On almost every one of my many rides up through Rock Creek Park and into the well-tracked wilds of suburban Maryland, I wonder what it might be like to get a flat tire out there in the farthest reaches of my usual routes. What would I, sans-tube, do? How would I make it the 10 or 15 miles back to my home in the city?
Out this morning on a quick jaunt to the park limits, my rear wheel whacked one of Beach Drive's many potholes, just after I made the turn to head home. The low hiss of air escaping quickly and the fingers-in-gelatin feel of the wheel rim against rubber told me truly: God cut me down. After a few profanities both mouthed and voiced, and self-flagellation over my forsaking the CamelBak stocked with spares, tire irons, and a hand pump, I realized that there was just one thing to do in this oft-imagined situation: walk. And I did, muttering to myself about that inch between success and disaster, the haphazard ease with which human plans are torn asunder by an unfeeling cosmos, and the "opportunities" we have to "grow" and "learn acceptance" when we confront these facts.
Walking the couple miles towards the park station to ring for a cab, I was at least heartened by the more than few offers of aid that came from passing cyclists ("You OK?" - "I'm fine, thanks, just screwed without a spare" - "Yep, that bites"). To wait for my very expensive ride home, I took up the single sunny spot by the creek, and recalled that there are worse ways to spend a spring morning. The too-brief draughts of warm sunshine, though, were not enough to stem the tide of early-morning chill, and I was soon looking for a place to warm my hands (hard to find for the spandex-clad). Just as my teeth began to chatter, my knight in a black and yellow Ford Crown Victoria arrived, and I was wisked home for the pretty price of a decent dinner.
The glaring lesson, of course, is one in preparedness: cyclists should carry spare tubes like boats got lifejackets. I think that this has been suitably impressed up on me.
Another point, though, is that we often fail to consider that accidents fall on a sliding scale. I've just begun reading one of JM Coetzee's lesser-known novels, The Slow Man. In the first paragraph, Paul Rayment suffers the loss of his leg in a collision with a truck (he was cycling, of course). I identify with the cycling aspect, and more deeply with facing up to getting around on one leg (though I, unlike M. Rayment, was lucky enough to have my busted-up limb reconstructed rather than amputated). Comparatively, an inconvenient flat tire is obviously on the trivial end of the aw-crap scale.
And how does this all relate to affordable housing? Well, to bring it home with broad brush strokes, an accident may foul our plans (and perhaps our propulsion), set our world wobbling on its axis, and redefine our experience with new and unexpected limits. For these reasons we try to prevent accidents and plan contingencies. It's altogether different when, for some, limited opportunity and contracted horizons are product, part, and parcel of our social machinery. For accidents we should learn acceptance and perspective; perspective on societal inequity of opportunity, though, should move us to take up tools and ready ourselves to fine-tune the system, or maybe do some serious re-engineering.
Maybe there will be more on this as I get further into the book, and back out on the road . . . (with spares, of course!)
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
The long and winding road...
This weekend my training took a turn for the intense. I have had my new bike for some time now, and had racked up some decent miles to date, but at some point one must put the rubber to the road and test the limits. With a couple friends down in Charlottesville, Virginia, and more from New York coming through DC to visit them there, a perfect opportunity for a long ride presented itself. So I packed my bag (er, CamelBak) and after $2.45 in Metro fare, 200 oz of water, 3 Clif Bars and 112 miles, I was basking in the afterglow of a hard day's cycling and the company of good friends. That, though, is a bit too neat and rosy a statement to capture the full experience.
I set out Saturday AM on the metro from my home in the middle of Washington, DC. The blue line to Franconia offered a chance to take a chunk out of the high traffic roads I'd have to travel, and I was able to route a nice cut over which ran on by Burke Lake and towards Manassas. A brief aside: Virginians take their highway clean up seriously. A plethora of community organizations, boy scout troops, and one oddball menagerie that chose to denote itself as "Angry Rednecks Who Hate Litter" are apparently proud participants in Virginia's Adopt-A-Highway program. The Angry Rednecks' stretch sure was litter free, but I would have appreciated their removing a stray beaver carcass which, in the warm March sun unique to the Mid-Atlantic, proved the most powerful odor I came across all trip.
I was a bit spoiled by this early run through tree-lined single lane roads, and as I skirted the southern fringe of Manassas I reentered the suburban sprawl for which Northern Virginia is known. My sails still full with my first wind, though, I pedaled on through to 28-S, and as the highway interchanges, strip malls, and McMansions of Manassas fell away behind me I came into the world of verdant fields and ruminating livestock, as well as the full fragrance one might imagine in both, in which I would dwell for the rest of my Saturday on the road. I stayed strong on up to the 45 mile mark, and there first felt my energy falter. A decent rest on a hilltop and a few Clif bars had me back on my feet in no time, and I stayed strong, despite battling a potent headwind, all the way through the rolling hills of Rapidan Road into Orange, Virginia and just over the 80 mile mark.
Another rest and a meal there steeled me for the final push down the Constitution Highway into Charlottesville. The sun was drawing closer to the Blue Ridge Mountains off to the west. The first 12 of the last 28 miles were covered rapidly, but into the mid-90 mile mark there were more hills, screaming quads, and my pace was often reduced to a tortured crawl. The sun was setting and a chill in with it, and it was neither strength or energy but willpower only which kept my legs moving even as they cramped. I came into the city as its lights came up, and found my way to my friends in almost complete darkness. I cannot say that I came in like a conquering hero, in fact I was fairly vanquished by the whole ordeal. But I can say that I did it, and that this is just the first of many more trying trips and moments for setting my mind over the matter of my body.
I set out Saturday AM on the metro from my home in the middle of Washington, DC. The blue line to Franconia offered a chance to take a chunk out of the high traffic roads I'd have to travel, and I was able to route a nice cut over which ran on by Burke Lake and towards Manassas. A brief aside: Virginians take their highway clean up seriously. A plethora of community organizations, boy scout troops, and one oddball menagerie that chose to denote itself as "Angry Rednecks Who Hate Litter" are apparently proud participants in Virginia's Adopt-A-Highway program. The Angry Rednecks' stretch sure was litter free, but I would have appreciated their removing a stray beaver carcass which, in the warm March sun unique to the Mid-Atlantic, proved the most powerful odor I came across all trip.
I was a bit spoiled by this early run through tree-lined single lane roads, and as I skirted the southern fringe of Manassas I reentered the suburban sprawl for which Northern Virginia is known. My sails still full with my first wind, though, I pedaled on through to 28-S, and as the highway interchanges, strip malls, and McMansions of Manassas fell away behind me I came into the world of verdant fields and ruminating livestock, as well as the full fragrance one might imagine in both, in which I would dwell for the rest of my Saturday on the road. I stayed strong on up to the 45 mile mark, and there first felt my energy falter. A decent rest on a hilltop and a few Clif bars had me back on my feet in no time, and I stayed strong, despite battling a potent headwind, all the way through the rolling hills of Rapidan Road into Orange, Virginia and just over the 80 mile mark.
Another rest and a meal there steeled me for the final push down the Constitution Highway into Charlottesville. The sun was drawing closer to the Blue Ridge Mountains off to the west. The first 12 of the last 28 miles were covered rapidly, but into the mid-90 mile mark there were more hills, screaming quads, and my pace was often reduced to a tortured crawl. The sun was setting and a chill in with it, and it was neither strength or energy but willpower only which kept my legs moving even as they cramped. I came into the city as its lights came up, and found my way to my friends in almost complete darkness. I cannot say that I came in like a conquering hero, in fact I was fairly vanquished by the whole ordeal. But I can say that I did it, and that this is just the first of many more trying trips and moments for setting my mind over the matter of my body.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
On February 19, I spent a Friday away from work (sweat equity never felt so good!) volunteering with Habitat for Humanity of Washington, DC. Now I’ve participated in build projects before, from the Hudson Valley in New York to Highlands County, FL, but the project in DC is unique for its sheer scale. At a 53-home development in Northeast DC which already accommodates nearly forty families, a crew of Americorps volunteers and armies of weekend volunteers stay on pace to build ten new homes each year. DC has only recently begun to rebound from decades of urban decay following major riots in 1968, and the significance of the H4H effort here was enough to prompt a visit from the President and First Lady on September 11 of last year.
Against that broad background, my part in this project was as small as a 6’ x 8’ room. I hung sheet rock in what may become, of all things, an elevator shaft. This home – something of an anomaly among affordable housing’s usually simple, one-story floor plans – is being built to American Disability Association specifications. That means bigger bathrooms, a very unique kitchen and, because it’s multi-story, plans for an elevator! I have hung sheet rock many times, but working on a new site inevitably brings fresh experience (sheetrocking an elevator shaft), new skills (“Glue before you screw!”), and new vocabulary: “cripple” (stud), “mud” (spackle), and “heat gun” (propane-fired heat artillery - er, space heater, which also goes under “fresh experience”).
The bottom line is, even if you have volunteered on build sites before, your sweat equity hours are an opportunity to hone your skills, learn new things, and experience the great work that’s being done on affordable housing beyond even the impressively expansive boundaries of Bike and Build!
Against that broad background, my part in this project was as small as a 6’ x 8’ room. I hung sheet rock in what may become, of all things, an elevator shaft. This home – something of an anomaly among affordable housing’s usually simple, one-story floor plans – is being built to American Disability Association specifications. That means bigger bathrooms, a very unique kitchen and, because it’s multi-story, plans for an elevator! I have hung sheet rock many times, but working on a new site inevitably brings fresh experience (sheetrocking an elevator shaft), new skills (“Glue before you screw!”), and new vocabulary: “cripple” (stud), “mud” (spackle), and “heat gun” (propane-fired heat artillery - er, space heater, which also goes under “fresh experience”).
The bottom line is, even if you have volunteered on build sites before, your sweat equity hours are an opportunity to hone your skills, learn new things, and experience the great work that’s being done on affordable housing beyond even the impressively expansive boundaries of Bike and Build!
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Getting going!
So, here I am, all excited to be at the beginning of the beginning of this awesome trip! Despite looking down my leg and seeing an ankle that is, despite the new hardware holding it together, undeniably broken, I am confident that these news screws will be pedaling every one of the 3543 miles from Jacksonville, Florida to San Francisco, California. In fact, that very thought is about the only thing keeping this couch jockey sane in the midst of his convalescence. That and a growing stack of books.
There's a great deal to said about the tremendous support I've received in fundraising so far, and also, naturally, about the raison d'etre for this trip itself-- providing affordable housing to low-income citizens! These will be topics for several future posts, but, given all that we know now, isn't it difficult not to appreciate how critical it is that working people in our society be able to afford a decent home that doesn't cost them the better part of their hard-earned wages? Think about it.
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