His name was Bart, and he was quite mean and a bit of a bully really. I had nothing in common with him at all – he was a sports jock, and I hated sports. He forced me to play sports with him – but the brief sessions were just means of humiliation. And he reveled in it.

Your question is, why would I tolerate this abuse? Answer: He had an Aurora slot car racing setup in his basement. This was a huge thing for the couple of us that befriended him – no one else we knew had such a thing. Vehicles of any sort, particularly FAST ones, have always been a big draw for boys, and we were no different. Whether rockets, planes, trains, or automobiles, the lure and fascination with all things fast and mobile was compelling and irresistible. Enough to endure the slings and arrows of an older bully.

There was another draw, and that was his bicycle. We waited for the rare opportunity when Bart needed some part or thing. No matter what his need or fancy, we were ready to oblige because he had a bike, which he referred to as his “crate.” When we asked how we would get to a given store, Bart, being impatient to get whatever it was he needed, would invariably tell us, “Take my crate.” The errands were fraught with stress – we had limited time, or we would have to face Bart’s wrath. Nonetheless, it was a bike ride.
Owning a bike was unquestionably a major rite of passage. Now, you had your own WHEELS. It was a first step towards independence. Now you could go places on your own. The next step would be at 16, learning to drive. But for most of us, one’s own car was not a reality and, at best, one may on occasion be allowed to drive a family car. And the responsibility and consequences of any mishap nearly outweighed the freedom that a car gave. There were no such concerns with a bicycle. Around 12, I got my own bike, and I needed to tolerate Bart no longer. I was a free man.

The lure of that beautiful, simple, efficient machine is with us today. Over the entire time I have lived in New York City, I have owned a bicycle. However, storage in a small apartment, carrying it up and down stairs, and the need for locking up at a destination all conspire against frequent use. I have not used a bike in years. Citi Bike hopes to change all that with their new rollout yesterday of their bike share program. It’s a long time coming and a really big deal. I wrote about the plan’s announcement on October 25, 2011 in Last to See the Future. The New York Times says:

For the first time, under cooperatively clear skies, New Yorkers sat astride the city’s first new wide-scale public transportation in more than 75 years: a fleet of 6,000 bicycles, part of a system known as Citi Bike, scattered across more than 300 stations in Manhattan below 59th Street and parts of Brooklyn.

There were some snags, as to be expected. Many were desperately trying to activate a rental with their credit cards, unaware that the program is initially only available to those who preregistered online. Some registrants had not yet received their key. The map app showing station locations was not working. People were having difficulty locking the bikes on return.

Also, the plan is often misunderstood. The motive is to provide transportation, not recreation. Base rental periods are for 30-45 minutes. Overtime is prohibitively expensive – $12 per half hour. Daily, weekly, or yearly rentals come with unlimited rides but not unlimited time per ride – all are subject to overtime charges.

The bikeshare plan is controversial. Parking spots have been eliminated, and the cost to run the system is high. Some new Mayoral candidates are not in favor of the plan at all. Time will tell if the plan is logistically and financially viable. I plan to be an early adopter. No matter what setbacks the system may have, anything is better than borrowing a crate from Bart 🙂

On July 29, 2009, I wrote Urban Coral Atoll about auto break-ins on the streets of New York City, with the telltale signs of shards of glass on the street. Yesterday, however, while exploring Gowanus, Brooklyn, I spotted a break-in where detective work was unnecessary. The car itself was still parked at the scene of the crime. Not one but TWO windows were completely smashed in broad daylight on a beautiful, sunny spring day.
The auto was parked in front of Statewide Fireproof Door at 131 3rd Street – a moderately busy through street, even on a Sunday. The license plates were from New Jersey. The out-of-towners had yet to return and find themselves a nice cleaning job along with a breezy ride home and a repair job. And to learn the hard way, as every New Yorker knows, that to a thief, performing a Glass Act is No Pane at All 🙂

I had been told about the Allagash since childhood – it was enigmatic. Few details were given, most likely because few were known, but the mind of the child went where no info was given. There were stories of big, scary woodsmen who would no doubt do something horrible and yet to be named to any visitor. I was all the more intrigued. On one visit to northern Maine, my uncle, a resident of Eagle Lake, assured me that those inhabitants would pose no problem at all. My father and mother remained steadfast in their view and threw their hands up in despair over a son who apparently was determined to explore the inner world.

The Maine North Woods region (which some call the Allagash, a river and wilderness waterway) is an extremely large and unusual area, relatively unknown to outsiders and even to many current and former Maine residents, yet it occupies roughly one-quarter of the state, an area of over 5,000 square miles, approximately the size of the entire state of Connecticut.

What is unusual is that the area is predominantly privately owned by a number of timber corporations. Within its borders, there are no towns, only unpaved lumbering roads. A small area, the Allagash Wilderness Waterway, a state protected region, lies within the Maine North Woods.
The Maine North Woods is open to visitors – naturalists who go there to fish, canoe, and explore one of the most isolated and last true wilderness regions of the United States. It is accessible via various checkpoints and a very nominal entrance fee.

And so it was some years ago that I did at last make the decision to visit the area. I had rented a room in Greenville, Maine, where I spent time at Kokadjo, a remarkable restaurant that left an indelible imprint on my mind. It was from Kokadjo that I left for my exploration – I was forewarned by the owner that the roads were troublesome and best not toured in a passenger automobile. Undaunted, I was spurred on with just another in a series of warnings that were falling on deaf ears. I left excited, arrived at the checkpoint, and, with little ado, was heading north. I quickly learned why this wilderness area was not a top tourist attraction. The roads are dominated nearly 100% by enormous lumbering trucks with precarious loads of cut trees. The clouds of dust left behind as trucks roar down the dirt roads is HORRIFIC – I soon learned that the only way to navigate these roads was to stop and wait until the dust cleared before resuming. It was tedious and tiresome.

But, no worry, my tedium was to be short-lived – within an extraordinarily short distance, I felt and heard the telltale signs of a dreaded flat. I REALLY did not want to deal with changing a flat here in the Maine woods – my car was layered in dust. To add insult to injury, I had developed a worrisome chronic squeaking sound. I had no choice – there were no inhabitants, no towns, no service stations. I was on my own, and I already imagined the chorus of “I told you so” on the future retelling of this story to my family.

I exited the car and stood behind it, mustering the will to deal with the filthy job of changing a flat in the hot sun on a car consumed with dust. I had not stood more than seconds when the driver of a lumbering truck stopped, assessed the situation, asked for my keys, opened my trunk, and began to change the flat without even asking if I needed help. I was shocked how this complete stranger rose to the occasion without request or any obligation to do so. This was classic Maine spirit – in an environment where just breaking down in the harsh winter can be fatal, locals have learned that working together and offering a helping hand is necessary.

The truck driver’s handiwork was done in no time. He assured me that my experience was common on roads littered with nails and other debris. He also assured me that the squeaking sound was nothing serious – it was due to dust in the brake linings from traveling the roads there, another common occurrence in these parts.
However, I was dismayed that the spare tire provided on cars was no longer a duplicate of the standard, like that of olden times, but was now a small “doughnut,” designed to be ridden only a few miles to get one’s flat tire serviced. So my exploration of the Allagash was to be cut short. Back I went to Kokadjo to see what the general store may offer in the way of repair.

I had barely walked in the door, and the owner immediately caught my eye and asked if I had gotten a flat. I was startled by his precognitive abilities as I got my first round of “I told you so’s.” Frustrated by my initial defiance, the owner toured me through his small retail store, locating a patch kit and instructing me on its use and the repair of steel belted radial tires.

On Saturday, May 19, 2012, I was cruising my neighborhood for a parking spot. The seasoned New York City street parker will not only scan for empty spots, but will also canvas for idling vehicles and pedestrians making their way towards parked cars. As I approached Duane Reade on Waverly Place, I noticed a man in a parked car. I asked if he was pulling out. He said he would be, but only as soon as he got a jump for his car, which now sported a dead battery.

If there is a God, I was now being tested. Beyond getting a parking spot, would I help this man for the right reason? And if karma really is operative, would I be propelled to make a repayment for the act of kindness in the Maine Woods? Knowing this man’s plight, it would be unconscionable not to offer assistance. I carry jumper cables, and boosting a car battery is only a few minutes work. This was an opportunity to soften the harsh world of New York City, a place certainly not renowned for benevolent acts.

I learned that the owner of the car, Hasan Sims, had called a friend for help. I suggested that he call his friend back to avoid an unnecessary trip. I also learned that Hasan worked the night shift at the neighboring Duane Reade and had taken a nap in his vehicle. In the few minutes we worked to start his car, we spoke openly about the various motivations I might have in helping him. I assured him that although getting a parking spot was the primary goal, I was working on something new – being a better person. Unfortunately, time did not allow me to to tell him that I also had a debt to repay for a deed done by an unknown trucker In the Allagash 🙂

Note to the intrepid traveler: I was finally to explore the Maine North Woods on a future trip, entering from the north at the town of Allagash, near the Canadian border.

More about parking: Nice Move, Kid, Pull Ahead, WFF ‘N PROOF

Kindness and rudeness in New York City: Random Acts of Rudeness, Area Code 714 (Part 1 and Part 2)

My brother-in-law was at one time involved in drag racing. I was intrigued when he recounted the level of sound of these cars even when idling – that clothing would move due to the incredible sound pressure generated by machines running literally on rocket fuel – nitromethane. Since that conversation, I have always wanted to attend a race just to experience once what he described.

However, I am not a lover of boom cars which cruise the streets of New York City. Perhaps you have encountered the Boom Car. These ear-splitting machines are old news. From the New York Times in 1990:

Young people are converting cars into rolling radio stations by stuffing them with dozens of speakers, compact disk ”jukeboxes” and amplifiers capable of booming rock and rap music at decibel levels powerful enough to rattle neighbors’ windows, ruin their own hearing and assault their captive audience on the street. They are being spurred on by technological advances in automobile sound and by national competitions with names like ”Sound Quake” and ”Thunder on Wheels.” The equipment is being installed by shops with slogans like ”We Build Ground Pounders.”

Unfortunately, these vehicles are the bane of most New Yorkers, the deafening sound being enjoyed primarily by the occupants of the car. The phenomenon is certainly not limited to the city. It’s a nationwide phenomenon that has citizens in an uproar and keeps legislators busy. Some of these systems boast over 1000 watts, powerful enough to shake the windows, the china, and the walls of home owners.

Yesterday, while leaving my office at the corner of Spring Street and Broadway in SoHo, I saw a large Cadillac with curtained windows, looking more like a hearse than a regular passenger vehicle. I only had seconds to capture a photo of the sound mobile. I reached for my camera, snapped one photo, and got a few seconds of shaky video. I made my photography deliberate and obvious. As the car sped off when the light changed to green, the passenger smiled and acknowledged what he perceived as my tacit approval.

According to noiseoff.org, an organization devoted to fighting noise pollution of all types, “People who drive boom cars consider it their right to play music at any volume they please. They regard their car as an expression of themselves and the louder it is, the bolder the statement that they can make. Boomers are typically lower-middle class males in their teens and twenties with some disposable income. They assume that their car will attract women and improve their social standing among their peers.”

Technology is only going to make the problem potentially worse. Some are calling the enterprise the “noise industrial complex.” The advertising slogans, not typically familiar to outsiders, is unapologetic:

“Disturb the Peace” (Sony)
“All New Ways to Offend” (Sony)
“Performance they’ll hear a mile away”(BoltOn)
“Shake the living; Wake the dead” (Cerwin Vega)
“…achieving the sound your neighbors fear” (Sony Xplod Car Audio)
“Disturb, Defy, Disrupt, Ignite” (Pioneer Electronics)
“Head-Splitting, Heart-stopping, Ear-shattering, Mind-numbing, Retina-detaching MX Audio Thunder 9500  Subwoofer” (MTX Audio)
“Put the over forty set into cardiac arrest”(Prestige Audio)

This type of noise, like the roar of the non-muffled straight pipes of motorcycles, is difficult to control, and prosecuting offenders is tricky – the varying sound level is difficult to measure, and the source is a moving target. So, as long as the appeal is there and big money is to be made selling the equipment, it looks like it’s going to be a Boom Boom 🙂

More on noise: As Usual, Grace of a Boombox God, Too Too New York, Deaf Jam, Men Making Noise