Crash My Bicycle

This isn’t my bicycle, but it’s the same model. From Chuck’s Bikes

This is a story about my bicycle. It was built for me by Danny, the man behind the infamous karaoke show.

Danny bought a pretty sweet bike, an early ’80s Raleigh Grand Prix from the just after Raleigh was bought by Huffy, before the quality dropped off. It was too small for me, but I fell in love with it. I told him to find me one if he had the chance.

Three weeks later, he called and told me he had it in my size. You’d be surprised what Danny’s capable of.

In the first six rides I took with it, I had three accidents. Danny thus christened it “Trois Clangours”. Jerk.

I’ve had a LOT of trouble with this bike. The accidents, mechanical failures, all manner of trouble, adding up to it spending far more time out of commission than in use. Which is weak sauce, obviously.

Nevertheless, when it’s working, it’s my machine. We get along, it and me. I can feel it doing my bidding reflexively. I don’t worry that it’s going to do anything that I don’t want. It’s going to get me where I’m going, safely, as long as I don’t make a mistake.

Sometimes, though, I get in accidents that just aren’t my fault.

Like that raccoon? I couldn’t have slowed down. Even my slow-motion memory of the event barely gives me enough reaction time; no telling how long I actually had to react, but it wasn’t long.

Yes. That’s right. I hit a raccoon. In New York City.

For what it’s worth, I was riding on the loop in Prospect Park. There is actually something resembling woods in that area. I was riding home from work one night; it was around 7pm or thereabouts. It was October, dark, and chilly. I was wearing my blue-and-brown striped sweater. There was a guy riding ahead of me, about the same speed. He was two bike lengths ahead, and to my left. I heard him say, “Whoa!” and saw him dodge something. I caught site of the something, just had time to recognize it as a fast-moving raccoon and yell “Fuuuuuu–” as I tried to jerk my bike around it.

There just wasn’t enough time. I hit it square.

I went airborne. My front wheel was bent, destroyed, and my forward motion ceased instantly. My rear wheel went in the air, and I lost contact with my bike. While I was in the air, I had two thoughts. First was that I didn’t want to land on my head. Curiously, this had nothing to do with my own safety; I didn’t want to crash my helmet and have to buy a new one. That in mind, I judged my trajectory, put my arm out, and used it to absorb the majority of the fall and transition into a roll.

The second thought was “I hope I don’t break my phone.” [Spoiler alert: I didn't.] It probably says something about me that I thought nothing for my own personal safety, only that of my material goods. What it says is probably not good.

I rolled off my left arm, onto the shoulder, and up the other side. My momentum actually took me momentarily off the ground again. Here, the memory is blank. I know that I ended up crouched on my elbows and knees, hurting with a pain so pervasive and so powerful that I can still feel its phantom when I think about it. But I don’t know how I ended up that way. Did I land like that? Did I roll again and crawl up to it? I could not tell you. I wonder now if I did end up hitting my head at some point, causing me to black out for a fraction of a second.

It’s not important, I guess. I crouched there, first making sure that no part of me was searing white-hot with the pain of, say, a freshly broken bone or an open gash.

I looked at the raccoon, just in time to see him dash off into the trees, apparently uninjured.

I was a little bitter. It’s entirely possible that I remain that way. I mean, couldn’t he have at least been a little bit maimed? COME ON!

Then I looked at my bike.

It didn’t make me happy.

Things that were fucked: front wheel; handlebars; brake levers; stem. Things that were somehow spared: fork; saddle.

Now back to me. The guy who had initially dodged the little bastard was beside me. He asked if he needed to call an ambulance. I ran a piece-by-piece check and decided that I was unbroken, just bruised. He asked if “all parts are working.” A new bystander looked at my bike and said “No, man, his bike is fucked.”

I said those weren’t the important parts.

I was finally able to drag myself off the asphalt and get to my feet. I was a little woozy from a body full of aches, but I was only a mile or two from my house and didn’t have cash or desire to find a taxi. So I walked.

I called ahead and asked if maybe there could be some hot chocolate waiting for me when I got there.

There was. For that I am ever grateful.

And now my bike is called “Quatre Clangours”.

If I Help Somebody, There’s Mercy for Me

Awesome homeless guy sign from holytaco.com

Pop quiz: what’s the difference between a homeless person panhandling for money and a hippie 20-something standing on the corner begging for some cause?

Answer: none.

Both wear dirty clothes, have unwashed hair, and can be too pushy. They’re both begging for money from someone they perceive as better off than they are, and if you tell them no, they’ll occasionally go above and beyond the call of duty to make you angry.

That said, I’d much rather give my money to a homeless person. They annoy me far less.

The “cause” kids can go die in a fire. The rules of (dis)engagement with them are the same as with the homeless, or anyone else for that matter: headphones in your ears, head down, don’t make eye contact, keep out of their path. However, the homeless don’t go out of their way to get your attention. For one, they are likely to be seated, beleaguered, next to a sign that can tell you, based on its level of desperation, how long the person has been homeless. If you don’t hear them, they don’t generally, for example, jump into your path and thrust out their cup.

They are also not asking for a $20 monthly payment. The homeless usually ask for change, which I admit amuses me given the relatively low value of American coin money, but add enough of it together and it still buys a sandwich or a bottle of booze or even a cheap place to spend the night. The cause kids want you to give up your bank information so they can run your “charitable donation” every month. Will I miss that $20 each month in the end? No, probably not. I’m not nearly that desperate. But it’s a lot more of a hardship for me than dropping a couple quarters or a dollar into a sad woman’s cup.

I am a filthy liberal, it’s true, and I have the attendant guilt about a lot of things. I’ll cop to my relative lack of charitability being one of those things. I wish I gave more, and I probably could if I crunched my expenses. But you know what else I cop to? The fact that after all my expenses, I have enough to keep myself amused, and not much more, and no amount of pressuring or cajoling is going to change that fact.

Ultimately, if it came down to a push and shove between the homeless and the cause kids, I’ll take the homeless for being generally more respectful and more openly crazy. If I tell them no, they move on. If I tell the cause kids no, they’ll do things like offer to walk me to the bank to check my balance.

You know what happens when you do something like that? You make me angry, and frustrate me, and turn me against you personally and all your peers.

I know what it’s like to have the actions of one affect the perception of all. As a cyclist, I know that pedestrians, drivers, and even other cyclists assume I’m an asshole with a serious disregard for traffic laws, safety, and in the worst case basic human decency. Am I an asshole? (Well… okay, fine.) But do I act with impunity and disdain towards the law and others? No. In fact, I do everything I can to encourage fellow feeling between cyclists and non-cyclists (especially the traffic cops, who could use all the support they can get).

That doesn’t really mean anything, though. Non-cyclists assume that I am their antagonist. Everyone on a bike is the same, for their intents and purposes. That means they occasionally lash out or cause trouble. That also means that I occasionally have to assume the posture of the asshole cyclist to defend myself. Do they recognize the difference? Of course not. So the cycle (no pun intended) repeats ad infinitum and I have to worry for my life every minute I’m on a city street.

That same principle is why I always assume the worst about the cause kids. If it just happened once in a while, okay, maybe they’re short of their quota and extra aggression is required. But over my time here, I’ve been on the receiving end of unwanted, forced attention from them too many times for my taste, so I assume they’re all going to do that, and act accordingly.

Is it possible that I’m wrong? Yes, it is. But I still get caught enough to make my actions justifiable, at least to myself.

The lesson here is that you’re not doing your cause any favors by being an asshole. If I can reasonably compare you unfavorably to panhandlers, I think it can safely be said that you are doin it rong.

I enjoy charity as much as the next guy. I understand the need for clean drinking water/malaria vaccines/money for gay rights. I support your positions. But when I tell you I don’t have the money, you should listen to me. Then, maybe next time, I will have it.

Just a thought.