Kiko Meets Mike IV

The Hipster Antidote, Eccentric Gear

When we went to Staten Island there was a race jumping off. It was one of those post modern messenger races, that of course, because it is full of young well organized, well equipped and, yes, white people, gets lots of press. As Scott and I got off of the ferry we noted all of the tattooed hipsters on fresh track bikes, and Scott said to me, “there’s some sort of a messenger race happening here.” It reminds me of when we used to hang out in Washington Sq. Park in ’80 or ’81 and it was apoint of honor not to wear your messenger bag (“no, I’m not working”), which also helped to avoid criminal justice attention, because messengers in the village often got sussed. They had beautiful new track bikes in really good shape. I doubt that any of them were used for deliveries 40 hours a week. I didn’t see many helmets, though there were a fair amount of pork-pie hats (Sigh, I’m a hater: how the mighty have fallen.)

I wrote to cynematic

Yeah, the funny thing about that race was that Scott and I got off the
ferry at the same time as alla them young’uns with our kids for a
flashback birthday party. I was going to post on the blog about it, but
I am swamped.

We saw some of them on the way back to “Manhattoes,” and were waxing
nostalgic for our days before the wheel. But there we were with our
five kids amped on sugar and a ferry ride, and you know, I’m just glad I
survived (the party and track bike messengering in the 1980s).

I gave the whole track bike messenger thing all I had, but you can’t
stay cool for ever. Hell, I’m just glad tattoos and piercings are a late
addition to the whole messengering thing, because the last thing I need
is a saggy tattoo of a track bike on my tuckus.

But, in fairness, I have to say that this was in the Times, about recycling (or re[cycle]cycling), which gives me hope. Not everybody runs out and buys the new new thing, some people -my heroes- try to reduce, reuse, recycle (and I do love the thrift store stylings). My favorite track bike was a chrome-steel metro track bike with straight bars and no brakes. I doubt I have a picture of it, but it often lived outside and worked flawlessly for a year or so, ’til my life caught up with me.

Holla at me. Here Kiko continues to re-meet Mike, which is how things start to happen in a linear way again. I want to speed up the pace. And of course, if you want to start from the beginning, go here.

Kiko told Mike where he worked, and gave him a menu bungee-chorded in the basket, thinking no more of Mike’s proposition than the Salvadoreño borracho who opens the door to the Pastilleria Colombiana on Sutphin Boulevard.

—

At four that day Kiko was shocked when, upon returning from a delivery, Señora Choi called him over to the register and gave him a phone message from “Mike on Bridge.”

Kiko immediately knew who it was and was now suspicious of the thin guy on the skinny bike. Was he un maricón, because Kiko knew he had no money to take compared to the man on the thin bike with a matching skin-tight outfit. He was also suspicious of Juan Valdez, the cartoon campesino on his back. Was Kiko some sort of noble experiment to this white guy with a fake wetback on his back? He thought long and hard whether he would call the guy on the bridge before dawn. Before he through out the number peremptorily, three things ran through his mind.

First was Key-Vin, the Chinese guy who asked him about racing bikes, and helped him to appreciate how much better a well maintained bike would ride. He had describes the clothes that Bridge Mike wore: “Tight-bright-picture-writing-clothes! Funny clothes!” He wondered why anybody would wear suck skimpy clothes in New York, a city that prized appearances, not understanding the aesthetics of boutique sports.

Kiko Meets Mike III (& Astoria and Red Hook Pools)

Yesterday we did the grand tour of the premier public swimming pools in Brooklyn and Queens. We started at the Astoria Pool, which I believe is the first in the New York Parks system. There is a good passage on it in The Power Broker, and it figures prominently in Salk’s search for the Polio Vaccination also, though I don’t exactly remember how. The pool is huge and well maintained, with the exception of the diving platform and pool, which are closed with a hurricane fence around it that sports a sign, “danger thin ice.” In many ways the pool is still like is was when it was built in the 1930s, huge locker rooms, a grand pool, great views of the Triborough and Hellgate bridges straddling the East River, and the two platforms for the Olympic flames from when the pool was used for tryouts once upon a time. They even had a snack bar. There were stadium-like benches on two sides wide enough to lay your towel out on, which is where I spent a lot of time reading Killing Pablo. I started reading the book about the US government assassination of Pablo Escobar. I had started it last summer, and thought I’d keep up with my Colombian Theme after Rosario Tijeras. Lennox was able to walk in and spent much of her time holding her nose and “swimming” underwater. She had a blast, and the gradual deepening made it so that she could get to the right depth and “swim.” Glorious!

Red Hook Pool was just about as crowded, though smaller, so there might have been fewer people. The entire pool is too deep for Lennox, and that presented a problem for her (& us) that had a nice resolution. The pool is chest deep (4 feet?) and is a bit cold, but you can swim anywhere in it. Red Hook pool has a part separated for lap swimmers, which is great. When I called Astoria pool larger, it might only be in surface area, not volume. Here in Brooklyn, in the shadow of the behemoth Park Slope, there were tattood hipsters aplenty. I wish that I was more cynical so that I could make a snarky comment about how “pure” Astoria was, with less Manhattanites, but it was really nice to have the mix at each pool. There seemed to be more young people (of the courtin’ and sparkin’ age) in Brooklyn, but the family vibe was strong at each pool. One negative note about Red Hook: the locker room is mostly taken up with a weight room and while my son, brother, 3-year-old niece and I got changed in the men’s Locker Room one of the workers (white guy, balding, in a Parks polo shirt) watched us from about 3 feet away behind the barricade that separates the weights from the lockers. As my brother said, “now I know what it must be like in prison.” Another Negative about the Brooklyn pool (are you reading Marty Markowitz) was that it closed 15 minutes earlier than the posted time (so that the workers could leave early. While the Astoria Pool asked to see the lining of my suit, to prove that it was hygienic, and did so brusquely, they did so professionally, without the sense of domination that the Red-Hook guard did. All-in-All, not Bad.

Bikes are fast. Holla at me. Here Kiko continues to re-meet Mike, which is how things start to happen in a linear way again. I want to speed up the pace. And of course, if you want to start from the beginning, go here.

Mike, who had been looking for Kiko for the month or so since he had first been passed by him, got up out of his saddle and chased him up the bridge in the dark. It was difficult to catch him, but once Kiko realized Flaco on the thin bike was trying to get his attention he eased up and let the North American catch up and ride astride him. As he caught his breath Mike looked at the bike Kiko was riding, “I don’t know how you go so fast on all of that junk.”

Puzzled Kiko responded with interest about Mike’s razor thin bike and its specifications: “that bike it no weigh much, how much?”

“Oh, about 20 Pounds,” mike responding humbly, and a bit embarrassed thinking about how much it must cost per pound: with two full water bottles, he thought.

“My bike maybe two of yours,” Kiko went on chatting for politeness sake.

“Yeah, and even if you didn’t have the basket, tape and –are those zip ties?- that erector set you’re riding would be heavy.”

Missing the put-down, “Señora Choi, my boss, she buy for me and let me ride it home,” explaining his gratitude, “save me $4 a day!”

“Where d’ya ride from?”

“Ha-May-Ee-Cah, by Suphin Boulevard”

After a few minutes of small talk, as they descended the bridge into Manhattan Mike got to the point, “So Kiko, I race bikes, and I think you’d be good at it, would you like to try?”

“Race? Me? On this?”

“Well, no, and you’d have to come learn how, and I could lend you a bike that you’d do better on,” like a teenager asking for his first dare he babbled on, “and there’d be all kinds of other things. Where do you work? What is your phone number? How can I reach you?”

Kiko Isolates and Commutes

This is an attempt at illustrating the broad daydreamy expanse of riding in New York City, with constant stimulae shaping and deflecting your daydreams. If you ride in NYC -without headphones- this is what happens, it is an altered state afforded to the hearty. Holla at me. And of course, if you want to start from the beginning, go here.

While it took all of the down-time out of his day, time that would be spent eating in the back with Señora Choi and Santiago trying new hot sauces to make the food palatable, laughing about the hardness of New York Life and reminiscing about life in Oaxaca and Cheolsan, where there was a fair on the outskirts of Seoul where Señora Choi grew up. The dishonesty of the games at Coney Island had them laughing for the time when there were no orders in the afternoon. Through it all Kiko was running in and out working on the bike, neither really fixing it, resting, or building any kind of credit with the boss: which was the only reason to compare immigration from the bosses Korea and the cook/cleaner/dishwasher/delivery-guy’s Mexico.

Kiko had ridden back to Jamaica Queens for a few weeks, each and every day. He liked the ride, which was refreshing because of the distance, and the fact that he didn’t need to stop and lock up every few blocks made the solid hour of riding a nice change. In the longer rides he could feel a new power, one that came from deeper within him. In the short rides at work he could always get going; he was fast. But as soon as he got some momentum, he’d have to stop for the delivery or jaywalker or cabbie. On the ride out of Manhattan he started and kept pedaling as hard as he could for a while. Some mornings he’d ride the first half hour or so to the bridge on a straight shot, running the occasional light when it was safe, but otherwise spinning and spinning his cheap steel replacement pedals (he had shot out the original black nylon plastic pedals that had come with it, riding the skewer within on the ball of his foot for a week before Señora Choi relented and let him buy her bike a new pair of pedals).

The ride, along Queens Boulevard in the dark before dawn, was relaxing. All he had to do was stay away from the cars and keep his pace up at the speed the lights we programmed at 26 miles an hour. Weeks and weeks, every morning, he had this long stress-free ride where all he had to do was get up to speed, shift up into a fairly high gear, and keep his legs moving at a comfortable pace. He really came to look forward to his time riding to and from work. The long, (mostly) undisturbed ride was more relaxing than tiring. Indeed, he found that the ride itself was refreshing in a way that no one seemed to understand. When he tried to tell Santiago about it all he got was the rolled eyes of “estas loco, guay.” His day-worker roommates, who rarely saw him anyway, thought that the idea of riding from far-distant Manhattan was a waste of energy that only someone who had a regular job could afford. They spent all of their time following the shade around various intersections in Queens, sitting on fences or their haunches, using up as little energy as possible.

Kiko and Kevin

Here’s the latest installment of Kiko’s Tale, and he’s back. Today in my writing I had Kiko start to make a new friend among the bikes of delivery guys. Again, I’m self conscious about dialog, and I’m trying broken English, so let me know if it sounds like a minstrel show. There’s more the pipeline, though if I don’t start getting some feedback… And of course, if you want to start from the beginning, go here.

Kevin stood up and introduced himself by the restaurant he worked for, “For-King Path Garden,” he said pointing to himself and, vaguely, his bike, “Kay-vin. I like ride, not cook,” he said with a chopping and stirring motion below a face of sneering disgust that reminded Kiko of the face his little brother “Paco el Guero” had made the first time he had seen a pig slaughtered.

Wary of his new friend Kiko admitted he’d rather ride than be the restaurant’s slave: “oh, pinche cut, fucking clean, pinche, fry patatas and fucking boil: siempre-always- food sin sabor-no flavor. I only like outside. Mejor que I ride bike snow than open cans and boil noodles with no flavor,” he said excitedly, having finally found someone from his tribe.

“Ye-ah, cook like work in hole, deep hole with hot,” Kevin continued the narrative seamlessly in another accent. “Coal mine grease under Mulberry street,” remembering his father’s job in China and connecting it to the restaurant with the terracotta façade owned by the Hong Kong college boy’s parents. “Boss no work, almost no pay too,” airing finally his biggest resentment.

Two Borough Tour

Not much time today to write.  I have to wake the kids early for a field trip.  Oh yeah, and I slept all the way until 6: glorious sloth.  I’ve enjoyed waking up really early for the last couple of days: drinking coffee with impunity.

The weather has been beautiful, not too hot, warm and sunny.  Two days ago I rode into Manhattan and bought sneakers.  I went down through Brooklyn and took the Manhattan Bridge in and then came back over the Williamsburg Bridge.  I would have been quicker if I took the W’Burg both ways, but I really like the ride between the bridges by the Navy Yard.  I made it to SoHo in 45 minutes and back over the W’Burg in about 35 minutes. 

If I have time I’ll try to calculate the distance, which I’m curious about.  It was my own Tour de France because I had to make it back to Sunnyside for the third installment of my root canal (a dreary 75 minutes of grinding a dead tooth and molding the holes).  I did a quick calculation of the mileage on http://www.walkjogrun.net/ and it came out to almost 15 miles, and since I shortcut my peregrinations through SoHo, I’ll call it a safe 15 miles.  Glorious.

I also got a couple of great photos by the Navy Yard (which I haven’t actually looked at yet) of a couple riding double on a bike.  It was really cute, she on her cell phone on the back, sidesaddle. 

I also saw a drag-queen/transvestite with a flowing asymmetrical chiffon pantsuit (half hot-pants half floor-length: all see-through).  A black man, he had a cute little bob of pressed hair: flaw-less.  But he had a beard that was so think and bushy that Popeye’s Brutus.  Amazingly beautiful.

Speaking of the Tour de France, I have to say it is like a slow motion car-wreck. I am terribly sad about the events of this year’s tour.  I just want to say that none of the American Sports (MLB/NFL/NHL/etc) would be available to continue under the regime of WADA.

 Kiko will be here tomorrow, I think.

Kiko to Canal (In and On Traffic)

We went to adventure land yesterday.  It is a small amusement park where we all had a good time.  I took some Dramamine and was able to ride the rides, though after my first spinning one I was dizzy and tired for an hour or so. 

At the end, when I was tired and grumpy, and we were giving the kids money to gamble with (Linda won at Whack-A-Mole), Chlöe melted down and I ascribed the meltdown on staying for too long.  Needless to say I was tired and blaming, which got the other adults riled up.  Otherwise it was a wonderful day.

Here’s the latest installment of Kiko’s Tale, and he’s back. Today in my writing I had Kiko start to make some observations about the bikes of a  delivery guy compared to others . But those are in the pipeline, and you’ll have to wait a week or so. And of course, if you want to start from the beginning, go here.

Realistically he knew that he was going to cut off the limo driver about a block before if he went at the same speed, and that if he sped up he’d have made it through, though the people on the street were a wild card he wasn’t willing to bet on.  Part of why Kiko was so fast was that he could judge the traffic so well.  When he looked up an avenue, without thinking, he knew what types of cars and trucks were there and judging by the make, model and block what hey would probably do.  Trucks deliver to businesses that make sense (newspaper to newsstands).  Cabs without fares stay straight unless they’re hailed.  Cabs with fares turn in the direction that the passengers in the back seat look. Limos and Black cars are more unpredictable not only because you can’t see if they have passengers, but also because they’re more inexperienced in Manhattan and they try and find eccentric ways around the city, not knowing like the Yellow Cab drivers that the best way is often to show the momentary patience and then leap for the hole in traffic before a truck with its lousy acceleration. 

Kiko wasn’t quite aware of what a natural he was in judging the space and time of traffic.  He did a thousand thousand calculations as he looked up a flowing avenue each precise.  These estimates ranged from sociological (make, model and condition of the vehicle) to economic (the need of a particular block or district) to demographic (the likelihood of a driver’s affinity for or connection to a block) to physics (the rate, mass, direction and acceleration of a 1980s model panel truck).  Kiko was an immigrant savant of New York City traffic: knowing how, why and where vehicles were most likely to go before the drivers themselves had decided.

Later that day, a slow day where he had to spend too much time cutting vegetables and frying French Fries under the eyes of Santiago and Mrs. Choi, he had a delivery all the way up to Canal Street.  This gave him about a straight half a mile up and back on Greenwich and Hudson, straight avenues, where he could really let go.  The speed felt good and the escape from the Wall Street area laberintos was like an escape from un cárcel.  He charged north with a sense of purpose, rebelling against the eyes of his boss and co-worker with the power and speed his legs gave him.  Passing cars, a bit recklessly, he made it there in about three minutes, though he was winded and sweating like he was in an Aztec Jungle. 

Kiko’s Back-to-Work (and Prospect Park with the Cousins)

Went to Scott’s and had a cook out. I had made Tabouleh and we had turkey and veggie burgers as well as some hot links that ‘Neene brought over. The kids were in the little pool all afternoon. In the evening we went to the Citi-Stage at Harmony Playground and saw a concert. It was, and I still haven’t really read the program, a tribute to Doc Pomus with Laurie Anderson, Joel Dorn, Ben E. King and Lou Reed. There were other notable singers and Steve Bernstein was the band leader. It was great to watch Steve, the post-modern bandleader jumping around and directing the loose playlist with elan.  The kids ran around and played, Deneene hooked up with her friend Chris, Papa-Jatzik and Xela, Tulsie and Dustin came by. It was really nice. Scott reminded me that I used to get the Village Voice as soon as it came out and look for concerts to go to when I was younger. That was when you had to buy the Village Voice!

Here’s the latest installment of Kiko’s Tale, and he’s back. Today in my writing I had Kiko finish with his new friend and make a few deliveries and some observations about the life of a delivery guy and New York City. But those are in the pipeline, and you’ll have to wait a week or so. And of course, if you want to start from the beginning, go here.

“¡Pinche Guay!” Kiko shouted impotently at the black Lincoln Continental that vied with him for the hole between the pedestrians and the double parked truck on Vesey Street. Kiko reluctantly stopped rather than mow down the bleary eyed people on their way to work. He had been up since four and working in the kitchen and was glad to get out on the first delivery of the day. He was pumped up, warmed up and fast. Truthfully, he could have made it in front of the Black Car, but if the car sped up or slowed down at all, he’d be dead meat. Getting cut off by “un pinche Peruano,” as the car-service sticker advertised, pissed him off.

The pedestrians saw only a raving Spanish guy, an illegal, a crazy delivery guy. “Fuckin’ Spick” the executive secretary from Hoboken blurted out in his face as he avoided running her down in the middle of the street that he had the green light on. The fitness buff bond trader who had eaten the Cobb Salad Kiko had delivered three times a week through secretaries ($5.50 and a fifty cent tip, cheap) cursed him out, “go back to Mexico ya fuckin’ wetback,” he shouted, losing his studied Harvard accent in the heat of the moment. Kiko expertly skidded up the street keeping the food in the basket while his rear wheel caught up with his front. Someday, years later, the bond trader would do that himself in a triathlon avoiding a health-club-jock who couldn’t handle descents in a pack: he remembered, and noted that “delivery boy’s” (now that he wasn’t angry) skill.

“¡Peligro! ¡Peligro! ¡Peligro!” This damned job is dangerous thought Kiko as he rode back with an empty basket. He was enjoying the lack of pressure to return before 7 because there was no chance that there’d be another delivery at hour. Kiko just flowed through the traffic thinking about the angry mob that appeared out of nowhere when he got cut off. I guess I shouldn’t always be riding so dammed fast all of the time, knowing that it was his speed that got him cut off by the Coche Pio Peruano. The driver couldn’t have expected the delivery guy on the bike to be able to get to the narrows by the Daily News delivery truck so fast, and Kiko knew that his speed had broken up the driver’s rhythm and timing as far as judging the flow of traffic.

The End of Kiko’s Patron (Reflections Back to Queens)

We went and got the kids helmets for their bikes yesterday  Lennox rode her training wheel bike all the way to the bike shop in woodside and back.   Not bad for a pink-made-in-china-confection under a five year old: at least two miles. Another great meal at La Flor Cafe.

Here’s the latest installment of Kiko’s Tale, the last that Mike will be dominating for a while. Kiko will be back soon, but I’ve got to set up the bike racing, which I’m still waiting to hear feedback on. If you ride, formally, with clubs and packs check this for realism and send me a line.  Today in my writing I had Kiko meet a new friend who will flesh out delivery culture, you can expect to see Kevin the Chinese delivery guy in a few days or a week.   And of course, if you want to start from the beginning, go here.

It was one of those bikes that make you worry about the guy who brings you your pizza as he rides off on it.  Mike, taking his food back into his apartment thought about how the bike was bought: the owner goes to Target or Wall-Mart and buys the snazziest looking bike on display, without any help from either a sales person who knows about bikes or the kids –no, men– who will ride them.  “If it has springs the pizza will be cushioned,” he tells himself as he buys two or three bikes in boxes and brings them back to the shop for the busboy who’ll ride it to assemble (without instructions in Spanish, or Chinese, [Mandarin or Cantonese] or Bengali, or Korean). 

Sandwiching the crates in the back of his SUV (whose gas guzzling got him to buy the bikes in the first place) in direct disobedience of the warning instructions on the side would be the last time that this man had to lift them, Mike thought.  Did the owner notice the suspension of his truck cringe under just three of these heavy bikes?  Did he realize that Pedro and Pablo and Juan would ride the same distance as the Tour de France on these bikes before they disintegrated?  Did he realize that he was buying, essentially, disposable bikes?

Snapping out of his reverie he thought about more of the details of the rider.  The bike couldn’t have weighed less than 35 pounds, without the basket.  I mean, he had a chain around his waist that must have weighed 10 pounds.  Mike did a quick inventory of the delivery guy and figured with clothes, bike, basket, and whatever was in the bag in the basket, he couldn’t have been freighting any less than 50 pounds.  Fifty pounds of gear, and chains and sprockets for riding the bike through suburban bike lanes, on a frame that flexed like a Mariachi’s accordion, and he beat me up the hill. 

On his rides from Queens to meet the Manhattan boys in Central Park he worked on his technique, warming up and practicing his aero positioning. He knew it was less efficient going up the hill, but holding it as he climbed helped him to focus on his breathing, heart-rate and cadence.  Mike knew he was in perfect position hunched over the bars, elbows back cutting through the morning breeze without wavering in spite of his 90rpm.  He went through a mental checklist, and everything he had done to soundly thrash the pack in Central Park, he had done climbing the bridge out of Queens.  And yet the delivery guy had served him, passed him like a statue on a pedestal.  Fuck!  He thought of this guy riding past him all the way home.  It was about 7 now, what was the guy doing?  Bringing Spanish omelets to early rising (and lazy) apartment dwellers in Manhattan?  FUCK, beaten up a hill by a guy in street clothes, my a guy who rides in bike that doubles the weight of my throwaway tandem that I got when I was dating Clare: FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

KIko’s Patron (Reindeer Games II)

Yesterday I bought the kids used bikes off of Craigslist (and of course it rained on them last night).  Now I have to get helmets and training wheels.  My bike is in the shop too.  I also had the pleasure of the second installment of Dr. Dustin Shin’s (DDS) second installment of my latest root canal.  Jheesh, not only did it hurt, a lot, but after the second shot of Novocaine I was numb from my  forehead to my throat.  You could have pierced my ear without my noticing.

Here’s the latest installment. I tried to use some dialog with an accent, not my strong suit, let me know how it sounded.  If you ride, formally, with clubs and packs check this for realism and send me a line.  And of course, if you want to start from the beginning, go here.

When they were all chatting for a few minutes, planning their next rides and strategies for upcoming races around the fountain at 90^th Street Frantz gave mike some credit “you vere vailing up de hill after the Lasker Pool the last three laps. Man, how you keep us going up hill iss great.”  Wiping the half expelled snot off of his nose on the back of his team-logo glove he continued “how do you pull so hard up a hill after leading us for two miles?”

“I guess I just got a spotted jersey in my heart,” Mike, embarrassed but proud, clipped out in his Queens accent.  “of course you know that I climb the bridge to get here every morning, and I climb it again to get back afterwards.”  Thinking, “that’s gotta be 130 feet of climbing  each way, with no traffic and it’s pretty steep, I dunno, I guess a 4% grade going back to Queens.”  Mike stared off across the lake thinking about the Spanish guy on the delivery bike who passed him with a basket like he was standing still. He thought that he must have been taking it easy, and his damaged pride probably fueled him up the hills in the park today. 

Frantz noticed his wistfulness in Mike’s stare amid the chatting, bragging and prancing of the pack there before 6 in the morning.  They had had a good ride, beaten their usual times by a lot, and the pack was feeling good, tearing apart the ride lap-by-lap, climb-by-climb and according to each transition from leader to leader.  Mike usually enjoyed this red meat and busted chops with the guys, but could only think about the knobby tires on the bouncing bike that had beaten him earlier.  It seemed impossible that someone without toe-clips, in jeans, a cheap leather jacket and on a bike built by Chinese slave labor could have passed him where he was usually strongest.

“Vhat gives Mikee?” asked Frantz.  “Vhy are you zo qviet, ve vouldn’t have broke our record iff you did not conquer zhe mountains vith uss hanging onto your vheel zhose lasst two laps.  Zhesus, ve dropped Teddy coming up to the finissh line on the lasst lap: if there vere a fork in the road he’d be drinking by himself now” the blonde German said looking slyly at Theodore as he clipped off the light stuck to the back of his jersey.  The light had, stuck between Juan Valdez and his Burro had made the bean-picker look like Diogenes looking for an honest man.