Introducing The Wheel Deal: "The Wild West of NYC"
Photo by Seth Trouwborst
Welcome EST’s newest column, “The Wheel Deal,” written by King’s students James Gocke and Seth Trouwborst covering the world of biking in NYC and so much more. The opinions reflected in this article are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of staff, faculty and students of The King's College.
Tall skyscrapers with twilights devoid of stars. Taxi cab drivers: mute. Subway cars with redundant seat colors and silent neighbors, eyes bent down to a flashing screen and ears plugged with headphones. No one talks. No one looks at each other. Sterile, boring, depressing.
We’re here to shake things up.
Let us introduce ourselves:
James Gocke–tall, slim, calves of Jell-O. “Jim Slim”.
James rides a vintage racing bike. Brand: Raleigh USA. A speed demon. Price: $150 off Bob, (Craigslist upstate). Perks: high speed, quick maneuvering, six different handles. Aerodynamic. Aero is everything. Cons: potholes are going to get him at some point—he has thin tires. He may lose an eye...or worse.
Seth Trouwborst–taller, less slim, but nonetheless. “Slim Jim”. Needs five more packs for a six pack.
Seth rides a mountain bike. Brand: Raleigh Union. Black, green, flecks of gold and pink. Price: free from the neighbors, Richard and Lois. Thanks Richard and Lois! Perks: versatile, great gear system, thick tires, pothole ready. Cons: could be more aerodynamic. The brakes don’t work.
So picture this: a few days ago Seth and James are fighting bumper to bumper traffic up Madison Avenue in the Upper East Side. The conditions are less than ideal: four lanes, a car in each lane and no bike lane. Cabs and MTA buses are biting at our heels.
James leads the way, scurrying along the side of the road. Seth’s eyes are trained on him and the path he is creating. Seth’s heart stops—an idling car parked along the sidewalk flings a door open into the bike lane we crafted for ourselves. James is hurtling towards it. Seth thinks he’s done for. Cracked skull, broken arms, fractured rib cage; he’s gonna spend some time getting cozy with the nurses.
At the last second, James swings just left of the car, narrowly missing a trip to the hospital.
Seth’s anger boils. Such a careless idiot, almost dooring James. BTW, according to a study conducted by Belluck and Fox, a law firm, dooring is one of the most common biking accidents.
“Watch your door!” Seth screams, pounding on the back window.
A few minutes later, our favorite cowboys find the traffic too heavy. They pop up onto the sidewalk, weaving through dog walkers, those middle aged men in pinstripe suits and a few of our dear boys in blue who are too slow to catch them.
They *thump thump* off the sidewalk and zip back into the street. Seth yells, “Bump, James!” He needs constant reminders of potholes. They will be the death of him some day. They stick their heads out for any sign of the NYPD: the only reason to stop for a red light. They run the red light.
What you’ve gotta understand about biking is that it reveals how large the human soul looms. When first biking, you may think of yourself as small, insignificant, invisible to the trucks and cabs and cops. But as you slip through cars, narrowly avoiding MTA buses squeezing you to a pulp and skirt around turning vehicles, you recognize that your will, no matter how puny in the grand scheme of things, gets a lot of attention. The bolder you are, the more attention you get, the more your will is noticed, respected, honked at.
In the Wild West you had cowboys, outlaws, and sheriffs with little distinction between them. In New York you have cabs, cops, truckers and only the human will to rule them all. When in motion, you can’t get a parking ticket. The Wild West was a free for all, a place, as the French would say, en motion (trans. in motion). C’est la vie, because that’s how the streets are—always en motion.
Let’s bring this closer to home. Close your eyes and imagine for a second: you’re the main character in a western movie set in the Upper East Side. Trade the saloon and quick-draw holster for a tight bike lane and a cute little bell that dings with vengeance. Your tongue whips the foolish steer driving beside you. Your stirrups dig a little deeper into the pedals as you lower your head to bomb the hill. Dust sweeps into your eye; you pull the bandana higher up your face. You screech to a halt at the next red. Someone’s gotta maintain law and order.
Cyclists are not above the law, rather, their obedience to the law morphs to the will, woe and necessity of the given circumstance. You see, when riding a vintage racing bike, coasting downhill from 147th to 130th, the split-second decisions you make cannot be justified by the bylines of laws and regulations. If you react with your brain, you are three seconds too late. Late is not an option when surrounded by the impenetrable walls of MTA buses and blaring horns of taxicab drivers. You must respond with your gut, or, as the French say, l'intestin.
You should probably buy a helmet. Get ready for a wider gait. There’s a whole other world out there, one of intrigue, passion and drama. Throw away that monthly pass. That currency is no good here.