Over the years, you’ve known me variously as “BSNYC,” “RTMS,” Tan Tenovo,” and, most recently, “That Motherfucker.”
Today, I’d like you to forget all that, and from now on to address me only as
“The Legend of Yonkers N. Broadway Climb:”
Yes, that’s right, thanks to Strava’s latest consolation prize for losers I now get to sport this comely honorific. You know, when I look back at my life, I can now see that it is divided neatly into two portions: the period before I became the Legend of Yonkers N. Broadway Climb , and the period after. Basically, I’d characterize the before period as one of darkness, ignorance, and shame. But then I climbed North Broadway for the gazillionth time and the pie plates fell from my eyes as the Strava Gods with their divine algorithm descended from the sky via GPS signal and anointed me the Legend of Yonkers N. Broadway Climb. Now my life has meaning and I am positively vibrating with purpose and faith. Ah-meh and Holy Luau!
And yes, you may call me LOYNBC for short.
Speaking of legends, how about this Mountain Fred who got bitten by a snake and then unleashed the power of electronic gadgetry to treat himself? First he consults Siri:
Then he keeps riding…
…on his ebike:
There’s no better feeling in the world than when your own laziness pays off. Had he been on a regular unassisted bike or–heaven forbid–a singlespeed then surely he’d be dead right now. Sadly the video ends with him loading his bike into the car, but I’m sure in the uncut version he extols the virtues of his adaptive cruise control as he drives home with his swollen ankle elevated on the dashboard.
Finally, when it comes to the subject of bikes, the New York Times’s editorial pendulum has swung from “bemusement” to “adulation” as of late:
I’m not sure what to attribute this to, but if I had to guess I’d say it’s because they’re all working from home now so are more willing to consider that bicycles are a useful means of conveyance as opposed to something that gets in the way of their Ubers. As for the pedestrian and bicycle bridge above, which would apparently thread its way through some of the city’s wealthiest neighborhoods like a necklace on a napping debutante’s clavicle, I’d say we can put the chances of that ever happening somewhere between “snowball in hell” and “Rivendell releasing a crabon gravel bike.” It’s also grotesque in a way when you consider there are about a million projects the city could undertake right this moment to make life better for people on bikes that would take little more than a few truckloads of supplies from Home Depot.
Aw, fuck it, I’m leasing a…you know the rest.