A lot has happened in terms of bloggables lately, and I guarantee that I won’t cover all of them. But I will try to touch them all, at lease in brief.
In early May, I bought a bicycle. It was a $100 Craigslist job that had brakes that worked (kind of) and wheels that only slightly wobbled. It is a Schwinn Continental road bike that is the beautiful burnt umber ubiquitous in the ‘70s, complete with chrome hardware and lugged joints. It even has a steel kickstand lugged into the frame. In sum, it’s a tank of a bike.
My plan was to ride the bike to work. That, I figured, would make the city more Rexburg-y, which in this context I am referring to as a good thing. It would free me up to softly whistle to myself as I rode, liberating me from the social pressure on the subway to not whistle. I could, much in Rexburg style, ring my bell and wave at people on the sidewalk as they walked jealous of my freedom. I could take Sunday afternoon rides through the alfalfa fields and past the rope swing over the irrigation canals full of crystal clear, clearly potable water. It would transform my world, that tank of a bike.
Once I bought the bike, I knew that, regardless of my naïve Rexburg-y attitude, I should purchase a lock. Before I proceed, I must point out that during my 3 years at BYU-Idaho, I locked my bike once. This was during an overnight trip to Sun Valley I was taking for the Steinbeck festival in Sun Valley, and I thought to myself, “What the heck. Might as well throw this thing on here.” Upon my return, my bike was gone. It seemed strange to me.
It turns out that the bike was stolen by some local hooligans (referred to by the Rexburg police as "Mexicans") and later thrown into a half-empty canal when they were pursued by the authorities. I was able to recover the bike, and, as it turns out, I did not use the lock properly. I locked the frame to the front wheel, but not to the bike rack itself. A minor oversight, I assure you.
Anyways, I go to the local bike shop here in NY and ask what kind of lock they recommend. Their response: “We don’t recommend any of them.” Interesting response, right?
“I see. Then what should I do?”
“Just don’t lock your bike up, ever. If you do, it will get stolen, we guarantee it.”
“Oh, I see. What about that big one there, with the inch-thick chain that weighs 18 pounds.”
“Yeah, it doesn’t work. You see, a hacksaw right here and a hydraulic car jack there … just like that your bike’s gone.”
“So if I can’t park my bike inside …”
“Just don’t ride it. You’ll be throwing it out the window.”
I turned around and walked out, a bit dejected and feeling like a failure. I was a victim of the worst salesmanship of all time. It seems like a counterproductive business model for a bike shop. Not only did they not sell me a lock (which can run up to $80), but they did not give themselves the opportunity to sell me a new bike once mine was stolen.
Eventually, I went to a place closer to my apartment out in Queens where no one speaks fluent English. Even if they wanted to discourage me from buying a lock they couldn’t. (This is just an example of how complicated the path of least resistance can be.) I then had everything that I needed, happiness just moments away.
A quick anatomy of my commute. From Sunnyside to Long Island City, a piece of cake. There is a marked bike path on Skillman Avenue until you hit Queensboro Bridge. The bridge has a bike/pedestrian path seperated from traffic by a cement barrier, so the level of danger is very low. I mean, I get dripped on (I find it best not to ask what is dripping, as a general New York rule) and have to avoid bums driving shopping carts occasionally, but nothing to complain about.
However, once across the bridge, things get a little more complicated for a cyclist. You then hit midtown Manhattan. This is a place where lane markers are only gentle recommendations and where blinkers only indicate that you are from out of town. As I came off the bridge and ventured into traffic I felt the same as I felt wandering into Mrs. Webster's Kindergarten class 18 years ago. Where to go, what to do, TBD.
The first few days I just parked my bike on a corner and waited for a fellow cyclist who looked like he or she knew how to ride without riding under a bus. I would then try to keep up, learning the unwritten rules of riding in NY.
And so it went until I soon became more comfortable and knew where the danger zones were. I soon realized that I needed to be in the right-most lane at 58th Street or I would be toppled by the traffic turning left onto the bridge. And that pedestrians are equally as vocal in their dissaproval as cab drivers. I learned that two-lane roads are scarier than one-lane roads, especially when you are riding down the double yellow. I also learned that one-lane roads are scary when you're going the wrong way down them.
I am happy to say that in almost 3 months of parking my bike at Bryant Park, it has not been stolen. And I am also happy to say that since I started riding to work, I have lost more than 20 pounds. I attribute 60% of that weight to excercise and 40% to the anxiety of 19 blocks' worth of vindictive motorists and pedestrians with an inordinate sense of entitlement.
