Bumping into things

Yellow and red tomatoes near sewer drain

I’m what you’d probably call an avid cyclist. I take my bike everywhere, work, play, errands, etc. I’m experienced on these streets and respect the rules of the road, for the most part. (I sometimes ride on the sidewalk and don’t stop at every red light.) That said, I still usually take a tumble once every summer.

I lost two months of this season after my bike was stolen. Yes, it took a couple of months of robbing Peter and paying off Paul, but I’ve been riding my new bike a lot the last 10 days, enjoying my freedom of mobility again and the productivity it’s made possible. Yesterday, on a ride to shoot some photos and do some interviews, I almost flattened a kid.

While making the turn around the Colgate clock, heading south on the waterfront walkway, I saw a mom and her toddler (three years old, or so) approaching from the other direction. I slowed down and stood, letting her know that I saw them and that they could pass. She motioned to the child to walk closer to her, which the kid did, but as I passed them, the child bolted from her mom almost directly into my path. Butterfly!

I squeezed the brakes and veered left. The kid jumped back, safe. I, on the other hand, had run off the ridiculously narrow sidewalk (This is a part of the waterfront walkway that is awaiting further development) and slid down the gravel gully. It wasn’t quite a header, but the bike slid from under me and I was, in effect, on my ass. “Sorry,” I called to the woman as I came to a stop. What I really wanted to say was “Can you hold the friggin’ kid’s hand, you idiot!” But I’m a gentleman, by and large, and figured that she would just say “sorry” back or “are you ok?” and we could move on. But she hadn’t even looked back and was blissfully on her way. The kid (still not holding her mother’s hand) looked back. I swear she was thinking “Did I do that?” (insert sitcom laugh).

I am unhurt. Thanks for your concern. As I dusted myself off and checked my ride (she’s ok, too, thanks) I thought how I’ve been doing this the same way for over 15 years now, riding my bike to news stories, even during the generally comfortable days of my radio host gig. I still love it. Reporter on a bike. Step aside.

York St. & Jersey Ave.

Back inland, I turned down Jersey Avenue. There’s a car into a minivan on the corner of York and Jersey. Big puddle of some kinda motor vehicle fluid. Looks like blood, though. Snap. Snap. “Everyone ok?” I ask the woman who was driving the minivan. “Yeah,” she says and turns away, telling the rest of the story to someone on the other end of her cell phone. “I was already in the intersection when [the other driver] ran into me. I would’ve never gone into the intersection if I saw him.” The crossing guard tells me the tow trucks are on the way and that everyone is fine. I wanted to ask where she was while the two vehicles were crashing into one another, but she was trying to direct traffic and looked so harried I didn’t have the heart.

At the plaza in front of the Grove Street PATH station I stopped to buy some tomatoes. The vendors were still setting up their stands when I heard a crash and watched as a box of tomatoes tumbled to the sidewalk. The two other guys who were unpacking the truck had a good laugh as their comrade crawled under the truck to retrieve the runaway fruit. “You’re not gonna sell those,” I say to the dude in Spanish with a laugh as I watch them roll toward the sewer drain. “Why not?” he replies. “It’s only dirt.” Wash your produce, y’all.

He puts his hand up and waves my camera away as I crouch to take a photo. “Por favor, primo, no,” he says. He steps out of the frame and waits while I shoot a few photos. “Yellow and red tomatoes near sewer drain” I call it.

Up the street, the Starbucks sells a pound of coffee for $10. It’s insane, I’m told, but worth every penny to me when I brew it at home. I duck in to buy a pound, chaining up my bike, which I swear to do every single time I get off of it from now on. The kids behind the counter are talking about some party they went to over the weekend. The perky girl with the tattoo takes my order and smiles right through me as she hands me my fresh-ground Italian Roast. “Want a bag for that?” No thanks, I’ll just shove it into the pocket of my pullover hoody, ’cause I’m cool like that.

My new chain is almost as heavy as my bike. I’m still learning the most efficient way to lock and unlock the thing, so it’s still a little clumsy. After wresting the chain away from the lamp post it had been tied to and then wrapping it around the bike frame three times, I ride off, ’cause I’m cool like that. I wave to the muchachos as I pass them, my pound of fresh-ground coffee slipping out of the pocket, and in slow motion, crashing to the ground in front of Duane Reade, its fresh-ground contents exploding like a water balloon. The guys can barely contain their laughter. I leave the contents on the ground and take the mostly empty bag back to the Starbucks and sheepishly tell the woman that I dropped the bag and it had popped open.

“No problem,” she said, to my surprise. I guess I could quibble and say she should’ve sealed it a bit tighter, but I’m getting a replacement pound of coffee, so it’s all good. She grinds and bags my coffee, adding a slice of tape to the seal. “You want a bag for that?” she asks.