So it's come to this: our trusted
American existence compromised by our oil dependency. As gas prices
fluctuate between $4.00 and $5.00 per gallon, we are forced to seek
near-Marxist alternatives to our God-given automotive right, many of us
choosing a primitivism we haven't experienced since childhood.
In Europe, gas prices are nearing $10.00 a gallon, yet Europeans
seem to make less noise about it than Americans. Why? Are the
Europeans of heartier stock? Can they bear more abuse than the average
American? Not if we include France as part of Europe. No, it's not a
matter of tolerance, but lifestyle. The Europeans have been relying on
bike power as a viable mode of transportation for decades. In
Amsterdam, for example, bicycles are so prevalent that the government
has built bicycle parking decks. Few things are more surreal than
seeing a three-story parking deck loaded to the hilt with bikes.
Furthermore, the most perpetrated crime in the Dutch city is bicycle
theft. Of course, the argument could be made that theft is the most
perpetrated crime because everything else is legal, but that's for
another time and another article.
In the US, on the other hand, bicycles fall out of favor as soon as
we get our driver's licenses. Ours is a car culture. We build 'em
bigger, faster and more impractical each year: SUVs, 350 horse-power
sports cars, that mythical, lumbering beast known as the Hummer. Until
recently, our automotive obsession has set us apart and above the
third- and even the second-world. Now we are relegated to two-wheeled
barbarism like man suddenly becoming the monkey. It was Earth all
along!
In order to pocket a few more duchets, I am forced to take my
bicycle around town, exploiting local resources for my preternatural
impulses. Flaunting my masochism, I also wear an awful bike helmet,
which the Mexicans mock openly. So much for thug life.
I careen through the angry New Brunswick streets like some stoned
Dutch or Italian meth head. Down Livingston Avenue to Morris Street, I
stop at the George St. Co-Op for fresh organic produce that will suit
the evening's victuals. I pop upstairs to the Namaste Cafe, say "Hi" to
Drew and Dave, and down an ounce or two of wheatgrass juice. "This
would sharpen you up and make you ready for a bit of the old
ultra-violence."
Seated in the cafe, two intellectuals are engaged in heated debate
about the state of tea and the progress of the ward system. This is the
conversation that comes on after a strong wheatgrass fix. Broiled tales
of anarchy and triumph mask the collective apathy we've been nourishing
since Kurt Cobain checked out. Before I let myself get sucked in, I
strap my helmet back on, swallow my pride, and point my
technologically-retarded steed toward Easton Avenue.
You never realize how many hills are in this town until you have to
push yourself up them. All the way up the Easton Avenue hill to
Somerset Street I curse OPEC, Saudi Arabia, George Bush, Lukoil, and
the Rutgers University Glee Club for reasons yet unknown. I raise my
hands in triumph when I reach the top of the hill. My destination for
this part of the trip is in sight.
It would be a matter of sacrilege, among zealous locals and
students, to go about in New Brunswick without stopping at Thomas
Sweet's for ice cream. The Easton Avenue establishment is a
cornerstone of New Brunswick confection year round. Thomas Sweet's has
gone unrivalled in the ice cream market until recently, with the
opening of Cold Stone Creamery on George Street. Chain competition
notwithstanding, Thomas Sweet's continues to churn out the best
confectionary concoctions this side of the Raritan. I opt for the
"Dexter Freebish," a gooey conglomeration of vanilla ice cream,
caramel, chocolate fudge and cashews.
After a large serving from Thomas Sweet it is difficult to get back
on the bike, but I persevere. On the ride home I contemplate the
possibility of New Brunswick residents dusting off their old bikes,
venturing out into the streets, exploring their colorful neighborhoods,
and perhaps breathing a little easier as the air clears. I imagine
Robert Wood Johnson adding a bike parking deck to its massive fortress
of healing. I envision children playing in the streets again, and cars
narrowly missing them as the children dive for safety. I can picture
drug deals going awry and drunkards soiling themselves during an epic
bar crawl.
A good, lonely ride always puts me in a pensive mood, but it is time
to head back down Somerset Street, away from the beating heart of the
city, towards the old homestead where I live among the Mexicans,
Blacks, Bohunks, Trannies and Junkies. I fill the quota for Polish and
Irish in this neighborhood. A gentle soul has left empty beer bottles
on my front stoop. This must be Heaven.
