There's a special place in hell for the Canadian prime minister said Peter Navarro, a key Trump advisor and special sycophant. Trudeau stood up to Trump against the president imposing consumer-wrecking tariffs against Canadian steel and aluminum, even as he warned that American consumers would pay the price of the new taxes, perhaps even more so than Canadians would, at the G-7 summit in Canada to which Trump wanted to bring his discredited Russian master, Putin, to be the special spoiler of the party.
Navarro has apologized, sort of, for his choice of words because, he said, it diminished the force of his message. A leader of our friends to the north whose military watches over our undefended border from any approach of a threat to us over the top of the world, and whose sons stormed ashore alongside our boys against Hitler's Fortress Europa on D-Day, perhaps ensuring our success in that risky venture, and now Trump condemns our closest allies through his despicable surrogates.
Recently I encountered a car full of Canadians which was stopped at the lowered crossbar of a Metro parking lot after a Capitals hockey game, trying to pay with their Canadian currency the fare at the automated kiosk which only accepted a Metro fare card for payment. As I walked past they asked if I could release their car from its detention at the gate, and I applied my fare card to the payment box so they could exit the lot and return to the home they were visiting.
They tried to bestow me with Canadian dollars for my deed and my minor expense but I turned them down and said, "I have done you a small favor and I want only for you to return the favor someday to an American who needs help." I am sure they will somehow, and I love Canadians.
Showing posts with label Metro. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Metro. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 13, 2018
Tuesday, September 19, 2017
The final dental visit
The third and final trip to the dentist this year, to get the new permanent crown put in, came two weeks after the temporary crown was put in. Again, it capped a tooth which had had a root canal done so I declined the offer of novocaine before the dentist went to the drill to clean off the stump, remove the temporary cement from the site and clear out or enlarge the pinhole the post in the crown was going to fit into.
The dentist remarked that the crown with a short wire rod jutting out below it, much like the old crown which had been unusable, was a thing of the past and he hadn't even trained in dental school last decade on its use. Cements were so much better now, he indicated.
But he dropped it in, worked on tamping it down into the hole (I suggested at one point that he just use a rubber mallet) and got it seated perfectly. Two months later I haven't had a hint of a problem with it.
I was pleased that the 40 minutes or so had not produced the dreaded jolt. The bill for the three hours of work came to over $2,000, my insurance costing about $40 a month paid about $40 of it, and the good dentist charged off most of it as a courtesy. I paid the rest. I'll see my new dentist again when I have my next dental emergency, hopefully not for years.
The dentist remarked that the crown with a short wire rod jutting out below it, much like the old crown which had been unusable, was a thing of the past and he hadn't even trained in dental school last decade on its use. Cements were so much better now, he indicated.
But he dropped it in, worked on tamping it down into the hole (I suggested at one point that he just use a rubber mallet) and got it seated perfectly. Two months later I haven't had a hint of a problem with it.
I was pleased that the 40 minutes or so had not produced the dreaded jolt. The bill for the three hours of work came to over $2,000, my insurance costing about $40 a month paid about $40 of it, and the good dentist charged off most of it as a courtesy. I paid the rest. I'll see my new dentist again when I have my next dental emergency, hopefully not for years.
Thursday, April 20, 2017
So how exactly did you get this?
Here's something you might not know. When you reach a certain age in your sixties, you can apply for a special smart card in the DC Metro system and ride at a greatly reduced rate forever, I suppose. I didn't know anything about this program until a friend of mine who is older than me told me about it, describing it as a half-off card.
I inquired at the West Falls Church station, which I sometimes use, and the station manager confirmed the program and told me where the "commuter store" was where I could go to purchase the card, for $2, and informed me of the store's hours. The next day I undertook a run of four miles to that store and bought the special card and loaded it to the max ($300).
I handed over my OL to the clerk in her fishbowl booth and said, "Check the age and you'll know what I want." Without a word she smiled, glanced at my license and started filling out a form. She said most people are ignorant of the program but still, she sells about half a dozen such cards a day.
The card is bright yellow, in contrast to the pale green and blue color of the regular metro smart cards. I guess its distinctiveness shouts out to onlookers, Senior, Senior, as in old. But who am I kidding, I don't need to flash the fare card for persons to realize that there are seats in the cars set out especially for me and my ilk.
Having run to the commuter store at the Ballston station on the flat W&OD Trail and hilly Custis Trail from the East Falls Church station because I didn't want to pay full fare to get there when I could ride for half-fare back, I entered the metro system for my return trip and carefully checked the posted fare. $1.75. Upon exiting the system one stop later, I was disappointed to see that my cost was $1.05, not $0.88.
I asked the station manager if he could explain something about my brand-new fare card to me and handed it to him. I said that it should have provided me with a half-off fare, but that my fare was more than half of the normal fare. He gave me the familiar dodge about higher than expected fares and said it depended upon the distance traveled and the time of day.
I said that it was a senior card which is supposed to provide for half-fares, not something higher. He was quick on his feet and said it was a discount card, not a half-fare card. It was apparent that neither of us really knew how the program actually works, so I'll have to monitor my fares for awhile or try find its particulars on-line, but his answer was acceptable to me.
And then, his face hardening and his voice rising authoritatively, he asked, "And just how did you come into possession of this card?" He was staring at me and holding my card, and I looked at him in stunned disbelief. Suddenly I burst into laughter and pointed knowingly at him. His eyes twinkling, he handed my card back and gave me a slight chuck on my shoulder. Friends for life.
I inquired at the West Falls Church station, which I sometimes use, and the station manager confirmed the program and told me where the "commuter store" was where I could go to purchase the card, for $2, and informed me of the store's hours. The next day I undertook a run of four miles to that store and bought the special card and loaded it to the max ($300).
I handed over my OL to the clerk in her fishbowl booth and said, "Check the age and you'll know what I want." Without a word she smiled, glanced at my license and started filling out a form. She said most people are ignorant of the program but still, she sells about half a dozen such cards a day.
The card is bright yellow, in contrast to the pale green and blue color of the regular metro smart cards. I guess its distinctiveness shouts out to onlookers, Senior, Senior, as in old. But who am I kidding, I don't need to flash the fare card for persons to realize that there are seats in the cars set out especially for me and my ilk.
Having run to the commuter store at the Ballston station on the flat W&OD Trail and hilly Custis Trail from the East Falls Church station because I didn't want to pay full fare to get there when I could ride for half-fare back, I entered the metro system for my return trip and carefully checked the posted fare. $1.75. Upon exiting the system one stop later, I was disappointed to see that my cost was $1.05, not $0.88.
I asked the station manager if he could explain something about my brand-new fare card to me and handed it to him. I said that it should have provided me with a half-off fare, but that my fare was more than half of the normal fare. He gave me the familiar dodge about higher than expected fares and said it depended upon the distance traveled and the time of day.
I said that it was a senior card which is supposed to provide for half-fares, not something higher. He was quick on his feet and said it was a discount card, not a half-fare card. It was apparent that neither of us really knew how the program actually works, so I'll have to monitor my fares for awhile or try find its particulars on-line, but his answer was acceptable to me.
And then, his face hardening and his voice rising authoritatively, he asked, "And just how did you come into possession of this card?" He was staring at me and holding my card, and I looked at him in stunned disbelief. Suddenly I burst into laughter and pointed knowingly at him. His eyes twinkling, he handed my card back and gave me a slight chuck on my shoulder. Friends for life.
Friday, September 9, 2016
Miles is miles, right?
I got ahead of my running routine before my surgery on August 12th by running every day for much of the latter part of July and all of early August including on the morning of surgery. My discipline is that I run five times a week, no matter how far, and that's what forces me to keep my hand in the game. (Three miles done in the early morning, now bring on the surgeon at 7 a.m.!)
I felt I was in a good place on the day I had the double procedure, with a good running base, working on strength training even, and then, well, I walked six blocks the next day, for a few blocks the day after that, then two miles a day on the third day through seventh day before I was able to shuffle a mile on the eighth day, slowly and laboriously, with two walk breaks. (Walking three blocks to get coffee, and three blocks back, the day after surgery and discovering it was a long way!)
I was on my way! I took the ninth day off then ran, if you want to call a shambling gait running, a mile the next day, did my "long" run of two miles the next day and finished off the week with two slow slogs of a mile and a half. (Back from my "long" run of two miles.)
The next week of running went better with four days of two plus miles each day plus, after a bad day where I felt pain and went to bed, a "long" run of three miles to the Metro Station a mile away along decently lighted streets after I woke up at 4 a.m. with the extra mile burned off in the the well lighted parking garage. My belly button hernia repair is healed and gave me no trouble after a few days but the abdominal surgical repair has taken longer than I anticipated to heal and still gives me trouble sometimes, which limits my length and pace of runs considerably and has forced me to put off notions of resuming my strength training for the foreseeable term. (Back after the next week's "long" run of three miles!)
I felt I was in a good place on the day I had the double procedure, with a good running base, working on strength training even, and then, well, I walked six blocks the next day, for a few blocks the day after that, then two miles a day on the third day through seventh day before I was able to shuffle a mile on the eighth day, slowly and laboriously, with two walk breaks. (Walking three blocks to get coffee, and three blocks back, the day after surgery and discovering it was a long way!)
I was on my way! I took the ninth day off then ran, if you want to call a shambling gait running, a mile the next day, did my "long" run of two miles the next day and finished off the week with two slow slogs of a mile and a half. (Back from my "long" run of two miles.)
The next week of running went better with four days of two plus miles each day plus, after a bad day where I felt pain and went to bed, a "long" run of three miles to the Metro Station a mile away along decently lighted streets after I woke up at 4 a.m. with the extra mile burned off in the the well lighted parking garage. My belly button hernia repair is healed and gave me no trouble after a few days but the abdominal surgical repair has taken longer than I anticipated to heal and still gives me trouble sometimes, which limits my length and pace of runs considerably and has forced me to put off notions of resuming my strength training for the foreseeable term. (Back after the next week's "long" run of three miles!)
Friday, September 18, 2015
Whirr!
It all started with a piece of baked stuffed salmon in the cafeteria. It was even slightly undercooked so it was tender and moist.
I was enjoying it when somehow it wrenched a crown out. Now salmon joins the list of taffy, licorice and clam chowder as things which have pulled crowns out, not to be confused with the list of cheez-its and life savers as things which have broken teeth, which results in root canals and crowns.
So the next day I called the dentist. Unless it hurts, never do two things involving the dentist on the same day.
She urged me to come in immediately, so she could cement it back in. Apparently bad things can happen if you leave a tooth stump exposed to the real world for a week or two.
I went in, she cemented the crown back in, announced to me that she was retiring this year and said, "You know, Peter, you haven't had your teeth cleaned or had an oral examination in eight years. You view dentists as emergency stations. Oh, by the way, you have a bad cavity I noticed in there which you really should get filled."
Hmm. She's the best dentist I ever had. "You're leaving?" I thought. "But what about me?"
The reason she's the best dentist I ever had is because she's never hurt me, in addition to being a superlative dentist. In 2011 she was rated one of the best dentists in the DC area by the Washingtonian magazine. Plenty of dentists have hurt me, not on purpose of course, beginning with Dr. Lipscombe on Staten Island who drilled out seven probably shallow cavities when I waved off Novocain in a show of bravado as a young boy.
Ever since that day, I have always looked for the back door in any lay-down chair I put myself in, an escape route I can utilize when I hear that Whirrr! So, what does this have to do with a running blog? Well, more to come about my dental woes, it's part of how life intrudes, but also as I discovered today when I arrived early and explored a bit, her office is half a block off MP 17 on the W&OD Trail and my house is half a block off MP 7 on the W&OD Trail. Hmm.
I was enjoying it when somehow it wrenched a crown out. Now salmon joins the list of taffy, licorice and clam chowder as things which have pulled crowns out, not to be confused with the list of cheez-its and life savers as things which have broken teeth, which results in root canals and crowns.
So the next day I called the dentist. Unless it hurts, never do two things involving the dentist on the same day.
She urged me to come in immediately, so she could cement it back in. Apparently bad things can happen if you leave a tooth stump exposed to the real world for a week or two.
I went in, she cemented the crown back in, announced to me that she was retiring this year and said, "You know, Peter, you haven't had your teeth cleaned or had an oral examination in eight years. You view dentists as emergency stations. Oh, by the way, you have a bad cavity I noticed in there which you really should get filled."
Hmm. She's the best dentist I ever had. "You're leaving?" I thought. "But what about me?"
The reason she's the best dentist I ever had is because she's never hurt me, in addition to being a superlative dentist. In 2011 she was rated one of the best dentists in the DC area by the Washingtonian magazine. Plenty of dentists have hurt me, not on purpose of course, beginning with Dr. Lipscombe on Staten Island who drilled out seven probably shallow cavities when I waved off Novocain in a show of bravado as a young boy.
Ever since that day, I have always looked for the back door in any lay-down chair I put myself in, an escape route I can utilize when I hear that Whirrr! So, what does this have to do with a running blog? Well, more to come about my dental woes, it's part of how life intrudes, but also as I discovered today when I arrived early and explored a bit, her office is half a block off MP 17 on the W&OD Trail and my house is half a block off MP 7 on the W&OD Trail. Hmm.
Friday, January 4, 2013
So Little Time
I got a Kindle for my 60th birthday last year, but it still sits in its box, unused. I have a household full of unread books, bought for 25 cents at library sales, and the library is half a mile away. What do I need another thing to put endless queues upon?
On the subway platform and train each workday, while half of my fellow humans there are totally isolated within their cocoon of selfhood, their earbuds sealing off their eardrums and their eyes riveted upon the device mere inches in their palm so they don't have to hazard a glance at a fellow human being, I have an open book in my hand and I can be engrossed in the biting winter at Valley Forge (I'm reading First Salute by Barabara Tuchman) but still be able to glance at my fellow travelers and imagine or engage in interactions, even if only for safety's sake. Things can take shape on public transit that you might want to think about beforehand as they unfold.
I'm already swamped with books I haven't read that I'd love to get around to. I have a bookshelf comprised of five twelve-foot long boards separated by cinder blocks in the basement that contains some of the books I have read. Since age seventeen I have written down every book I have read, and a decade ago I digitalized the body of work by putting the list on a wordperfect document, by date and also by author, that I can search electronically or glance at the author lists. All the unread books swim in the sea of clutter that is my house.
My friends who put their libraries on their Nooks and Kindles can't keep up with the additions to their endless queues they add to the back end of their device whenever they get bored and go off to Amazon for a few moments. The unknown paramour is often more enticing than the steady tried and true immediately at hand. So many books, so little time.
On the subway platform and train each workday, while half of my fellow humans there are totally isolated within their cocoon of selfhood, their earbuds sealing off their eardrums and their eyes riveted upon the device mere inches in their palm so they don't have to hazard a glance at a fellow human being, I have an open book in my hand and I can be engrossed in the biting winter at Valley Forge (I'm reading First Salute by Barabara Tuchman) but still be able to glance at my fellow travelers and imagine or engage in interactions, even if only for safety's sake. Things can take shape on public transit that you might want to think about beforehand as they unfold.
I'm already swamped with books I haven't read that I'd love to get around to. I have a bookshelf comprised of five twelve-foot long boards separated by cinder blocks in the basement that contains some of the books I have read. Since age seventeen I have written down every book I have read, and a decade ago I digitalized the body of work by putting the list on a wordperfect document, by date and also by author, that I can search electronically or glance at the author lists. All the unread books swim in the sea of clutter that is my house.
My friends who put their libraries on their Nooks and Kindles can't keep up with the additions to their endless queues they add to the back end of their device whenever they get bored and go off to Amazon for a few moments. The unknown paramour is often more enticing than the steady tried and true immediately at hand. So many books, so little time.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Once every 57 years
The doors rolled shut and I couldn't believe it. I was thunderstruck.
I had run down the escalator in the Metro station to the waiting subway car and then waited beside the door as my friend "hurried" down the escalator stairs herself. "Go on, get aboard, don't wait for me," she called out to me as she approached at what I charitably call "Washington DC speed" (as opposed to New York City speed).
The next train wasn't for 18 minutes. I waited on the platform's edge by the door while she came up to the still-open doorway. When she was right beside me, I stepped inside the car first.
The door immediately closed. She was outside and I was inside. This was an astonishing, immutable fact.
I had never before been shut off from any traveling companion by a closing train car door, not in 57 years of close calls on rail transport systems encompassing New York City, Long Island, Boston, Atlanta, Chicago, Miami and Washington. It was an unbelievable feeling of helplessness.
Although I was only going to ride three stops with her before I transferred, I had been looking forward to spending that time with her. This had never happened to me before.
I had run down the escalator in the Metro station to the waiting subway car and then waited beside the door as my friend "hurried" down the escalator stairs herself. "Go on, get aboard, don't wait for me," she called out to me as she approached at what I charitably call "Washington DC speed" (as opposed to New York City speed).
The next train wasn't for 18 minutes. I waited on the platform's edge by the door while she came up to the still-open doorway. When she was right beside me, I stepped inside the car first.
The door immediately closed. She was outside and I was inside. This was an astonishing, immutable fact.
I had never before been shut off from any traveling companion by a closing train car door, not in 57 years of close calls on rail transport systems encompassing New York City, Long Island, Boston, Atlanta, Chicago, Miami and Washington. It was an unbelievable feeling of helplessness.
Although I was only going to ride three stops with her before I transferred, I had been looking forward to spending that time with her. This had never happened to me before.
Friday, July 31, 2009
I think it was Hud.
"Sir, will you get rid of my hiccups?"
"I'm sorry?"
"I've got the hiccups. Will you make them go away?"
It was 11:45 at night and I was just leaving the office, hurrying to Metro because it closes at midnight. I didn't have time for anything.
He interposed himself in front of me on the sidewalk. I looked up at him. I'm 5-10, and he was 6-4 and broad. He was young too, in his early twenties. The odor of an alcoholic beverage suddenly washed over me fleetingly. I was familiar with this phenomena, the first indication of heavy drinking, from dealing with drunken drivers when I was a State Patrolman many years ago in Colorado. His eyes were glassy. He hiccuped.
His girlfriend, swaying slightly, said, "He can't stop hiccuping. Do you know any remedies?"
He looked so pathetic, standing there in my path, expecting a complete stranger to take care of his hiccups. He hiccuped again.
"Yeah, I know a remedy."
This was going to be hard to explain, and I had very little time to spare if I didn't want to be walking home ten miles. When I was a boy, I watched a Paul Newman movie where Newman played a raconteur coming home drunk with the hiccups. The leading lady encircled his throat with her fingers and pressed in on his carotid artery with her thumbs. I think the movie might have been Hud. Does anyone out there know the scene I'm thinking of?
This usually works on me when I get the hiccups. Rather than laboriously explain this curious remedy to two drunks and stand there coaching while The Girl, as DC Rainmaker would say, administered the treatment to him and risk missing my train, I acted. I stepped close to him and reached up.
"Relax," I said. "Stand still. This is what I do to get rid of the hiccups."
I gently grabbed his neck with my hands and pressed in on his carotid with my thumbs. The Girl looked aghast.
"What are you doing?"
"No, no, it's okay. If he doesn't strangle me, maybe it'll work."
Time flowed by. His eyes were bulging a little but he was standing still. "Don't leave any marks on my neck."
I wondered if he had another girlfriend that he didn't want to have to explain hickeys to. "I won't."
After thirty seconds I let go. "How's that?"
He stood there for a moment feeling his neck and then announced to The Girl, "They're gone."
The two of them commenced on their merry way down the sidewalk as if I had never existed.
"You're welcome," I called out after them.
They didn't hear me. They were off in a boozy haze to catch last call at the nearby Dubliner.
I made my train. Such little encounters enliven life.
"I'm sorry?"
"I've got the hiccups. Will you make them go away?"
It was 11:45 at night and I was just leaving the office, hurrying to Metro because it closes at midnight. I didn't have time for anything.
He interposed himself in front of me on the sidewalk. I looked up at him. I'm 5-10, and he was 6-4 and broad. He was young too, in his early twenties. The odor of an alcoholic beverage suddenly washed over me fleetingly. I was familiar with this phenomena, the first indication of heavy drinking, from dealing with drunken drivers when I was a State Patrolman many years ago in Colorado. His eyes were glassy. He hiccuped.
His girlfriend, swaying slightly, said, "He can't stop hiccuping. Do you know any remedies?"
He looked so pathetic, standing there in my path, expecting a complete stranger to take care of his hiccups. He hiccuped again.
"Yeah, I know a remedy."
This was going to be hard to explain, and I had very little time to spare if I didn't want to be walking home ten miles. When I was a boy, I watched a Paul Newman movie where Newman played a raconteur coming home drunk with the hiccups. The leading lady encircled his throat with her fingers and pressed in on his carotid artery with her thumbs. I think the movie might have been Hud. Does anyone out there know the scene I'm thinking of?
This usually works on me when I get the hiccups. Rather than laboriously explain this curious remedy to two drunks and stand there coaching while The Girl, as DC Rainmaker would say, administered the treatment to him and risk missing my train, I acted. I stepped close to him and reached up.
"Relax," I said. "Stand still. This is what I do to get rid of the hiccups."
I gently grabbed his neck with my hands and pressed in on his carotid with my thumbs. The Girl looked aghast.
"What are you doing?"
"No, no, it's okay. If he doesn't strangle me, maybe it'll work."
Time flowed by. His eyes were bulging a little but he was standing still. "Don't leave any marks on my neck."
I wondered if he had another girlfriend that he didn't want to have to explain hickeys to. "I won't."
After thirty seconds I let go. "How's that?"
He stood there for a moment feeling his neck and then announced to The Girl, "They're gone."
The two of them commenced on their merry way down the sidewalk as if I had never existed.
"You're welcome," I called out after them.
They didn't hear me. They were off in a boozy haze to catch last call at the nearby Dubliner.
I made my train. Such little encounters enliven life.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Okay in DC, thanks!
DC has suffered a terrible tragedy, a Metro train plowing into the rear of a stopped train during the evening rush hour today, and violently coming to rest on top of the stopped train. At least six are dead, and scores injured. Rescue work is underway.
This isn't about me but I am okay, thanks for any expression of concern. My heart goes out to those affected.
This isn't about me but I am okay, thanks for any expression of concern. My heart goes out to those affected.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Dark Pleasures
I feel like I've been untrue. Less than a day after I took my first whirl on a Smart Bike in downtown DC, thoroughly enjoying the ride although wary of the dangers of riding a bicycle in the wild woolly west of downtown DC traffic, I checked the SmartBikeDC website at the end of the workday (it electronically keeps track of the current whereabouts of every returned bike), discovered there was only one bike left at Judiciary Square, the bike rack closest to my work, and hastened out the door and over to Judiciary Square, five minutes away. I fought off the urge to run there.
Wednesday's ride was an experiment, a breaking in period, a getting-to-know-you experience. Yesterday's rendezvous was a guilty pleasure. I didn't need to bike on the surface from Judiciary Square on the Red Line to Metro Center on the Orange Line during rush hour. Trains come every three or five minutes then so the transfer is swift.
The bike was still there at Judiciary Square. Telling myself that I was cross-training a little, I took 'er out for a spin. I didn't have my bulky briefcase hung over my shoulder like the day before so I felt more nimble as I made my way through the busy, broken downtown streets over to Metro Center, using muscles that haven't been worked out in decades (you know, the "bike muscles"). I thought about maybe riding over to the further Foggy Bottom Orange Line stop on the next outing.
I hope this doesn't get out of hand.
Wednesday's ride was an experiment, a breaking in period, a getting-to-know-you experience. Yesterday's rendezvous was a guilty pleasure. I didn't need to bike on the surface from Judiciary Square on the Red Line to Metro Center on the Orange Line during rush hour. Trains come every three or five minutes then so the transfer is swift.
The bike was still there at Judiciary Square. Telling myself that I was cross-training a little, I took 'er out for a spin. I didn't have my bulky briefcase hung over my shoulder like the day before so I felt more nimble as I made my way through the busy, broken downtown streets over to Metro Center, using muscles that haven't been worked out in decades (you know, the "bike muscles"). I thought about maybe riding over to the further Foggy Bottom Orange Line stop on the next outing.
I hope this doesn't get out of hand.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
A ride on the dark side
I bought a bike. For forty dollars. It came with a lifetime service contract.
I signed up for Smart Bike DC for a forty dollar annual fee. As my brother the economist says, it's grossly underpriced. With my access card, I can go to any of ten bike racks scattered about the core downtown DC area and take out a bike for free for up to three hours. I have to return it to any of the bike racks before its appointed time. And if I lose a bike, or it gets stolen from me, it's $550.
The hours of operation are 6 am to 10 pm. I can go here and check on the availability of bikes at any particular rack or, equally important, whether I can drop one off there. Sure there are lots of rules (the contract was eight pages, mostly liability stuff. I think it said I am gonna die on a bike and it's not the city's fault) but basically it's that simple.
The possibilities are boundless. I can go bike riding on a weekend on the C&O Canal with my girlfriend. She hates it that I don't have a bike. Well, now I do. For three hours anyway.
That 2.5 mile jog to and from my monthly noontime Tidal Basin 3K each way? I can pick up a Smart Bike on the way, bike there, run the race and bike back.
If I leave work at 9 pm and don't want to transfer from the Red Line to the Orange Line on the Metro (if I miss connections it can be a 35 minute wait), I can pick up a Smart Bike by walking to Judiciary Square on the Red Line (a 5 minute walk) and bike over to Metro Center (a 25 minute walk) on the Orange Line where I can drop the bike off.
That is, until I get killed. I had my first adventure yesterday. (The Program is one week old.) I walked to Judiciary Square at 6:30 pm, excited about the prospect of getting a bike to ride over to Metro Center. Hmm, no bikes, the rack was empty. Grumbling, I walked over to Gallery Place, still on the Red Line. There were six bikes there. Feeling like a child stealing a candy bar, I took a bike and rode the 3-speed contraption the eight further blocks to Metro Center.
It's illegal to ride on the sidewalks in the core downtown area. There were at least half a dozen idling double parked cars that I went by along the way, some with drivers on cell phones (they're as dangerous as drunk drivers) and some were taxis (they're deadly in this town). All waiting to do something impetuous as soon as I rode by like get underway suddenly or throw their door open or whip into a U-turn. With the ubiquitous downtown construction, there were little roadway bottlenecks all over the place for li'l ol' me to squeeze through on my bike. And me stop for red lights? Faghedaboudit.
I made it. It's a fabulous program, borrowed from a Paris model, and unique to this country so far. I love it already. But, we need more bikes, Mayor Fenty!
I signed up for Smart Bike DC for a forty dollar annual fee. As my brother the economist says, it's grossly underpriced. With my access card, I can go to any of ten bike racks scattered about the core downtown DC area and take out a bike for free for up to three hours. I have to return it to any of the bike racks before its appointed time. And if I lose a bike, or it gets stolen from me, it's $550.
The hours of operation are 6 am to 10 pm. I can go here and check on the availability of bikes at any particular rack or, equally important, whether I can drop one off there. Sure there are lots of rules (the contract was eight pages, mostly liability stuff. I think it said I am gonna die on a bike and it's not the city's fault) but basically it's that simple.The possibilities are boundless. I can go bike riding on a weekend on the C&O Canal with my girlfriend. She hates it that I don't have a bike. Well, now I do. For three hours anyway.
That 2.5 mile jog to and from my monthly noontime Tidal Basin 3K each way? I can pick up a Smart Bike on the way, bike there, run the race and bike back.
If I leave work at 9 pm and don't want to transfer from the Red Line to the Orange Line on the Metro (if I miss connections it can be a 35 minute wait), I can pick up a Smart Bike by walking to Judiciary Square on the Red Line (a 5 minute walk) and bike over to Metro Center (a 25 minute walk) on the Orange Line where I can drop the bike off.
That is, until I get killed. I had my first adventure yesterday. (The Program is one week old.) I walked to Judiciary Square at 6:30 pm, excited about the prospect of getting a bike to ride over to Metro Center. Hmm, no bikes, the rack was empty. Grumbling, I walked over to Gallery Place, still on the Red Line. There were six bikes there. Feeling like a child stealing a candy bar, I took a bike and rode the 3-speed contraption the eight further blocks to Metro Center.
It's illegal to ride on the sidewalks in the core downtown area. There were at least half a dozen idling double parked cars that I went by along the way, some with drivers on cell phones (they're as dangerous as drunk drivers) and some were taxis (they're deadly in this town). All waiting to do something impetuous as soon as I rode by like get underway suddenly or throw their door open or whip into a U-turn. With the ubiquitous downtown construction, there were little roadway bottlenecks all over the place for li'l ol' me to squeeze through on my bike. And me stop for red lights? Faghedaboudit.
I made it. It's a fabulous program, borrowed from a Paris model, and unique to this country so far. I love it already. But, we need more bikes, Mayor Fenty!
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Running into Rick
"I was watching you run. How far did you go?"
The man on the subway platform during the morning rush hour, dripping with sweat, wearing only a t-shirt, shorts and a bulging running backpack, looked sharply at me, his face a picture of defiance. Everyone else in the crowded station was giving him a wide berth.
"Sometimes I run to the station too," I said encouragingly. "But I just run in jeans and my shirt. I only live three-quarters of a mile away. Where do you live?"
He could see from my general appearance that I might be a runner. He certainly was, lean and toned. He said guardedly, "In Falls Church. I do a loop coming to the station. Two and a half miles."
"How often do you run?"
"Five days a week. I don't run on Saturday or Sunday, unless I race. I run the loop every day, and then reverse it and run home each night. I run five miles a day."
I had seen him running to the station in his get-up, and I had run behind him at a distance all the way to the terminal. I wanted to see what his routine was. He was easy to spot on the platform.
"That's pretty good. You're always sure to get your exercise. What's your next race?"
He looked a little like Scooter Libby, who was in the news that morning because his license to practice law in the District was suspended due to the fact that he is a convicted liar. This runner had that same sort of aggressive projection of presence and hard-set face.
"Cherry Blossom 10-Miler."
"Hey, good luck in it. I'm Peter. Maybe I'll see you running around Falls Church sometime."
He shook my hand, visibly relaxed now that he was sure he was talking to another runner. "Rick. Maybe, but I only run to and from the station."
It was cold and windy on this mid-March morning. He was underdressed and wet. I nodded and moved on down the platform to where I customarily get on the train. I'm always interested in other people's running routines. This guy's got a good one, very efficient.
The man on the subway platform during the morning rush hour, dripping with sweat, wearing only a t-shirt, shorts and a bulging running backpack, looked sharply at me, his face a picture of defiance. Everyone else in the crowded station was giving him a wide berth.
"Sometimes I run to the station too," I said encouragingly. "But I just run in jeans and my shirt. I only live three-quarters of a mile away. Where do you live?"
He could see from my general appearance that I might be a runner. He certainly was, lean and toned. He said guardedly, "In Falls Church. I do a loop coming to the station. Two and a half miles."
"How often do you run?"
"Five days a week. I don't run on Saturday or Sunday, unless I race. I run the loop every day, and then reverse it and run home each night. I run five miles a day."
I had seen him running to the station in his get-up, and I had run behind him at a distance all the way to the terminal. I wanted to see what his routine was. He was easy to spot on the platform.
"That's pretty good. You're always sure to get your exercise. What's your next race?"
He looked a little like Scooter Libby, who was in the news that morning because his license to practice law in the District was suspended due to the fact that he is a convicted liar. This runner had that same sort of aggressive projection of presence and hard-set face.
"Cherry Blossom 10-Miler."
"Hey, good luck in it. I'm Peter. Maybe I'll see you running around Falls Church sometime."
He shook my hand, visibly relaxed now that he was sure he was talking to another runner. "Rick. Maybe, but I only run to and from the station."
It was cold and windy on this mid-March morning. He was underdressed and wet. I nodded and moved on down the platform to where I customarily get on the train. I'm always interested in other people's running routines. This guy's got a good one, very efficient.
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