October 12, 2007

NEXT POST
I Want To Ride My Bicycle I have a bike. And it's awesome. I bought it on a whim earlier this year when I stepped into a bike shop and fell in love with the Schwinn Grey Ghost, a remake of the original model made popular in the sixties and seventies. (Consequently, I fell even harder when I found the same bike unused on eBay for half the price. Canal Street Bicycles, you got Jew'd!) Since the purchase, I have taken many-a cruise through Brooklyn, not yet having gathered the courage to ride from home in Park Slope to work in Soho. While an undergraduate at NYU, I went through three bikes, seeing all of them stolen in the same year. Nevertheless, the thrill of flying down a street alongside cars (which I compare to "being in a video game, except real") is one which will not keep me from commuting much longer. My bike - named Blanche (in honor of my awesome, deceased grandma) - is an undeniably sweet sight, a handsome model that has garnered a lot of attention. People stop me all the time, which - although flattering - continues to take me by surprise. I always knew there were people into bikes, but I didn't know there were Bike People (although I should have, as biking is a strong self-contained culture). Among these people, those over forty tend to take a genuine interest in bike culture and its history. And that's cool. But then there are those ladies and gentlemen closer to my age who treat their bikes the same way dog handlers treat their pets: like trophies. However, the love that a dog handler holds for his canine differs from bike people in that bikes aren't alive, so the level of concern is more so a result of one's treating the bike as a mere extension of their wardrobe. A friend of a friend who I see at parties every few months or so, is a self-proclaimed "Bike Guy." He lives in Williamsburg (natch) and dresses like the retarded, long-lost cast member of A Different World. Besides the fact that he hasn't remembered my name for two years, I also hate him because he constantly disguises his boasts about "almost" getting hit by cab doors and occasionally having to take the godforsaken public transportation to work (::shakes fist to sky::) as mere conversational fodder. He casually mentions bicycling in the same way people nonchalantly let you know that they don't own a television or that they knit for fun. Did he forget to uncuff the pant of his right leg again? Whoopsie daisy! Is that silly biker cap still on his head? Silly boy! Incidentally, I did end up at The New Yorker Festival's How New Yorkers Ride Bikes, a live event "curated" by the infallible David Byrne last weekend. I initially attended only having known that the Young At Heart Chorus would be performing, so their only having performed two songs was quite a letdown. Nevertheless, Byrne organized an amazing event that - for the most part - weeded out all the queerbomb hipsters who would otherwise let bicycle owners avoid the growing trend of treating one's bike as a metaphor for one's life.

My Other Accounts

Recent Comments