pedal pedal pedal

Every day, I ride my bicycle from Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn to midtown Manhattan.  I race up Clinton Street past a wonderful crossing guard who cries, “Come on biker-baby!  Gotta get to work baby!” as she waves me along.  Up and over the Manhattan Bridge, I shoot through the north end of Chinatown, the East Village, up 1st Ave for 50 blocks until landing on 49th street.  I do this Monday to Friday in the rain in the snow on the weekends late at night.  I ride in 20 degree weather and 100 degree weather.  I love it.  I need it.  Instead of taking the subway, numbing myself to the world between A and B, I experience the complete transition from my apartment to my office.  Maybe in a few weeks I’ll write about detours and exploration but for now, I’ll try to stay focused.

I ride fast, I ride purposefully and I’m always aware of my surroundings.  I am really good at this and I’ve got my own rule-book for what’s acceptable and what is not.

I ride a Trek FX 7.2, a hybrid with dominant road-bike genes.  I use clipless pedals which means I wear bike cleats that snap onto the pedals like snow boots.  I sawed a few inches off my handlebar so that it’s narrow enough for me to squeeze between cars but stable enough that I don’t fall over.  I always wear my helmet.  If there’s an obstacle in the bike lane on 1st/2nd Avenue, I slyly glide into car lanes to circumvent the blockage.  At red lights, I look for people crossing the street to determine the likelihood of oncoming traffic.  If it looks good, I’ll blow through.  When a pedestrian is standing in the bike lane (NYC is a pedestrian city – although they shouldn’t be in the lane, it’s without question 100% my fault if I hit them) I slide by as close as possible to scare them back onto the sidewalk.  I don’t have a bell.  Instead I bark, “Hey! Hey! Hey!” like a dog whenever someone is in my path.

Lest you find me boastful, let me take a moment to acknowledge the riders who’s skills I could only dream of possessing.  I’m talking about the guys who pull eight G’s down 2nd Ave.  Pro riders, messengers mostly, who’s bikes were put together with the lightest, simplest, dumpster scraps they could find.  No gears, twelve-inch straight handlebar, tattooed calf muscles bursting through rolled-up jeans.  These guys were riding through Manhattan when Kids hit the theaters.  Hell, they were probably extras in the movie.  They can do whatever they want because they are the best pilots in the city.  If you’re not an above-average rider like me, and you’re not a pro-city rider like them, take special note of the following:

The bike lane is not a yellow brick road you can weave down humming Savage Garden melodies.  Similarly, if you ride a Dahon (a folding bike with 16-inch wheels) you are not going to qualify for the Tour de France.  You’re not even riding a real bike!  You look silly.  Speaking of silly, why is the guy behind me wearing a spandex pro jersey and where’s he going on his $4,000 road bike?  We’re in Chinatown!  Apparently, no one explained to him that drafting doesn’t work when you’re only going 10 miles an hour.  As he rides three inches behind my back tire, I contemplate slamming the brakes so that he crashes into me.  Imagine the conversation that we’d have!  Maybe he’ll reevaluate his life or at least put some clothes on.  I wonder if he speaks French.

Continuing on, if you’re riding the wrong way down the street and are not delivering anything, you are an asshole.  No, no stop, I, no, look, I just, you are an asshole.  Likewise, fixed-gear bicycles are as crucial to hipster status as pocket squares and both are stupid.  Pedestrians on their cell phones crossing the street at a red light without looking should be lobotomized for their own safety.  I said NYC is a pedestrian city, not a dumbass city - get a hold of yourself.

If you’re a solid rider, by all means keep riding.  Make up some of your own rules and adhere to them.  Maybe you'll become a curmudgeon like me.  But if you’re sub-par, if you’re below the grade, if you’re any of the offenders above... please, please stop riding/walking in this town.  Honestly, you are the worst thing to happen to New York since Starbucks killed the dollar cup of coffee.  Eventually, I will find you and pop your tires.

PS, I want one: http://bamboobikestudio.useful-arts.com/

The Early Program Coordinator Catches the Elbow to the Ribs

There are two breeds of morning commuters in New York City: the early-birdies and the later-losers.  I'm not talking about the commuters chosen at birth - the type-A personalities down on Wallstreet who get to work around 5:30 in the morning - I'm talking about the 9:00 a.m. crowd and the 9:30 a.m. crowd.  A few years or decades ago, New York decided that some offices would open at 9:00 a.m. and others would open at 9:30 to ease the transit congestion.  Generally, the 9ers go home at 5 and the 9:30 peeps bounce at 5:30.

Although genetics doesn't guide the 9/9:30 distinction, something else certainly does although I'm not sure what it is.  When I come in to work at 9:30 (yup, I'm a later-loser), the people on the subway next to me are relaxed even when we're packed in so tight that someone else is holding the newspaper I'm reading.  We roll towards Manhattan, reading books, sipping a latte and listening to Coheed & Cambria.  Yes, all of us on the subway listen to Coheed, didn't you know that?  But on a morning like today, when I come in to work early... holy shit.

It's as if someone put just a pinch, a smidge, a dash of crack cocaine in everyone's coffee.  And it's not what you're picturing - no no, it's not a twenty-something throwing elbows and cross checking people in his way.  No, it's a seventy-year-old woman with an umbrella, a granny cart and a serious case of gout ready to throw down and whip the ass of anyone and everyone for the hell of it.  When we lined up to get out of the train, I swear I caught the glint of brass knuckles or a rusty chain on the other side of the door.  Picture the Giants and the Patriots facing off at the line of scrimmage: steam jetting out of our noses, sweat dripping off our chin, ready to pull the head off the animals on the other side.

Sitting here at my desk, safely typing away, I thank God for delivering me safely.  My bruises will heal, cuts will dry up and I'll never come in to work early ever again.