Photo Essay: Another LA River Bridge Tries to Unify Two Sides of the Same City

In early 2020, I was working on an article for KCET's SoCal Wanderer that brought me to Rio de Los Angeles State Park—one of three California state parks along the Los Angeles River, this one located in the Los Angeles neighborhood of Cypress Park. 

It’s a project first initiated nearly 30 years ago—and, having opened in 2007, it's now become part of the Los Angeles River Revitalization plan to restore 11 miles of the LA River between Griffith Park and Downtown Los Angeles.

But three years ago, there was no easy way to get from the park, formerly part of the Taylor Yard railyard, to the other side of the river (an area known as Elysian Valley/Frogtown).

That changed last year, when the Taylor Yard car-free bridge opened up in the Glendale Narrows section of the Los Angeles River. 

Photo Essay: Pedaling the Rails of the Comstock Lode

I was in the Carson City, Nevada area for the first time ever last weekend for the Great Western Steam Up, in celebration of the 150th Anniversary of the completion of the Virginia & Truckee Railroad, "Queen of the Short Lines."

It wasn't ever a commercial passenger railway—instead being devoted solely to carrying freight for the mining communities of the first major discovery of silver ore, the Comstock Lode. 

Back then, that part of Nevada—mostly centered around Virginia City—was considered the western part of the Utah territory. 

Naturally, I wanted to experience as much of the V&T as I could while I was in the area.

Although 24 miles of rebuilt tracks are active between Carson City and Virginia City, the operation of those rights of way is somewhat fragmented. There's only one roundtrip train departure from Carson City to Virginia City per day, on Saturdays and Sundays only. 

   

I decided to ride the rails from Carson City's V&T Eastgate depot in a different way: on a railbike. 

R.I.P. Tom LaBonge, One of LA's Most Engaging and Enthusiastic Public Servants

In 2013, then-City Councilmember Tom LaBonge had helped arrange a tour of Griffith Observatory for the Los Angeles City Historical Society—but he'd gotten called away and couldn't join us there until the very end.

Tom LaBonge at Griffith Observatory, circa 2013

When he finally arrived, he brought a sign with him that said "Enjoy and Love Los Angeles." And that was pretty much his motto his entire life—right up until he died this week at home in Silverlake (where he was also born).

Photo Essay: Hansen Dam, from Floods to Drought

Considering the drought we're in now here in California, it's hard to believe that flooding was once a major concern in the LA area – enough to channelize the lush LA River with concrete walls and bottom, and institute other flood control measures, like the massive horseshoe-shaped Hansen Dam.



Located at the foot of the Angeles National Forest, near Big Tujunga Wash, the dam (at the time, the world's largest of its kind) was built by nearly 1000 men after the catastrophic floods of 1938  – though, as evidenced by the nearby Verdugo Hills Cemetery, it didn't necessarily fix the area's flooding problem altogether.



These days, with everything all dried up, Hansen Dam is known more as just a recreation area...



...its earthen wall creating a nice elevated surface for a bike path...



...for people to wheel, run, and push their strollers high above the bridle trails to the north, and the golf course to the south. (It's a good spot to witness any horses sinking into the reported quicksand below, too.)



But as you reach the middle of the dam...



...you area reminded of its function...



...with a spillway topped by a bridge...



...and a channel that doesn't stop the water from flowing...



...but merely slows it down to prevent another flooding catastrophe.

Out there...



...with the mountains in the distance...



 ...and the horses below...



...Hansen Dam is an engineering marvel that offers panoramic views of the San Fernando Valley...

...whether or not there's any flowing water to be slowed down.



As for now, despite the drought, you can still find plenty of water in the nearby recreation lake (which offers fishing and boating)...

... and at Hansen Dam Aquatic Center's "swim lake," which provides 1.5 acres of chlorinated water for swimming, two water slides, a manmade beach, and all those mountain valley vistas.

For me, this place is far more interesting than any of LA's more popular beaches (many of which I've visited, but have had nothing to write about).

Related Posts:
Los Angeles River's Beautiful Ugly

Under Pressure

Why is it every time I go to ride my bike, I have a flat?

Before the CicLAvia "To the Sea," I discovered two flats.

Before tonight's Toluca Lake ride with Councilman Tom LaBonge, I gasped at a cracked-out, pancake flat in the rear despite having gotten a tune-up a mere two weeks ago, from which the front tire was still rock hard.

What keeps poking its way into my tires, piercing their inner tubes?

What is gnawing its way through the bushes and the gate and the lock and tarp and the rubber?

What weather is aging and cracking them, when it's summer, nearly all year long?

How did I go my entire life without changing one single tube, and now I've had at least four flats in less than a year?

Maybe because I never really went anywhere when I was a kid. The road in my little permitted perimeter was safe. The garage was clean. The tires were protected, sheltered, pristine - as was I.

But, am I riding my bike that much now? Not really. Weeks go by with it chained to the fence, untouched.

And usually that's when I get a flat, my bicycle revolt against disuse.

If you don't floss, your inflamed gums bleed at the slightest touch.

If you hide from the sun, your delicate skin burns at your first exposure.

If you don't ride your bike, the tires go flat.
Then again, if you do ride your bike, the tires go flat.
The tires just go flat.

But I'd rather they go flat out on the road, than only when coming out of storage.

So instead of canceling my ride tonight, despite the late hour of discovery, despite needing a new tire altogether, its threads exposed through a crack in the side, I hustled to a Burbank bike shop to get a new tube installed, and hurried my way over to Toluca Lake to try it out. As often as those tubes go kaput, I was going to try to ride it out for a couple of hours, just so I could see something new in LA, from atop two wheels instead of four, out in the open air.



We rode through lovely residential streets, past Bob Hope's house. We crossed Riverside and Lankershim and Cahuenga and Moorpark, sometimes with the traffic light, sometimes guided by the flashing lights of our police car escort. Very close to the lake itself, we rode alongside the golf course, under the highway overpasses and beneath the glowing neon of Paty's and Bob's and The Federal Bar (bringing us notably beyond Toluca Lake, into North Hollywood and Burbank).



I kept checking my rear tire for pressure. It seemed to buckle under my weight, give between my squeezing fingers a bit too much. Although it lasted for the two hours of our leisurely, paved ride, I've got to get a new one before I ride again.

But do I get one now? Or lock it back up and wait until the next ride? If I replace the tire now, who knows what'll happen to it until the next time? Who knows when the next time will even be?

Related Post:
The Air in My Tires

Roll Me Away

I have this perpetual inclination to get away.

Wherever I am, after a while, I want to be somewhere else.



Fortunately, where I live now, I can cross the street and be in another city.

I can hoist my bike onto its rack, drive ten miles or so east, and suddenly, I'm in a very different place.

And with helmet on head, sneakers on feet, hydration pack on back, from the center of Los Angeles, even at night, I can just roll away.



I can roll through Little Tokyo and Chinatown, past the mariachis of Boyle Heights, and across the LA River to get back again...



...through Skid Row...



...and down Broadway, a few (but not all) of its neon lights gleaming.

But the thing is, Los Angeles is so big, so vast, no matter how far you roll, it's always there. You can almost always see it - through any smog, from any mountain or canyon, from the beach to the Valley - but you can most certainly always feel it.

For me, the key to staying in Los Angeles - potentially long-term, though the jury is still out after only two years - is that it doesn't claustrophobically close in on you, keeping you in and locking you up like a prisoner. You are free to go. Its bridges and tunnels (as it were) are always open, leading you out to strange, otherworldly places and unusual things. And when you're ready to return, it welcomes you back in.

As much as I stray (from my apartment, my neighborhood, this vast city), now that I'm out here, it always feels good to come back home, and roll on back in.

Related Post:
Under My Rock

An Alternate Route

I had such a good time at last fall's CicLAvia that I considered asking Edith to come visit from NYC during the spring weekend so she could experience it too.

But then six months passed and I forgot, and when Edith attempted to schedule her next visit, her only available weekend just happened to coincide with CicLAvia.

Bonus.

Last fall, they had free bike rentals, but this spring, we'd have to arrange a paid bike rental for her. This hung over me like a dark cloud, as did the inevitability that my own bike would have two flat tires after having sat dormant all winter, locked to the fence in the back.

The route was different this year, too, making its way all the way down Venice Boulevard - a former Venice canal - "to the sea."



At my suggestion, we started at the sea, for easy bike rentals and a reverse route to fight bicycle traffic from Downtown LA. At first, it was smooth sailing.



I wanted to go as far as Alvarado and Venice, to see all the route I hadn't seen before, but it would've been 12 miles one way, 7 or 8 miles more than I did last year round trip. So instead, with Edith in tow, with whom I've biked a minimum of 12 miles before in the past, I set a minimum goal of Venice and La Cienega, a familiar intersection 12.4 miles away from our starting point. At LaCienega, my usual turning point off of Venice, I asked if we could go farther, so I could at least see a bit more of a stretch of boulevard I never drive on.

We made it as far as Airdrome Street, only a few blocks past LaCienega, when I suggested we turn around. We didn't have much time before the streets were going to reopen to traffic. We didn't have much energy left.

And we would have to fight the crowds back to the sea.



On our bike ride back to Venice, we encountered the worst traffic jam I have ever seen in Los Angeles, making me think that alternative transportation is not such a viable alternative, and - after getting hit* by two fellow bicyclists - making me wish for my car. With only one side of the road closed off to vehicular traffic, there were too many bikes vying for their route to the sea. Tricycles competed with unicycles. Fifteen-foot custom bikes competed with tandem bikes, sidecars, and motorbikes. I kept having to look over my shoulder to make sure Edith didn't get left behind.

These were not the open streets of last fall. This was a nightmare.

I blame the popularity of the event, as well as its infrequency, causing such an outpouring of support that a half a boulevard could not handle the demand. I blame multiple municipalities (Los Angeles and Culver City) being unwilling to completely shut down their streets, allowing cross-traffic at too many intersections. I blame a route designated along one half boulevard with no other options.

I hate to see something I love in LA get worse. But things change. People change their minds. Routes vary. We rely on genetic variation and biodiversity for the ultimate success and survival of the species.

But as much as I like trying new things, sometimes I don't like change. If something tastes good, feels good, works well, and makes me happy, why alter it?

[*corrected from typo "bit"]

Related Posts:
Free-Wheeling the Open Streets of LA
Proceed With Caution

To Like Avoiding Regret on Facebook, click here.

Free-Wheeling the Open Streets of LA

This weekend used to be my favorite weekend.

Since 2003, I used to look forward to the first weekend in October to have the opportunity to tramp around various New York City sites as part of Open House New York weekend.

When I announced that I was moving from New York to LA, I told all my friends, "Don't worry, I'll be back for Open House New York."

And my first year away, I did return for the first weekend in October.

But this year, my second year away, I did not.

I stayed in LA this weekend. While New York opened its doors to museums, historic homes, subway substations, and the UN, LA opened its streets as part of a biannual event called CicLAvia.

The Air In My Tires

Despite having ridden a bike as a kid, 20 years later I'm still learning how to ride one.

I never wore a helmet until a year ago.

I never had 21 gears until a year ago. (And I never, ever shifted gears on my old 10-speed.)

I never had a flat tire until this week.

But I've had soft tires before.

In the spring, I surpassed my prior biking distance record of 12 miles to ride Downtown for CicLAvia, LA's version of NYC's Summer Streets, in which streets are closed to vehicular traffic in favor of non-motorized transport like bikes, unicycles, skateboards, strollers, rollerbladers and walkers. But in LA, it's mostly for bikes. On my way back from my turnaround point, over eight miles into my trip, I was struggling to pedal, and a fellow biker called out to me, "Hey, your back tire needs some air."

"Oh yeah?" I said, not surprised. My bike had been sitting chained up to the fence in the back for most of the winter. I hadn't bothered to pump air into the tires before I set out on my epic journey.

"Yeah, it's looking a little soft."

Fortunately, I was heading straight for the bike repair station that the event organizers had set up, so I stopped for some air.

When I got back on my bike, I said aloud, to no one listening, "Oh wow, that's a lot better."

As I headed home, having a much easier time than I'd had on my way out, I marveled at how I had taken the responsibility of the difficult ride on myself, assuming I was out of shape, weak, or just a bad biker.

All the while, I just needed some air in my tires.

A couple weeks ago, I embarked on my first group bike ride, and had such a difficult time with the hills that I had to take a truck ride back to my car. I struggled to not be ashamed. I had to know my limits.

This week, along Big Bear Lake after a harrowing day, I was having a hard time again. I couldn't understand how my legs could be so weak on a paved bike path along a flat, lakeside surface. I then noticed a strange noise, and upon looking down, discovered I was literally riding the rim of my front tire, which had gone flat.

I walked my bike a half mile back to my air, pumped the tire full of air, rode it that same first half mile until it went flat again. I rolled it back to my car, defeated.

Yesterday morning, I brought the thing to the bike shop for repair. When the technician was done, I squeezed the tires between my thumb and middle finger, and said, "Oh thanks! You filled them with air."

"Yeah," he chuckled, "You were missing about 40 pounds from there."

And it's probably been missing all along, since I first bought my bike.



Last night, with my tires full-up with air, rock hard and ready to roll, I took another LA bike tour. This time, it was of Hollywood, a destination worth returning (briefly) from the desert for, just to ride down Hollywood Boulevard aided by a police escort. I felt energized and elated. I smiled, teeth-out, the whole way. I was very pleased with myself.

And then I realized...

You can't hike a trail without water.

You can't drive a car without gas.

And you can't pedal a bike without air. 

It's not your fault. No one can.

Related Post:
That Really Lets the Air Out of My Tires.

To become a fan on Facebook, click here.

Knowing My Limits

"I'm not...going...to make it..." I gasped as I pumped my bike pedals up a hill somewhere in Silverlake or Los Feliz tonight.

I was on a bike ride led by Los Angeles Councilmember Tom LaBonge [Update 1/8/21—RIP], whose advocacy for the outdoors has led him to lead these weekly summer bike rides all over his district, despite nursing a bum knee. Even though as a resident of Beverly Hills, I'm not technically part of his constituency, I liked the idea of following a politico on a sunset bike ride through the city.

We'd started in Griffith Park, rode along the LA River, and crossed the Silverlake Dam by the reservoir, whose gates were unlocked especially for us by the department of public works.

It was an amazing bike ride, with Magic Hour lighting, and a police escort the whole way stopping traffic for our group. But as we were returning towards Griffith Park, reality set in: we had to climb those hills we'd sailed down on our way out.

I'd been struggling on the ride already, not used to so many hills. (Even the downhill runs made me so nervous I braked through them.) At one point, one of the policeman on bike patrol asked me, "Do you ride much?" because, as he noted, I hadn't shifted into the right gear and I was making my legs work harder than they had to.

But as I warned my fellow bikers that there was no way I was making it back up the Hillhurst hill into Griffith Park, they scoffed. "Sure you are!" they said, trying to encourage me.

"I'm just...not used...to these hills..."

Regardless, I tried. I knew I was close enough to my car to walk my bike back, if I had to. And partway up the hill - not very far up the hill - I just...stopped.

One of the bike cops skidded up to me. "You OK?"

"I'm OK," I said, wheezing and heaving. "I just can't go any farther."

"Do you want a ride? The truck's right there."

I turned around, and a yellow pickup truck hauling bikes in its cab was headed slowly our way.

"Oh yeah?" I said, considering.

"I think you should, you don't want to strain yourself."

"You know what?" I dismounted and unbuckled my helmet strap. "You're right. I'm not running a race. There's no prize at the end. I am not getting paid to do this. I am taking that ride."

Someday, there may be a time in my life when I must go on - for survival, for glory, for something bigger than myself. But on a Thursday night leisurely, recreational biking trip, when a ride is being offered up the hill, there is no shame in my game in taking it.

I'm too often humiliated by my limitations. But I have to accept them. I'm not an experienced biker, even on level land. I don't really even know how to change the gears property. And when I am hiking a steep trail, sometimes I have to sit and scoot my way down. There is no shame in that, either.

It would be a shame to not try.

Related Posts:
Have Bicycle, Will Travel
Reaching My Limit
Photo Essay: The Bridge to Nowhere, And Back
Photo Essay: The Big Parade Day Two, Part 2 (Franklin Hills, Los Feliz, Griffith Park)
Plunging My Hand Into a Field of Terror at the Lavender Farm

Photo Essay: Whittier Greenway Rail Trail

I'm sure when almost five miles of a local abandoned right-of-way was converted into a bike- and pedestrian-friendly greenway in neighboring city Whittier, it was for the local community.



But for me, rail trails are destinations.



And the Whittier Greenway is a good one. It's worth the 45 minute drive from Beverly Hills, with my bike mounted on the back.



Especially with some of the preserved elements, bridges and trestles that are fun to ride across.







Now that I'm not as intimidated by traveling with my bike in tow, I wonder how many other bike paths there are to explore in Los Angeles County.



I passed at least two more of them on my way back from Whittier.



The Whittier Greenway is relatively short at just over nine miles round trip, but it was a worthy destination, and now has me excited to do much more biking now that I've got some more time on my hands...

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: Corralitas Red Car Property
Photo Essay: Lake Mead Railroad Trail
Photo Essay: West Essex Rail Trail
Photo Essay: Walkway Over the Hudson
Photo Essay: The High Line, The Magic Hour
Photo Essay: The High Line At Night

To become a fan on Facebook, click here.

Have Bicycle, Will Travel

I don't have very many fears or phobias, but I do get intimidated by the unfamiliar, the unchartered, the unpredictable.

Sometimes the simplest situations plague me.

For instance: owning a bike as an adult.

Last September, was easy enough to select, outfit and customize the contraption, but then I had to figure out not only how to ride it in a heavily motorized city, but also how to haul the thing around in my own car when I had to drive to or from my biking destination.

I had a hard time buying the bike rack.

I had an even harder time installing it.

Once I did, I was never sure that it was installed correctly. I didn't want to mount my bike on it. I was convinced that it would fly off during a high speed chase down the freeway, or shake loose and plummet after taking a speed bump too quickly.

So for the next several months, I drove around, my bike locked to the gate behind my apartment building, my bike rack folded up in my trunk. Never the twain shall meet.

But when a toe injury from my Bridge to Nowhere hike prevented me from doing much walking while in Ojai for two days, I felt just daring enough clip the rack to the back of my car and to hoist the bike onto the rack and spend half of the 90 minute drive watching it in my rear view mirror - mostly to make sure it was still there.

And you know what?

It didn't fall off.

But when I stopped driving and started to park, I wondered, "What do I do with the bike?" Could I just leave it there, on the rack, while I lunched elsewhere, my car out of view? As difficult as it was for me to dismantle, couldn't somebody - wouldn't somebody - just take it, if no one was watching?

To allay my concerns during that first stop, I parked my car and locked my bike up on the sidewalk. I then wondered if someone would take the rack. I decided to take my chances.

Later in my trip, I got used to trusting my surroundings, leaving my car for short periods of time with the bike mounted on the back, sometimes parking head-out to obscure the view of the bike for would-be thieves. Or, at least, minimizing their physical space for theft.

Nothing got stolen.

So far.

I did start to realize that together, bicycle and automobile provide a compound means to freedom that would have never been possible for me in New York City, a metropolis that barely drives (despite the horrible traffic), whose stairways and overcrowded public transportation make actually traveling any distance with a bike prohibitive. People do it, but I never would have.

Now, as long as no one steals my bike and it doesn't get whisked away in a wind tunnel, is there anywhere I can't go (once I can hike again)?

Is there any distance too far? Destination too remote? Wet? Rocky? Steep?

I've still got plenty of sights to see in LA. But as long as I keep moving (despite injury, intimidation, inexperience...), I don't think there is much I cannot see.

To become a fan on Facebook, click here.

California Conversations: At the Bike Shop

"Can someone help me with the bike racks for my car?" I asked the guys behind the counter at Performance Bicycle in Canoga Park. I'd been rained out of my hike in Chatsworth so I decided to get some errands done while I was in the Valley.

"Sure, what do you need?" the clerk asked as he emerged from behind the counter and walked down the aisle with me.

"Well, I only need one for a single bike, for my hatchback car. I saw these," I said, pointing to some flimsy-looking plastic contraptions with dangling straps hanging from the wall, "but I don't really know..."

"Well," he said, "I would definitely recommend a 2-up or a 3-up for you."

"Yeah but I only have one bike. It's just me."

"OK but the 2-up will be good just in case you have to carry another bike -"

"- I won't, it's just me," I interrupted.

"OK but the 2-up will hold your bike farther away from your car, because if you stop short or something, the bike tends to rock back and forth a bit."

"Well, that will definitely happen. OK."

"In fact, you probably want to get the 3-up just in case. Besides, it looks like it's cheaper than the 2-up..."

I had to stop him there. "OK now that's just ridiculous. I'm telling you, it's just me. I'm all alone in this world. There are no three bikes. There is only one bike. You might be able to convince me to get the 2 one, but the 3 one is just out of the question. It's embarrassing."

"OK..." he said, face worrying, backing away from me.

My eyes welled with tears. "It's. Embarrassing."

"OK so what are we doing then?" he asked.

"You might as well just give me the 2. Now how do I put this thing on?"

He tried telling me how easy it was, assuring me that I'd be able to figure it out myself.

"And is that a service you provide?" I asked.

He then explained that they're not allowed to actually do it for me, but he'd be willing to sort of help me out or answer any questions.

"OK I guess I'll just take it home and figure it out. But I may have to come back. I told you, I'm all alone, it's just me," I bemoaned.

"OK well come back if you have any problems and we'll try to help you..."

I then paid for my new rack, struggled to carry it out to my car by myself, and threw it in the trunk. I sat behind the wheel as the dark clouds advanced overhead and the sky began to sprinkle, and burst into tears, resting my head on the steering wheel with my hands covering my eyes.

To become a fan on Facebook, click here.

Proceed with Caution

One of the highlights of my entire 14 years in NYC was getting up early in the morning one day last summer, taking Edith's bike out from her 34th Street apartment, and riding it up and down Park Avenue while it was closed to motorized traffic. At 8 a.m. on a weekend day, Park Ave - given the moniker "Summer Streets" - was safe, welcoming, and wide open like never before, all the way up to the 90s, and all the way down to the Brooklyn Bridge.

So when I switched coasts and heard that LA had something similar - the unfortunately named "CicLAvia" - I was thrilled to try it.

But in the flurry of my move and starting a new job, I never got the chance to buy a bike, and I never got the chance to run the shut-down streets of the first CicLAvia.

Fortunately, it returned this weekend.

And I have a bike now.

But I haven't ridden my bike much. I've only just gotten a helmet, and traffic and parked cars still intimidate me - so much so that I wiped out while nervously trying to avoid them on Melrose. I'm terrified to ride at night. And before today, the farthest I'd gone on that bike was probably 2 miles.

So how was I going to get to CicLAvia, mapped through Koreatown, Boyle Heights, Downtown, and other far-flung enclaves of LA?

Throw my bike on the rack of a Metro bus....?

....No, I would have to ride it.

The thought of riding my bike 5.2 miles through the city streets of Los Angeles - which are sometimes terrifying enough to drive through - was so nerve-wracking, I almost aborted mission and bailed on the whole idea.

But I forced myself to go.

Even on relatively traffic-free roads like Oakwood through West Hollywood or 4th Street through Hancock Park, there are plenty of hazards to make a bike ride harrowing: pavement cracks, drainage trenches, palm tree debris, swinging parked car doors, tumbling trash, camouflaging shadows, blinding sunlight, and thick layers of road paint can all trick a wheel, destabilize your grip, and sabotage the ride.

But at CicLAvia, on those wide streets blocked off by cones and police tape, guided by crossing guards and surrounded by first aid stations, water filling stations, food trucks and port-a-potties, the biggest hazard of all was other cyclists.

We rode close and tight, like a wild pack of beasts, menacing and advancing forth, handlebar to handlebar, basket to basket, each bell echoing another in a constant cacophony of metal on metal. Some cyclists wore costumes. Some rode low and hunched; others perched high above in tricked-out frames whose saddles reached the sky. A few towed babies and toddlers; one towed a skateboarder.

I labored and sweat. I smiled and squinted. I pedaled and coasted. I gazed and gawked. There is so much to see in LA, and so much of it you just miss out on by speeding past in a car.

I got over my fears while I floated through the streets of LA on the wave of cyclists, but once I'd gone nearly eight miles and decided to turn back, the trepidation set in again.

How was I going to get home? All the way home?

I retraced my ride, in reverse, repeating the names of streets and recalling the perils of intersections, cross-traffic, and left turns - not to mention the basket-rattling bumps. My return wasn't hazard-free, but it was accident-free, and passed quickly.

Before today, the farthest I've ever gone on a bike was 12 miles, from E. 34th Street to W. 34th Street around the southern tip of Manhattan. Today I conquered nearly 16 miles. Today I conquered my fears.

Next time, I'll have to figure out how to proceed with caution without letting the caution make me a neurotic mess.

To become a fan on Facebook, click here.

A Bike Of One's Own

I've been wanting to buy a bike for years. This weekend, I finally got one.

The last bike I owned had been purchased by my parents and ridden by the teenage version of me. I don't remember picking it out. I think it was actually a hand-me-down from my sister.

And even though I called it "my" bike, it was never really mine. As a kid, nothing ever was. My parents made that very clear.

A couple of years ago in New York, I really wanted a bicycle, but living in a small studio apartment with no storage space (the same reason I never got a cat), I couldn't figure out where I'd keep it. I then had it in my head that I would get a folding bike that I could put under the bed, carry on the subway, or throw in my purse, but was deterred by the expense and the sense - partially influenced by my fellow opinionated New Yorkers - that it wasn't really a real bike.

Last year when I rented a bike at the Ace in Palm Springs, I got hooked, and I started looking for every opportunity to rent or borrow a bike to ride.

I couldn't help but smile while I was on a bike. As a kid, it was my only mode of transportation, my only escape from my parents' house, my only taste of freedom. On a bike in New York, I was liberated from the underground tunnels and from the straphanging at the joint of a public bus weaving through the streets like a Chinese dragon.

So when I realized I was going to be moving to LA, I said, "I have to get a bike."

Upon my arrival in LA though, there was too much to do: move into and furnish my apartment, buy (lease) my first car, start a new job, build a new life...I had no time to go find a bike. I was kind of hoping one would fall into my lap. One never did.

Besides, for the first three months I was here, I was really dependent on my car, commuting 20 miles daily on an unbikeable route (at least for a novice like me). In the months that followed, I spent my weekends driving for hours to explore the reaches of California, my new home state.

But walking to and from work several times a week, I started to realize that, as freeing as my pedestrian lifestyle was, I still had to drive when I'm in a rush or the distance is a bit too far. At an average pace of 3 mph, walking just takes so long. As free as I've been, I could be freer.

I could once again be liberated by a bike.

Of course, a bicycle is actually a major purchase. It's not cheap, and it's a pile of aluminum and alloy and chain and rubber and spokes and wires that all seem like a big jumble to me. After freeing myself of many of my worldly possessions before moving to LA, I'm not inclined to collect many more and once again become dependent on material goods.

But it's a means to an end, a vehicle to liberation. It takes me out of my apartment, out of my car, outside.

I just have to make sure and lock it. And figure out how the damn thing works.

To become a fan on Facebook, click here.

Life In Transit

I spent the first 17 years of my life doing basically nothing, going basically nowhere, living in the same house, sharing a room with the same sister, eating the same foods over and over again, and riding my ten speed along the same streets and within the same perimeter as on my first bicycle with training wheels and blocks on the pedals.

Then, the long-awaited shakeup occurred: I left home, and went away to college.

Before then, I'd rarely ever spent the night anywhere except in my own bed. My sister and I had shared a double bed at our aunt and uncle's house one night when our parents had to be out late, my knuckles constantly slamming into the adjacent wall, and the frame constantly creaking under our shifting bodies as the sound of trains kept us up all night. Other than that, I'd convinced my mother to allow me a couple of nights over at a friend's house, but my return the next day was always so nightmarish and abusive that it almost wasn't worth it to venture out.

After a year in college, things got so bad with my parents that eventually my father sat me down and said, "I think it would be better if you found somewhere else to sleep."

Little did he know, I'd already done that. Too many sobbing, late night phone calls to my friend Nicki had caused her parents to get a room in their attic ready for me, ready for whenever I needed it. I moved in the following summer, after bouncing around from friend-to-friend's house during the fall break, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and spring break that followed my eviction from my childhood home, a prison from which I was more than happy to be released.

Unfortunately, after only two years, I wore out my welcome at Nicki's house, too, and was back on the market, looking for a place to sleep.

Most of my adult life has been spent bouncing from bed to bed, from couch to couch, sometimes catching winks in conference rooms, cars, libraries, and bar banquettes. I slept on the floor of my own first apartment in Brooklyn in 1997 for a month until I was able to retrieve my childhood twin bed from my parents' house. I moved into a new apartment a year later, into another one three years later, into another one a year and a half later, and into my current apartment, where I've slept for nearly six and a half years, my longest run anywhere, ever, since childhood.

But it's not just my sleeping quarters that have changed, allowing me to get some rest relatively peacefully pretty much anywhere except the bathtub. Since March when I let my gym membership expire, I've taken advantage of every guest pass, coupon and trial membership I could find, bouncing me from various dance studios, fitness clubs, and public pools until my pass runs out and I have to move onto the next one. For the last 15 years, nearly every date has been different, rarely making it past the first one and never really getting used to just one person. Every rental car has been different, making nothing more familiar than the initial orientation session of adjusting mirrors and seat and searching for blinker, headlights, hazard lights, emergency brake, and gas tank. And now in the past month, I've ridden three different kinds of bikes, with various seat heights, gear shifts, bells and brake locations.

Somehow, after having been locked in a tower as a child, my life has taken such a dramatic turn in the opposite direction that nothing is more usual or normal than the new, the different, the unfamiliar, the unexpected, the unpredictable. I just expect it to be that way now.

I think all the upheaval in my life has given me an advantage over those who have dated one person longer, pedaled more regularly but always on the same bike, and driven their own car into the ground. The activity itself is just as - if not more - familiar to them, but only in one very specific context. For those people, if the pillow, lighting, or temperature in a hotel room is just slightly off from what they're used to, they're not getting any sleep at all.

As my lease nears its expiration at the end of August, and I still don't have a plan as to where I'm going to live - which borough, city, state, coast? - I wonder if I have to live anywhere at all. Do I have to sign another lease? Do I have to commit myself to another place, to choose where I'm going to be for the next year or ten, limiting my options of jobs to work, people to love, and trails to hike to only those within the immediate vicinity?

Or is my challenge now once that was very familiar to my young adult self: to simply find somewhere else to sleep?

To become a fan on Facebook, click here.

Back on the Bike

I was sort of afraid that once I'd gotten on a bike for the first time in 15 years in Palm Springs, I wouldn't get on one again for another 15 years.

The traffic in NYC terrifies me, not as a pedestrian, and not even as a fellow driver, but as a bicyclist. As many bike lanes as this city paints on the street, and as much as the city tries to pretend that it's bike-friendly, there are still a LOT of cars on the streets, driven by people who must get to where they're going no matter what.

The bike messengers and delivery guys riding the wrong way down one-way streets and not obeying other traffic laws just make it worse.

So when I found out about Free Bike Fridays on Governor's Island, a patch of NYC land where vehicles are forbidden (except for the random ambulance, maintenance truck, or golf cart), I was ready to get back on the bike.

Besides, like in Palm Springs, I was excited to explore more of the former military island's abandoned barracks and other support buildings by bicycle, especially since the southern half of the island had been closed to the public the first two times I visited.

Back on another Electra cruiser, I stumbled upon a fenced off swimming pool, full of leaves (one of my favorite discoveries in urban exploration)...





An old military strip mall featuring a barber, dry cleaner, and "gourmet" offerings...



...on a whimsically-named street called "Half Moon Road."



A lot of areas in the middle of the island are still fenced off, but you can ride a bike past them and gawk a bit at what's been decommissioned for a couple of years...



...and wonder when the last time a bus stopped there.



(Most of the other bus stops are wrapped in island propaganda.)

There's even a building that used to be part of Coast Guard housing whose windows are blown out and charred, from FDNY experiments with techniques and apparatus used for fighting fires in high winds. That building, as well as several others, is scheduled for demolition.

And then you find something incredible, a new addition to the island that made it feel very much alive: SWINGS.



As though I didn't feel like a kid again enough on the bicycle, pressing my face against chainlink fence, I soon discarded the bike at the curb and ran over to the red-seated set. I sank myself into the seat and my toes into the woodchipped earth below, tiptoed my way back as far as I could go, and let loose. I swung higher than anybody else, with a huge, goofy grin on my face, staring out into the New York harbor.

I only stayed on the swings for a few minutes, because I had five miles of bicycle paths to explore on the island in only an hour. (You get what you pay for...)

I soon became an expert at ringing my bell, rounding corners, and huffing up cobblestone driveways. By the looks of Manhattan now, it maybe doesn't seem like a very New York thing to do, but it was. Just a different New York, from a different time...

To become a fan on Facebook, click here.