Across the Great Divide

Keeping the Peace with Meditation, Medication and Protection Orders.

It's not all heartwarming moments around the Day Center, though this week had its share. Tension and conflict, held back with meditation, medication and protection orders, percolate just under the surface.

Colin came into the Day Center with a cast on his hand, boiling. He'd been jumped the night before.

A new guy, Larry, filled out his intake papers. Or tried; he said he didn't have his glasses, but I doubt he could read the form. He told me he'd been robbed and was only waiting to get bus fare so he could head home to Indiana.

People pulled a gun on him behind a gas station, he said. They took his phone, money and wallet with his social security card, then punched him in the jaw. He showed me where and said the doctor told him he had cracked something. I didn't see swelling.

I told them I'm in a gang, he said, and they made a big mistake. A motorcycle gang. I was born into it and didn't have any choice. They are going to be sorry.

Larry's hands were covered with crude jailhouse tattoos. A slightly better one in script on his neck. A few unfinished tats crept out of his hairline, giving the impression of a cracked skull or maybe just insufficient attention to complete the task. 

Later that afternoon I saw him hanging at a bus stop. Apparently, he didn't get his ticket out of town after all.

A guy with the Black Sabbath hair of a rocker whose band never got out of Idaho stormed in. Rocker was looking for someone. Before long, he came back out saying, there's people back there threatening to kill me.

I went back to check the patio and found a few regulars, including Shorty, a woman who goes about four feet tall and seventy-five pounds. Another volunteer was out there cleaning. He said the trash talk had gone both ways.

Later, the cops showed up with some questions. Rocker had claimed he was punched in the mouth. He'd described two people who could have been people on the patio. It was unclear when this happened, but it wasn't here.

"Anna" brought her two year old in while she checked her mail. Kids aren't supposed to be inside, but it seemed like a quick in-and-out, so I let her bring in the stroller instead of leaving the kid in the vestibule.

She got to chatting and the bored kid started shrieking. I should have asked her to leave then, because people come here for peace and quiet, but gave her a chance to deal with it first. Another guest working on a coloring book at the table had words with Anna, and now we were into full drama mode, with Anna repeatedly talking to her kid about the "evil woman," who left shortly after without escalating the conflict.

Being homeless and unemployed is stressful, even if you don't have other issues, and you spend more time than you may want to in the company of others who have similar stresses. Soup kitchen, shelters, park, street, Day Center, river, jail.

We volunteers can be a moderating influence in these conflicts, but we're not in their lives. We get to go home and grab a beer, read our own paper instead of sharing with eighty people. We don't wait for the bathroom. We don't even have to see our neighbors if that's our choice.

The next day in the Blotter, I read about an alleged assault the police had investigated. It sounded a lot like Larry's story.

[I]nvestigators determined the man’s story contained too many inconsistencies to be substantiated.

 I suspect Rocker's charge will end up the same way.

But whatever the truth of the stories, the strife is real.

 

Unlimited Hope and the Rusty Edge of Charity

Chances were fair that I would not see that bicycle again. It was a gift after all, and what of giving grants us the right of keeping?

I'd bought the Frankenbike long ago from the man who'd built it for himself out of parts from several cast-off bicycles—an old AMF "Sky Rider" coaster bike paired with a generic mountain bike fork and new Schwinn chrome fenders. A single speed with a moderately low gear that allowed you to climb any hill in the city, with fat tires that made it stable on snow and ice.

I kept it at the office for errands and downtown client meetings and once rode it home in a blizzard that locked down city traffic. Later, when we moved to a building that didn't allow us to bring bikes inside, I took it home, outfitted it with a newsboy basket and used it for grocery and beer runs. One spring I stripped it down to the bare steel and repainted it, but the rust from winter riding crept back again.

Adorned as it was with lost toys and stuffed animals I found on my rides, the bike never required locking when I went into a store. Who would want it? Or would risk the wrath of the crazy guy who rode it?

The bike had served me well, but a few weeks ago, I decided to part with it.

A fellow we'll call Marsh was looking for a bike to transport his stout self and shifting daily inventory of belongings. His previous one had either disintegrated or been sold for a few dollars. I told him I had an extra I scarcely used any more, and I showed him a picture. He was interested in the bike but not the rubber alligator, baby shoes and Barney Castle I employed for security.

He didn't have lock right now, he said, but he'd take the bike into his building at night. I knew he lived in a tower about a mile away and I warned him that the bike was heavy.

He told me he had an elevator, no problem, so we arranged for him to check out the bike the next week.

Without its decorations, The Sky Rider still looked cool, though Marsh was not particularly into its more subtle features, such as the rotary bell I bought from a Chinese street vendor, the vintage Mesinger seat and the front wheel's spokes braided by Namond, the Satanic Mechanic. I told Marsh the basket could haul forty pounds of groceries. He wanted to know why it was set at an angle and whether he could level it. 

After cautioning Marsh to remember the bike had coaster brakes, I watched his slow test ride down the alley and back.

Yes, I thought, I'm ready to let it go. But I also realized I wanted to pass along the bike's history as well as the steel. I had loved that bike and I wanted it to have another loving home.

Duh. It was going to a former homeless guy, not a bike geek. To Marsh, my rolling repository of stories was a caravan of compromises. 

A few days later I saw Marsh and the bike. 

That bike bloodied me up five times! he said. My face, my leg, my arm.

You've got to remember to use the foot brake, I said.

I forgot.

You'll get used to it, I said.

He said he was taking it to the hardware store to raise the basket and get a hand brake installed on the rear. 

Yeah.

After a week and half away from Peace House, I saw Marsh but not the bike. He wore dark wraparounds so it was impossible to make eye contact, and the fact he was avoiding me told me the bike was gone.

Calvin filled me in. He said Marsh complained the bike was too slow. Calvin said he told him, it's not the bike. You're too fat and carrying all that stuff. 

The Sky Rider had passed through several hands already, Calvin said. He'd seen it on Lake Street the other day, still bearing the basket and fenders but without its Sky Rider gas tank. Marsh could never hold onto anything, Calvin said. He'll buy a bike or a DVD player in the morning and get high and sell it that night for a fraction of what he'd paid. 

One day years ago I was riding the Sky Rider down Lake Street and I ran into the Satanic Mechanic himself. He told me he'd had no intention of selling the bike and now wished he'd kept it. 

I don't regret giving it away. I knew this outcome was a possibility, although I'd hoped to follow the bike's adventures for awhile longer. I'd hoped it would give the next owner pleasure or at least make a small difference in his life. 

But this is a story I can only tell. I don't get to write it.

Maybe the former Sky Rider will survive. Maybe it'll come back into Namond's hands as junk and he'll resurrect it once again. 

The universe is an unpredictable place where things sometimes work out on their own.

[UPDATE: This story has evolved since I posted it. For more, read The Peripatetic Bicycle.]

 

Marsh's new bike

Riding Lessons.

At the end of April, I had a serious bike accident. Upon hearing about it, everyone asked the same question: Were you wearing a helmet?

I was, but the helmet had absolutely no role in protecting me from injury.

However, one simple thing could have saved me from the hospital: fixing a depression in the road that was unnoticeable to a car but caused me to lose control of the bike.

Staying last week in the colonial city of Antigua, Guatemala, I got a chance to reflect anew on how we ask the wrong questions about bicycle safety interventions—whether helmets, special bike lanes or dedicated trails.

For days I walked the narrow streets in a place whose street grid was set in the 1700s and has scarcely changed since. (Photo: Zack Clark)

Sidewalks average about a meter wide and narrow further wherever barred windows project into the walkway. Each block is built right to the corner. The only traffic controls are alto signs painted on the sides of buildings.

There are no lanes painted on the streets, which are cobblestone canted toward the center for drainage. On the outskirts, there are speed bumps, but the irregular pavement in the central city functions as one continuous deterrent to speeding.

The streets fill with pedestrians, cars, motorcycles, trucks and tuc-tucs, while the town's distinctive buses prowl the main drags.

Not exactly what you'd call a welcoming urban cycling environment, right?

Nevertheless, bikes were part of the traffic and after three days of walking, I was ready to jump on one of the bikes at the place we were staying. A Murray Baja with no working rear brake, it looked about average for the beat-up mountain bikes I saw on the street—underinflated tires, discount store frames and missing or maladjusted parts.

Perfect, in fact, for the rough streets, slow pace and lack of poles for securing the bikes. This rack at a cathedral was the only one I saw. 

However, I did enjoy several rides through the city, sans helmet, and never felt endangered in this foreign environment.

Here's why:

Speed. The narrow, bumpy streets, short sightlines and mixed traffic meant everyone was going at approximately bicycle speed—6 to 10 miles an hour. The mass of larger vehicles is a lot less dangerous at these low speeds.

Driver attention. Although I saw lots of Guatemalans looking at cell phones on the street, the drivers didn't. There was simply too much going on, with tuc-tucs and motorbikes and proximity to pedestrians,  for a driver to be inattentive or to have the illusion that he was in control. Likewise, there was no advantage to racing to beat a light or to pass another vehicle.

Cyclist attention. A lot of cyclist bad behavior is related to maintaining momentum or taking advantage of gaps in traffic. The same factors that slowed down the drivers and made them pay attention affected the cyclists, too. I saw only two riders in full kits with road bikes and helmets during my stay. One was walking and the other was rolling along at about 4 mph. Neither of them looked as happy as this guy, who was the only other rider I saw wearing a helmet, with good reason.

My Guatemalan experience reinforces that we are asking the wrong questions and arguing over the wrong solutions if all we talk about are adjustments like helmet use and advisory bike lanes.

As one expert says:

It’s safe to say that there isn’t any conclusive evidence that helmets help. The scientific community has been split down the middle for two decades. There are basically two camps: those who look at head injuries and look for ways to prevent them, and those who work towards getting more people to choose the bicycle as transport.

Another, unnamed camp has the biggest voice in the matter, though.

Our cities are built and engineered for cars, so car traffic rules. Whatever changes are made to help equalize that difference will be more effective than putting every cyclist in a helmet.

Shelter Report: Having Patience.

One guest at the Day Center was telling me, "You're really patient. You could be a doctor. I was going to be a doctor but everything bothers me." He pauses to bang on the shower door to tell his friend to hurry up. (The friend's been in there about three minutes.) "I'm not patient. They told me 20 years ago to put myself in a box and not go outside of it." (Bam, bam, bam on the door.) "Now it's kind of scary to come out of the box. Hurry up, let's go!"

I tend to write about the Day Center as a place of comedy, caring, intellectual stimulation (today chess games and a theological discussion went on in front of me) and pathos (a young heroin addict in treatment talks about sleeping during the day because if he's on the street too many people pester him for his connections).

But we also see evidence of the hard edge to life for people who don't have stable housing.

Today one of the regulars showed up with a damaged eye that was almost swollen closed. A couple of the guests were telling him it looked bad and he should have it looked at. What happened? one asked. Poked it on something, he said.

This can happen when you live along the river and are making your way through the tamarisk after dark.

Later in the morning, a woman showed up with cuts above and below her eye and a swollen cheek. Fell off a bike, she told our supervisor. Also possible, since bikes are a main mode of transportation for many of the local homeless.

Later, we found the two had gotten into a fight the night before.

It's possible to look at addiction, dysfunction and irresponsibility and cite it as justification for cutting social programs and spending public money more "productively." Many of the people here will not escape the cycle they are in. But some of them do, and you can't always tell who they will be.

Today, a young woman who's had some hard times with her kids and a bad marriage came in on her way to court to "correct my mistake" — getting her divorce finalized. She looked good. She looked happy. And most important, she looked ready for something new.

 

 

University Av. Parking Endangered by Lack of Business?

Over and over we've heard that the Central Corridor light rail line running between St. Paul and Minneapolis will eliminate 85% of on-street parking along University Avenue.

Periodically, I bike commute along University, and since I've done some consulting related to Central Corridor on business mitigation, I'm sensitive to impacts on those small businesses that give the street what vitality it has left.

Today, I rode both ways along University from Stadium Village to Lexington. On my return trip during the lunch hour, I noted one side of one block where the on-street parking spots were taken (outside a pawn shop and outlet store). Another block also came close to being full near KSTP-TV. (It's also close to a limited stop number 50 bus route stop.)

Otherwise, I did not see a block with free or metered parking that came close to being half full with parked cars. Most could easily sustain an 85% on-street parking loss. This is consistent with other informal parking surveys I've taken along that stretch.

Some business owners along the avenue say lost parking is a problem:

Alan Guttenfelder, owner of Swank Retro antiques, said he relies solely on street parking for his business at 1910 University Ave. W. Guttenfelder said he has 22 spaces in front of his store, but that will shrink to three after light rail operation begins.

“We are really short on parking now,” he said. “There is one-hour parking in front of my store now because too many people are trying to park there for extended hours."

Swank Retro is a cool store near Iris Park and Porky's Diner. I won't dispute Guttenfelder's claim about parking's importance to his business. But he's only open there Friday through Sunday, and Monday there  were plenty of open spaces.

I seek out gritty, diverse urban streets. I have a high tolerance for decay and an overdeveloped appreciation of the semi-inept underdog. I love that the avenue has the "home of the 30-dollar tire."

But make some slow runs down University Avenue and its shuttered storefronts before you swallow the line that light rail construction will kill University Avenue businesses.

No. 1 Bike City? Either Way, I Live There.

Yes, it's just a small town as official population figures go. Grand Junction is only Colorado's 15th largest city, about the size of Edina, Minnesota, but it's also the center of the nation's 268th largest Metropolitan Statistical Area, a little bigger than Sioux City.

But those comparisons aren't what struck me today. I'm thinking about bike-crazy towns like Minneapolis and Portland. Last week both The Daily Sentinel and The Free Press ran 24-plus-page cycling inserts.

Show me another daily newspaper that has a drop-down menu like this. Grand Junction has two of them, plus four downtown bike shops in a four-block area.

I Feel Old, but not Bad.

This was one of those days that made me feel old.

It wasn't the hour-and-a-half hike this morning (my fourth day in a row of one-to-three-hour excursions) when we had to call off the dog from chasing coyotes.

It wasn't even the aching achilles that reminded me I have this evil-looking bone spur in my ankle.

It was biking on some single track that I keep thinking will get easier with time. Instead, it humbles me every time.

There was a time in my active life when I could be confident the miles would get easier. The times would drop. Certain foes would eventually be reeled in.

Not any more.

The young guy above is heading for a tough trail called Holy Cross. We could give him directions, but we'll never ride it.

Not now.

I should be able to sit up at the top of this trail and think, not bad for a guy over sixty.

Instead, I think, I'm never going to do that four-day, advanced trail ride.

Not now.

I'm cool with that. I'm fortunate to have my health, a comfortable life, and a place on the edge of some of the world's best mountain biking.

When I think about the condition of the world and the problems most people face, I am one of the luckiest people on earth. Percentage-wise, one of the best-off people in human history.

It's just not likely to get any better, that's all.

The trails below won't get easier with time.

There was a time they would have, and I would've bombed down the inclines confident that, next time, I'd be faster. Next time, I would stick that one last drop through the boulders.

Next year, more personal bests, more pelts on the wall.

But now I watch the young the guy head toward Holy Cross, and I think: This is what it feels like to be old.

If you're lucky.

Can Economics Explain Hot Tomato Cafe?

We biked out to Fruita, a small town west of Grand Junction, for the reopening of a local pizza cafe that had moved into a new building after failing to come to terms with its former landlord.

The Hot Tomato Cafe renovated an empty building around the corner once occupied by a dry cleaners. (Around the corner is about as far as you can go in Fruita and still be downtown.)

We arrived sometime around 1:00 and the line stretched from the order counter to the door. It was the same way when we left, and the festivities involving bands in the street hadn't even begun to take shape yet.

You can see the improvements the two women owners have made to the building — adding a spacious outdoor seating area along the side. Landscaping is still in process, and the bike parking might need a little work, but no one was complaining.

Less apparent than the paint job and the cheery interior is the role a unique and beloved business can play in a community. The pizza and beer at Hot Tomato are good, and cycling is part of the vibe, but it was clear that most of the people showing up today were there because they wanted this little institution to exist in their lives.

I get really tired of hearing about how the market is all-important, and how economic principles (are you listening, Craig Westover?) should determine how governments and societies make decisions. The adherents to this thinking would have us believe that we have made the choice when we have a Domino's instead of a Hot Tomato in our neighborhoods. And that if a Pizza Hut franchise can come up with the financing where a Hot Tomato can't, well, that's as it should be.

You could try that line of thought in this pizza joint this afternoon, but I don't think you'd get any takers.

The Stuff You Learn Riding a Bike.

Bicycling magazine named Minneapolis the number-one bike friendly city in the U.S. True? Hard to say, but we have a bike friendly mayor who may someday make Minnesota the most bike-friendly state.

*****

I used to play golf with a sweet man who had Parkinson's. It killed him a few years ago.

He wasn't quite as shaky as the man in this story, who had severe Parkinson's yet was able to ride a bicycle, but he could make putts that gave healthy men the shakes.

In case the "what's the point of this post" guy is reading: Don't assume — try.

*****

Decided at the last minute to do #30daysofbiking and document the rides with a photo a day. The cool thing about this is bringing together the hardcore riders with people just starting to realize what a bicycle can do for them.

Today, I didn't have any need to get out of the house. Had plenty of food, beer and writing work, but not much in the way of exercise, so I invented an errand to head down to my favorite beer store to load up on bombers from Avery and Great Divide.

Almost no matter where I am heading, I start downhill first, with a pretty spectacular view. I shot this one from the saddle on my way into town yesterday. (I mistakenly labeled it as day 1, but my day 1 ride was in the dark.)

You can follow the photostream here.

*****

Yesterday, I tried to locate a homeless man who had lost his entire camp to fire. I had a tent to give him, and I rode around town with it strapped on the back of my bike. I took a side trip along the Colorado River where some homeless men camp, riding a footpath past several camps, but not finding him. 

You can see how dry the area is now with the winter-killed vegetation. Not a good place for a warming fire.

I did manage a flat tire. I'd unloaded my repair kit to more easily transport the tent, so I had a good long walk back to town for a fix.

Karma is not always what it's cracked up to be.

*****

On today's ride, I got to see three Suburbans zip behind me in formation as I rode along a river trail. I'd seen their vehicles several times at the airport and assumed they were either a charter service or the bus service for some kind of religious cult.

But today, they rolled into a parking lot where men were standing around like parking ushers. I stopped to watch as they circled the lot, stopped, and men jumped out of the doors simultaneously and struck paramilitary positions around the vehicles.

Turns out Grand Junction is home to an executive security school.

The stuff you learn riding a bike...

Also, here's the photo from today's ride. The guys standing at attention around SUVs just weren't that cool.

For Bike-Route Mapping, Look Past the Google Buzz.

Google has been getting a lot of play for its new bike-mapping function, as this Google-centric, front-page story in the Pioneer Press illustrates. Since Google's tool will cover the nation and has the computing power and brand of an 800-million-ton gorilla behind it, a lot of cyclists will soon be using this service.

The story does mention that there's a local Twin Cities bike-route-mapping option, called Cyclopath, which has been built over the last several years as a wiki, incorporating the experience of local cyclists.

When it comes to finding your way on a bike, as with other personal activities, local knowledge tends to be superior to what you can get from the big box info machine.

Which is better — Cyclopath or Google? This won't be a close analysis of the two, but I'd urge cyclists to compare them to see which best fits your needs and riding style.

I've used Cyclopath on occasion to test my own commuter routes or find alternatives when no good options were apparent. It has the advantage of allowing the rider to select along a continuum of bike-friendliness and time. If you want to get to your destination efficiently — and are comfortable with a stretch of University Avenue or France Avenue — then you can move the route selector closer toward "Minimize Distance."

Google might offer an alternative route, but it doesn't allow such fine-tuning... yet.

To compare the two, I chose three destinations that pose some challenges for the cyclist who needs to cover a fair amount of distance and arrive on time. They cross major arteries and are not directly served by bike paths for much of the distance. They are also places I go only occasionally, so I don't have a lot of opportunity to refine the routes myself through trial and error. It's these kind of trips for which these route mappers are most useful.

The first trip is to my doctor's office. He used to be in a more bike and transit-friendly downtown location. Now his office is near the corner of 494 and 169, a place that few people would consider going except in a car.

 Here's the Cyclopath route which covers 13.28 miles and is quite close to the route I actually take. (For this and all sample routes, I picked a midpoint between distance and bikeability.

The Google route was 2 miles longer. For a cyclist who wants to arrive without an elevated heart rate, that's maybe 10 more minutes onto your trip.

The next test was for an eye doctor location, also south, but on the other side of Highway 100. Freeways, and the car-centric sprawl they spawn, tend to make direct commutes most challenging. (To be fair, so do lakes!)

The two mappers were closer on this trek — 12.57 miles for Cyclopath (the green line in the map below) vs. 13.6 for Google, which was not bad, but contained a number of unnecessary jogs to route me through the Country Club neighborhood of Edina. Google also offered two even longer routes of 14.9 miles (because the bike path around Lake Calhoun is one way, forcing you to ride on the far side) and 16.9 miles incorporating the Kenilworth trail.

If you're looking for a nice ride as opposed to a direct and timely commute, you can select such routes on Cyclopath as well.

Here's where the flaws in Google really became apparent — a ride across town to the Raymond/University area of St. Paul. Again, the Cyclopath route approximated what I ride — a 10.46-mile route.

Google gave me two options.  The 12.6-mile low road incorporating the Midtown Greenway is not bad, and one I sometimes take for the return ride when my arrival time is not so important. The 15.2-mile high road is simply ridiculous.

As a route-finding tool with more functions, Cyclopath may be more difficult at first for a casual user, but I didn't do anything special to generate these routes.

For any cyclist looking for alternative routes, Cyclopath is worth a visit.