Bway

20th Street Bway-Park Ave

Crossing Park Avenue: No LPI

20th Street Park Ave-Grammercy Park South

Narrow street forces cars to intrude into bike lane

20th Street 3rd Ave
Bike lane changes sides without notice

20th Street 3rd-2nd Ave
Cars take bike lane, cyclists fend for themselves

20th Street 2nd-1st Aves
Bike lane reverts to left

20th Street at Stuy Town

20th Street at Stuy Town to Loop Exit

20th Street at Stuy Town at Loop Entrance

20th Street to East River

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Blind Spots

9/26/2016

1 Comment

Since I’ve returned to cycling, I notice a reluctance to take my eyes off the road and check if someone’s coming up behind me. It’s a question of confidence: after being off the bike for 6 months, I’m still getting my riding legs back. But this negligence has led to some near misses. Not good.

The fact is, even when I do take that moment to check, cycling takes place over time: what was absent when I first glanced, may be suddenly present by the time I make my move.

So I bought a helmet mirror. They’re called “rear view mirrors,” but in fact they tell the future. Without a mirror, one false move can trigger a series of others whose consequences escalate in geometric progression. With a mirror, there is more information about what lies ahead (based on what's behind); it buys some time to make safer choices.

If only we had such mirrors to guide us in life.

Last year, I went on a ride of the Katy Trail with L and 4 of her long-time friends. I haven’t seen any of them since.

I bring this up because cycling is often done in groups, and fitting into a group dynamic is a skill just as important as knowing how to follow a route map. Musicians are chosen for their chops, but often just as important, is how tolerable their personalities are; because you spend more time traveling together than you ever do on stage. As a musician, I passed this test. As a cyclist, I flunked: I lacked the rear-view mirror that showed dangers creeping up from behind; I was completely out of my depth in a group of people who’d known each other for 40+ years (and pretty much shared the same rear-view mirror). And even if I’d had such a mirror, we all have blind spots.

It’s humiliating to consider that that many people agreed I was not a suitable traveling companion (not that I’m arguing). But the hardest part has been losing L as a riding partner. She was a cycling “mother” if you will. She took me from a Brompton to a road bike with clips; she taught me the value of training, repeat hills and maintenance. She really got me started.

Will I ever join a group cycling trip again? It’s certainly easier (though pricier) to go with the big names: Back Roads, VBT, Butterfield. The rules are clear; the responsibility lies with the company. It’s a little lonely if you’re single, but the trade off is that the personal stakes are low.

As for my trip on The Katy Trail, today I can look back and see where I made the first bad choice which started the unraveling of trust (the fault is not only mine), but I can’t go back and change it. All I can do is learn from my mistakes, and not be too hard on myself for having made them.

Hindsight after all, is 20/20.

1 Comment

A Good Friend

9/22/2016

1 Comment

In an effort to get back into shape, I’ve gone into training doing the Central Park Loop a couple of times a week. I’ve worked up to riding the Loop twice, with two hill repeats (a total of three ascents), the last one standing on the pedals. Other than my quads being a little “noodley” after that last ascent, I’m feeling pretty good about my come back.

Until I run into this guy:

I’ve just done two hill-repeats and am headed around the loop for the last killer ascent, when he draws up next to me.

“Did you know you’re not sitting straight in the saddle?” He asks.

“Um, no,” I reply, “How’m I sitting?”

“You’re veering off to the right”

“Interesting,” I say trying to defend myself against this unexpected criticism while at the same time making sense of it.

He rides off.

That’s the thing about New York. Everyone has an opinion.

I confess to feeling slightly deflated. Who is this guy anyway? And what business is it of his how I ride? He wouldn’t have said anything if I’d been a man.

But after blaming the messenger for awhile, I decide to evaluate whether his comment has merit.

The fact is, I’m still making a come back from a Tibial Plateau injury. My right leg, while adequate for walking, is still not as strong as the left. Is it possible my body is compensating?

I continue around the Loop and make my final standing-on-the-pedals ascent.

But my heart isn’t in it. I get back on the saddle ¾ of the way up…

Notice something? No, not the pot holes.

The photo is not level – none of them are level. My camera has slid way over to the right.

Now that I think about it, it’s been doing that almost since I began using it – way before my injury. I used to think it was a problem with my helmet, and even got a new one, but that didn’t change anything; my footage often came out right-slanted, forcing me to edit it back to level. Since then, I’ve worn my helmet tighter, but still this keeps happening. If my riding posture is the cause (and I’m forced to admit that’s the most likely culprit), maybe this is a more intractable problem than I realized.

And a more dangerous one. When I had my fall in LA, I was turning left but I fell right. I’ll never know exactly how it happened, but wouldn’t be surprised if my right-slanted posture had something to do with it.

And now an invasive New Yorker has pointed out the problem.

In Buddhism, this guy would be known as “A Good Friend.” A Good Friend can be someone who’s kind and supportive. It can also be someone who acts as a mirror or catalyst for actualizing our higher self. It’s not always pleasant. It wasn’t pleasant for The Buddha* and it’s not pleasant for me. But correct cycling posture is a vital component to riding.

Friends come in all shapes and sizes. Some are kind and some are cruel. All of them are useful.

*http://sokaspirit.org/1354

1 Comment

We Ride Together

9/15/2016

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Lauren Davis. Giovanni Nin. Sam Hindy. Matthew Von Ohlen. These are just four of the 18 cyclists who have been killed by cars this year, the last death believed to be intentional (no one yet apprehended). They were not riding recklessly. Sam Hindy was attempting to navigate a dangerous intersection in The Bronx; Matthew Von Ohlen was in the bike lane in Brooklyn. But they were left unprotected by the infrastructure that Mayor Bill DeBlasio had promised when he outlined his Vision Zero plan (no more deaths by car by 2024). It’s just September, and already we have surpassed last year’s tragic number of 15 cyclists dead. The NYPD’s response? Ticket cyclists for minor infractions.

In case you think you’re off the hook because you don’t ride, consider this: every 6 minutes, a pedestrian is struck by a car in New York. In the event of a fatality, it’s a misdemeanor for the motorist (if it ever gets to court), and TWU Local 100 - the NYC Bus Drivers Union - is trying to overturn even this.

Enough is enough.

Transportation Alternatives is gathering with numerous other organizations – the 5BBC, Families for Safe Streets and others – to stage “We Ride Together,” an unpermitted ride of 1,000+ cyclists in yellow shirts, down 5th Avenue. We’re cyclists, but we’re riding for safe streets for everybody.

We gather at The Plaza.

And listen to TA Director Paul Steely White (and several supporting City Council Members) talk about the need for safer infrastructure in all 5 boroughs. Our city is built on a 1950’s model he says, where city streets were seen as super highways. But the density of the city was very different then. With today’s population and rampant development, the needs of pedestrians – and cyclists – must take priority over the car. The City is encouraging cycling; there are Citibike stations coming to all 5 boroughs.

Where is the infrastructure to protect us?

The ride takes off to a stereo chorus of tinkling bells.

It's incredibly moving to see nothing but bikes as far as the eye can see:

We may not have the horse power, but we have the numbers. And it doesn’t take much to see we are just a fraction of the total number of cyclists...

And pedestrians out there.

Many of whom are glad to see us.

It’s a joyful ride, but a defiant one. Chanting, “Whose Streets? Our Streets!” and wearing yellow signs that read, “Mayor DeBlasio, People Are Dying,” some of us hold up photos of people we lost, killed by cars.

But drivers won’t go down without a fight. Like this guy, who drives right into our peloton, leaving his car in the intersection, determined to defy us whatever it takes.

Today at least, he’s on the losing end of that argument.

We sail through midtown, our members acting as volunteer traffic directors to protect us.

Down towards the Flat Iron building in the fading light...

And finally to Washington Square Park (we ride around it first), where we gather to thank everyone who put this ride together.

And to mobilize in groups to get home. I’m in Manhattan, where significant progress has been made. To my astonishment my ride home takes place completely on buffered and parking protected bike lanes.

A route that did not exist even a year ago. And as I ride, my eyes well at the commitment of the activists who made this happen. Someone thought of this. Someone cared about us.

But large numbers of my fellow riders come from the other 4 boroughs – boroughs where long-identified “dangerous streets” are still the only riding alternative. Until all of us are safe, none of us can be safe. In the meantime, we ride together.*

*Hours after the Vision Zero ride
http://gothamist.com/2016/09/16/brooklyn_cyclist_in_critical_condit.php

For more coverage of We Ride Together:

1 Comment

The Politics of Joy

8/20/2016

3 Comments

Two years ago, I rode Summer Streets for the first time. At 24th Street, I pulled over, curious about the tent exhibitors. I was immediately approached by Tom DeVito from Transportation Alternatives. He was not a cyclist, rather an activist for people who want to cycle, walk or use public transportation. He asked me if I would be interested in joining TA.

Absolutely not. I’d had it with advocacy. As a veteran of the anti-fracking wars – a heavy lift from the beginning when nobody even knew about it – the last thing I was interested in was volunteering for another hopeless cause. Yes, it was a good one; there are lots of them. Who doesn’t want a livable city? But the anti-fracking battle – a daunting fight waged by determined little old ladies (I should include myself here) against multi-national corporations with infinite resources - had worn me down. Riding was my new-found escape from all that. Did I really want to pollute it with one more David and Goliath fight?

But then something happened.

I started to explore the 5 boroughs and the bike infrastructure for which TA had advocated – and there was a lot of it. I went to my first TA meeting. I was hooked. Unlike those early fracking meetings, a litany of one horror story after another, these meetings were actually hopeful. They were enlightened, spiritual even. And best of all, they got results; I was riding on the success of their advocacy.

Back then, TA was working on a parking-protected bike lane for 6th Avenue. They had already fought for and gotten a striped bike lane there (a miracle in itself on this commercial artery), but every time I found myself on it, the massive presence of vans, swerving taxis and semis so overwhelmed its little markings, I vowed never to repeat the experience. I was doubtful parking protection would ever happen. But if TA was for it, I was going to support them.

Based on the hope of TA’s cheery meetings, I found myself one of the “counters” along 6th Avenue, keeping tabs on the number of cars, trucks and bikes (regular, delivery and CitiBikes) for an hour a few times a week, to report bike usage. It was cringe-worthy to watch them, but our counting paid off: it turned out 10% of the traffic on 6th Avenue consisted of cyclists (brave ones if I may say so).

Now, almost 2 years to the day of my refusal to get involved with TA (ever!), I am riding a transformed 6th Avenue uptown from Summer Streets, the paint so fresh I can smell it.

Well waddya know, we did it. We actually did it.

Full Disclosure: the 6th Avenue project had been a TA priority for a few years before I joined – it did not happen overnight. As of this writing, it begins at 8th street and extends only up to 34th Street. But it is a project I’ve seen get off the ground against what I thought were impossible odds; a miracle I can point to in my own neighborhood, and it is already transforming how I get around town. If this can happen, what else can we achieve?

I continue to engage in the anti-fracking battle and while it’s not over yet, never underestimate the power of those little old ladies. They single-handedly held off the multi-nationals (a shout-out here to Vera Scroggins*, a heroine on the front lines) getting a moratorium against fracking in New York State, something we were assured would never happen. Keystone is history, and the battle has moved to the national stage.

But what renews my spirits to go back to that fight is the thinking I am reminded of every time I ride a protected bike lane in New York. The idea that the City belongs to all of us to make use of and enjoy safely; that how it works is up to us, the only limit being our imagination. And the notion that working for change can be a joyful process.

It’s not airy-fairy. It takes work and cooperation - with the DOT, with Community Boards, with City Government and the Mayor’s office, with activist groups like the TA Activist Committee. But it’s inspiring to be a part of it. It’s a different kind of politics than the kind I’ve been used to.

I think of it as the politics of joy.

*If you want to help Vera in her heroic battle, you can go here:
https://www.generosity.com/community-fundraising/donate-for-my-work-exposing-gas-industry-pollution--2

3 Comments

Summer Streets 2016

8/6/2016

1 Comment

What’s green, has wheels and grows?*

Summer Streets! It’s three Saturdays in August where those of us on wheels (and on foot) can dream of what New York would be like if there were no cars to hit us.** It’s environmentally friendly, and it gets bigger every year.

If you get there early (7am), you can beat the crowds. It’s almost like a Twilight Zone episode.

And this is Canal Street:

Which usually looks like this. Hint: it’s not just cars we’re avoiding.

This year, I’m newly back on the bike and I know the course.

It looks long, but on a bike it goes fast. I don’t want to go fast, I want to savor. So I take Lucille and take my time riding up, towards Astor Place...

Union Square where the Farmers Market is just setting up.

And finally onto Park Avenue which is Bike Nirvana at this time of the morning

But I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you this is my favorite part (it's everybody's favorite part):

The Park Avenue Viaduct which winds around Grand Central...

And which until Summer Streets, I’d only ever seen in a taxi. The feeling of freedom - that for three days we actually own the City we live in – can’t be beat. And before you know it, it’s over:

And we turn around.

Getting to view Manhattan during Summer Streets is a rare and wonderful experience especially for those of us who were here when no one cared about us:

And leads to a natural comparison between then and now. It’s different, but it’s the same. Nobody cares about us now either; they care about the banks, and the banks care about real estate. So we have buildings like this:

And monstrosities like this, which no one we know can afford to live in, and which are permanently ruining our skyline.

(I call this the Finger Building because of its shape and because of its gesture to the rest of NYC’s residents).

But New York is safer. Much safer. And though fewer and fewer artists can afford to live here, we do have art:

And of course, we have Summer Streets – an unimaginable event in the era of Mayor Abe Beame.

I’ll take it. I’ll take all of it. I’ll take more of it. I wish Summer Streets could last all summer.

And maybe one day, they will.
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*Confession: I stole this riddle from a joke I grew up with in the 60s. The answer then was “Grass. I lied about the wheels.”
**According to Transportation Alternatives, a pedestrian is hit by a car every 6 minutes in New York.

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