Cycle for the Cause 2025 Recap

One Last Ride from Boston to NYC

Note that most of these images are courtesy the official C4C photographer

Now that I’ve completed my ninth Cycle for the Cause, I’m feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards everyone who has donated over the past 11 years. I started riding with the idea of turning my bike-asshole energy into something good. I had no idea way back in 2015 what an impact this would have on my own life and outlook. “Transformative” was bandied about a lot when I was initially exploring this one, and I thought, “That’s some new-age, hippy-dippy bullshit! I’ll just ride my bike and it’ll be cool. The Center will get some money along the way and it will do something for the HIV+ community since I’m not really doing any ACT-UP sort of stuff. It will be fun but won’t mean much to me the day after.” Yeah, that’s pretty much it verbatim. I couldn’t have been more wrong! Everything they said was true, everything and more!

Day 1 start!

It kept me coming back year after year, not just for the cycling but for the connections forged with everyone else involved and dare I say it, the COMMUNITY. The power of hundreds of people coming together for their own personal reasons, but with unity of purpose cannot be overstated. I’ve done the Boston-NYC route 7 times and the COVID-restricted scaled-down version twice. All of you have donated close to $35,000 to The Center’s HIV Community Service Programs, helping them provide to those in need during some very rough times. The support you have shown to me has touched me in a way I could never express, no matter how many words I spew on the page! Yes, I am aware of verbose I can be. I’ll punctuate this with some pictures to break it up for you.

Rather than gush on and on, I’ll try to give a bit of step-by-step recounting, but expect some reflections and personal history along the way. You’ve certainly read my inventory of what The Center provides in my numerous fundraising emails. Of course if you want to know more about what The Center does with your money, please look through their website. I know some of you have used services there so you know firsthand what their true value is.

 

Day -1: Bike Drop-off

After months of sending out fundraising emails and training rides with some great friends (and co-riders), I had to face the toughest day. I had to hand over Lorelei to the Transporters to truck up to Boston, which is probably worse than sending a child off to summer camp. Despite the fact she is in good hands, I always worry until we’re reunited 28 hours later.

I’ve ridden Lorelei on every C4C since the beginning, but was considering riding Milo (the Trek 720 Tourer) for this one, being a bike design for longer, multi-day rides. I also thought it would just be too cute for Heather and me to ride the same bike. Upon learning that this was the final Boston ride I realized that it would be wrong to ride anyone else on this last hurrah. Lorelei has never failed me and I knew we wouldn’t let each other down this time.

Day 0: Check-in/Bus Day

Selfie with Heather and Claire at The Center

Nothing gets the adrenaline pumping like walking into The Center on that Thursday morning. It’s kind of like a junior high field trip where you and a bunch of your friends meet at the school with your duffel bags for a few nights of adventure away from home. You meet up with all the people you’ve been training with as well as so many fellow riders who you haven’t seen in a year.

The excitement is palpable as you pick up your rider kit and stick your number to your helmet. A number you keep for as long as you keep doing the ride. I’ve been 374 since 2015 and will be until the end of days!

This is the time you really start to think about what the ride means to you as you head into The Keith Haring Courtyard. It can be a little sobering, but also very joyous as it fills with all the other riders. If you’re wondering about the crew, they have already set off for Boston to begin their work to make the ride happen. They are worthy of a whole section of thanks.

That excitement builds even higher as we board the buses, which are always a party.

Olu's selfie from the bus

Once we get to the hotel, I rush out to the bike holding area to give Lorelei a big hug and good tech check. Out there is another great place to run into old riding buddies doing the same, taking a lap or two around the parking lot. Lorelei can always handle a truck ride and is always up to task.

Throughout the whole weekend, we never forget why we are here. Staff, Board, and friends have a platform here to tell their stories and what The Center means to them and the good it does. One of the most moving parts of this experience is when people lay bare their experiences with their HIV status, highlighting their strength and the strength of community. For me, it’s the Poz Pedalers who fight the HIV stigma that has surrounded us for decades.

Day 1: Boston to Norwich

I can never sleep before the first day of riding; nerves, excitement, anticipation, and just a strange bed make it impossible for me. Is Lorelei ready? Am I ready? Did I forget anything? Did I really train enough?

I’m up by 4:45 every morning for these 3 days and usually do the whole thing on a few hours of sleep each night. I kinda start out on autopilot. Clearly, my autonomic system knows how to get dressed, eat, and ride with my cerebrum still dormant.

You realize the scope of this ride as you all converge at the start on that very first morning, surrounded by a few hundred riders. This is team day where all the teams wear their matching jerseys, so you really get a sense of the organizations that come together. While the corporate teams are great and bring in a lot of cash (including corp matching funds), I’m most impressed by the community teams, the social groups that unite for this. Big shout out to Team Eagle who ride strong, raise a huge about of money, and are always out there visible on the road.

Once we start moving, I take a bit of time to find my comfy place. I usually roll out further back, but need to jockey up towards the front. My riding style has always been to start fast as a warm-up, so i really get to exercise my fast passing skills. It’s not that I am necessarily faster than others; I just have my preferred pace that helps me put in the long days.

This first leg of the route is particularly pretty, with some rolling hills, bikeways, and some absolutely serene lakes. I tried to take in every moment of it, since this was the last time we’d ride this way.

 

 

 

Sadly, I did have one minor mechanical issue that kept me from truly enjoying one of my favorite lakes. This is the price I pay for riding a 50-year-old bike with unusual Italian pedals - losing one little bolt can really put a damper on things. Luckily, the road crew was great and got me to one of the bike techs who came up with a temporary fix (zip-ties) until Patrick (the amazing mechanic) could get me a workable replacement nut/bolt at a hardware store. I was back on the road in no time. I will admit that I was pretty cranky was it was happening, but it was such a small hiccup.

Obviously, I find euphoria in riding, but there is another element to days on the road during Cycle. Every rest stop is its own party. We all get to connect at each one, and that is where I truly get to know my fellow riders. As much as I ride fast, I also make it a point to spend time at each stop because that is half the adventure. Those conversations we all have, riders and crew, are some of the best and most meaningful moments when we share our stories or just get to know each other.

Lunch with Heather, Claire, Tom, and Andrew

Day 2: Norwich to Stamford (AKA, the long day. Also: Red Dress Day)

The day that never ends, running just over 121 miles. They are some beautiful miles, but there are a LOT of them. There isn’t much I can write here about it. You really need to experience all that time out on the road yourself to feel the exuberance.

If you read my recap from the last time I did this in 2023, you know that the first day was a total monsoon and the second day was the tail end of that. This year was completely different; we couldn’t have gotten better weather even if we sold our souls to the robot devil or used our space lasers. The sky was clear, the temps were ideal, the wind was at our backs. You know, the perfect weekend to be out on the road.

Other than being super long, the second day is traditionally Red Dress Day. This is the day when we make our visual statement as a living red ribbon stretching down the roadway. Cycle for the Cause doesn’t just raise money, it raises awareness that the AIDS crisis is not over. The nature of the fight may have changed as prevention and treatment protocols have drastically improved, but we’re not done. 

Our bright red frocks, tutus, and suits inspire questions and conversations as we go. I’ll often find myself stopping on Main Street in a Connecticut town to tell people why we’re dressed this way, why we ride, and what The Center does. I am always heartened by the positive responses I get from total strangers, giving me hope that most of the world wants to end AIDS for good. People DO care.

I’m not the Red Dress type. It just doesn’t work on me, so I pulled out an old favorite outfit. The red plaid Serious and Dogpile short-pants bondage suit always works. I also like it because (as you know) I don’t wear costumes, only outfits. This one is a regular office suit for me, so I feel like me when I’m out and about in it. I’m authentically me in that suit on that bike; you could catch me on the street like that any day. That perfect weather lets me cycle in it for about 30 miles or so, until well after I found my personal road sign.

 

To my delight, I did get a special treat at lunch. My good friend Barb came out to cheer us on, and it made me tear up a little (at least inside.) Her support was overwhelming. I didn’t realize just how good she would make me feel until I saw her there. Who would have thought? It was the best feeling.

Riding a lot of the Connecticut coast with Heather and Claire made the day go by so easily. I met the 2 of them in 2015 the very first time I took this on, and they have been such great friends ever since. That was such an unexpected bonus 10 years ago and one I am eternally thankful for. As I have mentioned, you build lifelong bonds doing this but this one is something extra.

One final note: my hotel room number that night was 666! The hotel check-in crew asked me if I would be ok with that. Ha! I would have paid them for that one!

Peter and Claire

Welcome aboard!

After the suit got too hot

I always need to find my pace

Day 3: Stamford to NYC

You can just feel how tired I am in the morning by looking at this bleary-eyed photo. Given half the chance, I would have just curled up on the hotel lawn and gone to sleep. However, it only takes a minute in the saddle to wake right up and get your blood (and legs) pumping.

The final leg is always the shortest and most relaxed as we pedal back towards The Center downtown to be greeted by our adoring fans and well-wishers.

It's hard to keep the face and the posture photo-ready

Along the way, I always take the time to be a little more social with everyone after we’ve spent the weekend together. There is never quite enough time to talk to all the people I want to, but I do my best.

Sam

Julie

Chuck and Ed

Thom

Olu

Turning onto 13th Street never fails to be a thrill. I can’t help but smile as I ride through that arch and hear the joyous welcome. Jeff is always there waiting for me, I assume delighted that I am alive and undamaged. Treacly as it sounds, hugging him at the end is the best part of the whole odyssey. It’s hard for me to focus on anything else for a few minutes after that.

I stuff my face with anything within arms reach and wait for Carla to give her final closing remarks, announcing the fundraising tally. This year’s total was over $2.2 million, all to help keep those programs running at The Center. Every one of you donors got us here, so thank you again.

I realize I’ve written a lot about the ride/riders, but I’d be remiss to neglect the crew that keeps us all going. C4C crew members fundraise just like the riders, but their job is so much harder. They head up to Boston before us, with the hotel crew making sure we can check in each day without a hassle, the bike tech crew who make sure all our mechanical needs are handled, the rest stop and lunch stop crew that keep us fed and hydrated (and entertained!) along the way, the road crew that sweeps along in the vans/trucks to pick us up on the route if we can’t ride further, the medical crew they keeps us healthy and handles and issues that may pop up (scrapes, headaches, or more serious things that we hope won’t happen), and the moto crew who keep the route safe for us. I know I’ve left out so much of what all these crew members do, but it is way too much to list here. We could never ride without everything they do, and they do it all with the biggest smiles that can turn any darker moments bright! All of these people have made every ride a joy for me.

The NYC Sirens Motorcycle Club are one of the very special groups during the weekend. They are some of the most amazing women+ I’ve met, with or without the motorcycles.

Ruby! Coolest person ever!

 

I gotta say, motorcycles do make everyone cooler. Am I still a kid that way? They direct us (and traffic) on those really tricky parts of the road. Every time I see them out there on the route, not only do I feel protected…I feel like part of them. That is a huge honor for me and they are some of the most amazing people I’ve ever met.

I also have to give a big shout-out to The Center staff as well. None of this could happen without the dedication of people there working tirelessly. Beyond the people involved with making this ride happen, ALL the people working out The Center are invaluable to the community at large.

Wheelhouse Events Solutions also give this ride their all, providing the production, logistical, and operational services that underpin everything. They are fantastic group of people that make sure it all works and we (riders and crew) never really have to think about how this all comes together.

 

Bike Tour and Blisters… or Man, Does My Ass Hurt!

This post is an anomaly, an aberration, an event that will never be repeated. There will be no sartorializing. In fact, my mode of dress throughout the period I am writing about was so shockingly appalling that there is no photographic record of it. You will also notice the tone of this does not match the rest of my blog. You are not obligated to read it… if you wanna be a dick about it.

For those of you, my gentle readers who are unaware, I am an avid cyclist. While the bikes I ride are classic examples of elegant design, the attire, or “kit” as they say, is nothing to be proud of. I have been described as “approaching douchebaggery” while dressed in my padded spandex. Trust me, the requisite outfit is purely utilitarian, and for a ride that was meant to be about 225 miles each way, an absolute necessity.

The bike, however, is a thing of erotic beauty. Sensual beauty? Sensuous beauty? No, bicycles are sensual. People are sensuous. I chose to take Lorelei out on this adventure. She is a 1977 Schwinn Superior, with a hand fillet braised chrome molybdenum frame weighing in at about 28 lbs (not counting her luggage rack and all of my steamer trunks strapped to her.) Her most exciting feature is that she is Flamingo Pink, a color only available for the first six months of that year. It would seem that no one wanted a pink men’s road bike except for me.

Guess who she is named after.

She is not as high-end as Miriam, my 1970 chrome Paramount p-13, but is swankier than Red Sonja, my 1978 Continental II.

Now you know the who; time for the where… and maybe some sort of why. I have been toying with the idea of riding down to Rehoboth since last summer. The idea of taking a long tour has always appealed to me and I have been meaning to see what Rehoboth is all about for years. Since there is no convenient mass transit route from here to there, this seemed like a natural two-birds-one-pointy-stone solution. I am also participating in a long charity ride in September that requires a bit of preparation, but more on that later.

Now on to the nitty-gritty observations from throughout the journey: Trust me, it is quite a mixed bag of exhilarating and terrifying. Consider this as hints to any other novice doing an unsupported tour through unfamiliar territory solo.

The first takeaway: Don’t trust your GPS… especially a Gamin Bike-specific GPS device. I tried to plan out a rough course beforehand, but thought I could rely on my Garmin Edge Touring GPS to guide me through the specifics. Ha! I took the ferry from Wall St. to Jersey City. That part went smoothly, but upon reflection I offer up takeaway #2: don’t dawdle! Get up early and leave early… not mid-morning. You will want that time back later, but the universe just doesn’t work that way. But I digress; it was early on in Jersey City that I first discovered that Garmin (ATMOS for Doctor Who fans. You will discover why.) is not the most reliable source for directions. He (totally a guy, and kind of a dick) started to direct me down non-existent streets and around in circles: a whole string of left turns, ultimately returning me to the ferry terminal about 20 minutes after I had landed. At that point, I used Google Maps to get a rough idea of how to get out of JC. Unfortunately, I did go back to ATMOS for the actual directions. He took me on a lovely tour of some park… we’ll call it a loop. Eventually, I did find a dirt trail to take me to the only bridge I could bike over, according to my “bike-friendly” GPS. That route was a highway (US 1/9) with no shoulder and a massive amount of tractor-trailers. Those drivers were not nearly as considerate as I assume BJ McKay would have lead me to believe. Then ATMOS decided it could take me off the highway, which I thought would have been much better, but no, those back streets were in horrible condition, threading through industrial warehouses and lined with more enormous trucks. I had gone into this with trepidation about getting through urban North Jersey, but I truly thought that the bike-specific GPS would plot a better path. I gave serious thought to aborting the entire venture, but I am a cheap bastard and had already booked the hotel at the end. No refund, so no bailing out. I consulted with Google once again and found a route to Newark.

Now Newark was surprisingly pleasant for a place known as the murder capital of the Northeast. The ride became quite pleasant at that point. Takeaway #3: just take the PATH train to Newark next time. I would give more details of my route, but ATMOS shut down around Princeton, claiming that no route existed to go… anywhere… and did not save any record of that segment. I am fairly certain he did it just to erase any evidence of the insanely bad directions he offered.

I made the decision in Newark to have ATMOS guide me to Bound Brook where I could get on the Delaware-Raritan Canal Path, which would take me to Trenton. I reasoned that a shorter route like that would be simpler for a simpleton GPS to calculate. Indeed, that part worked out ok. I rode though Summit (Named without any poetic license… it is simply up, peaking at Highpoint Drive… no imagination there on the part of the city planner. It was completely literal.) Happily for me, the second half of summit was all downhill along an empty, well-paved, winding road that threaded through lovely parkland. I must confess I did exceed the posted speed limit on those downhills. I had to stop at one point to relieve myself in the woods (too graphic? too crude? we do all pee sometimes) where something made its way down the back of my jersey and undershirt. Nature does have a dark side. Whatever it was bit and/or stung me. I say whatever because when I reached back, all I found was a green gooey blob of mush, mixed with red (I assume my own blood.) A little itchy but not enough to ruin what had become a euphoric mood.

A little further down the road I felt as if I had been going uphill for ages. It didn’t look like too much of a grade, but I did find myself looking far down into some picturesque valley. I can’t tell you where since as I said ATMOS deleted my trail. I would have taken a picture but I was not stopping with the camera on this trip. Sometimes you just want to be in what you know is a fleeting moment and experience it as a “now, but never again.” I was also very eager to convert all that potential energy I had invested in into kinetic. After a long uphill, gravity owes you a free ride. I did see my first substantial roadkill along that segment — a raccoon. Coincidentally, I just watched a Nat Geo special on raccoons. Urban raccoons will soon evolve into a hyper-intelligent species that will subjugate us. Perhaps that channel is following in the sensationalist footsteps of TLC and Bravo.

This whole section of the ride exhilarated me. Just before Bound Brook I did get myself a pint of those roadside Jersey blueberries. I forgot how good they could taste. I had also eaten an energy bar for the first time on this trip. They are vile! Perhaps the blueberries were just that much better in contrast.

I was hoping to stop for lunch before setting out along the canal path, but all I found in Bound Brook were Mexican restaurants. As much as I love Mexican food, and it smelled very appealing (I was also famished at that point) my better judgment kicked in to remind me of the, shall we say, biological impracticality of eating something like that while riding far from any facilities. Tip from The Amazing Race: take loperamide hydrochloride before heading out for a long day of no bathrooms. The food choices being limited, I opted for some yogurt to go with my blueberries. Takeaway #5 (I think): stick with fresh fruit and vegetables on a long tour.

I did start down the Canal Path at that point, but was not too keen on its surface. It was packed earth and gravel, but leaned more towards the gravel. Perhaps fine for a mountain bike, or even a hybrid, but a road bike is not named for no good reason. Even with my new 1¼” tires, she prefers actual roads. I did do my best to travel the adjacent roadways, but ATMOS really wanted me back on the bike trail. I switched back and forth but should have stayed on the paved roads. It was around this point when I encountered my first vehicle-triggered traffic light. I had read about these signals that require the mass of an automobile for them to change, but had never had to deal with it. Quite frankly, they suck if you are a cyclist who obeys the traffic laws.

From there I had another delightful segment to Princeton, which has some great designated bike lanes on the roadways. If only they were more common. I would have loved to stop there for some fine Ivy League College dining, but I was already far behind schedule. The easy roads encouraged me to keep moving along towards Trenton. I did stop just outside of Trenton to have a well-deserved Nutty Buddy… mostly because I found a deli that let me bring my bike in. With my trunk and pannier bags, locking Lorelei outside and removing everything would have become a huge production. Second piece of roadkill — a big, juicy possum. The rest of the ride to Trenton went swimmingly as well, even though I was becoming worried about the setting sun.

I crossed the bikeable bridge into Pennsylvania at about 8:15. I had really expected to be entering Philadelphia by that time. Little did I know just how pear-shaped this ride was about to turn.

First impression of Pennsylvania was, "How fun!" I was so wrong!

Now it was getting dark, and I had to rely on ATMOS even more. He must have known how vulnerable I was and sent me down a dark, winding road. In all honesty, I was still enjoying it then. The road was empty, and the downhill grade made it a lot of fun… until I got to the bottom. I saw a train in a covered station and thought it was some sort of commuter area. I even considered bailing on the rest of the ride and taking it into town. Lo and behold, this was actually a restricted area, a NJ Transit Rail Service Depot. Then ATMOS suddenly directed me to turn onto “unpaved road.” I realized I was getting dirty looks from the rail workers, and it was VERY wrong. I turned to head back the way I came and that is when I learned that ATMOS was indeed homicidal. He demanded I turn left… onto a railroad track… with an oncoming train. Luckily I have eyeballs and did NOT obey. I continued back out to the main road, ignoring his demanding beeps and incessant calls to make an immediate U-turn.

From there it went from bad to worse. Night had fallen and ATMOS directed me onto US 1. At this point, I will admit that the terror set in. Takeway #6: cheap LED lights are fine in urban settings so that YOU are visible, but in other environments, have lights that will actually illuminate your path.

ATMOS changed his mind abruptly and had me turn off into a suburban enclave. At this point I had no idea where I was other than Pennsylvania, north of Philadelphia, so I had to rely on him. That turned out to be a 30-minute detour that took me back where I started, leaving me in fear that he would try to murder me on the same rail tracks. Then he declared that no route could be calculated and shut down, losing all trace of where I had been once again. Once I rebooted him, he recalculated a path. This time he lead me further down Route 1 to some more dealable roads. Honestly, this part wasn’t horrible but I had no idea what might happen next. That kept me moving at a cautious pace, especially since some of the roads were completely unlit. My front light just barely illuminated the white line in front of me to see any turns a few feet ahead.

Eventually, I made it to Northeast Philadelphia. It was probably 10:30 or 11 at that point. I would have stopped to call my friend who was expecting me that night, but I was again afraid of the unfamiliar area… you know the kind… urban but isolated with a lot of abandoned buildings, peppered with corner dive bars… real dive, not faux dive. Needless to say, I rode fast and hard for the next hour until I made it to his apartment. I did get to hear a pair of hookers say, “Look at the skinny white boy on the bike.” At least that gave me a chuckle.

I got to my friend’s place around midnight, desperate for a shower and a pizza-steak hoagie. I only got one of those things.

Needless to say, the plan to ride the longer leg from Philadelphia to Rehoboth the following day was abridged, and abridged by a lot.

My friend who was joining me for the rest of the trip suggested that we divide the second leg into two days, but the hotel was booked and I was not going to lose that money (I am both poor and cheap!) New plan: train from Philadelphia to Atlantic City and then ride from AC to Cape May to catch the Cape May-Lewes ferry. That is a ride I can handle. Being from South Jersey I know that place and felt very confident.

Unfortunately, there was a headwind the whole way, and I had not quite recovered from the day before. As my friend pointed out, my pannier bags were acting as sails to create a huge amount of wind resistance. This part of the ride would have been pleasant, but a train delay put us 30 minutes behind and ferry service stopped by early evening, forcing us to ride fast and hard the whole way. Fast might be a mischaracterization, since the wind resistance forced me to take a huge speed hit. At once point he suggested that we take the local bus, which I know would only take us a few miles, and would be slow. As it turns out, it probably didn’t save us any time, but allowed me some much-needed rest. Ultimately, it was a brilliant idea. The bus took us to the Dunkin Donuts by the Rio Mall (my fellow Cape May people know what that means) and then the ride from there to the ferry was something I had started doing as a tween. I found the familiarity invigorating. Also for my Cape May compatriots, did you know they added a bike path along the rail line from Rio Grand next to Route 9? And it continues along Ferry Road (now Carl Sandman Boulevard) all the way to the ferry terminal. That would have given us all a much safer childhood. We made it to the ferry about 30 minutes before departure. Hooray!

The ride from Lewes to Rehoboth was only about 8 miles, but a big part of the route was another gravel path. Again, crappy for a road bike. We made it to the hotel just before dark.

Another lesson learned: prolonged compression of the blood vessels and nerves in the perineum will not only cause chaffing and blisters in males, but can also cause transient nerve damage and impotence. Very personal information here: I couldn’t feel my junk for days… I still can’t feel much. It is surprisingly common according to Web MD. I think it was really because of the hard riding in race position at night through northeast Philly and from AC and the rough ride over the gravel in Delaware. My very cheap riding shorts from China do not have sufficient padding. I have ordered a much better pair, based on my sister’s recommendation. I will need them for my 275-mile ride later. I am also forced to rethink my devotion to my Brooks saddle. As much as I love its classic nature, perhaps there are alternatives to riding on a leather seat whose design has gone unchanged since 1898.

Rehoboth was fun: amazing crab cakes, some nice oysters, hotel hot tub to soothe the aches. And FUNLAND!

The water was too cold to go all the way in. Home is out there somewhere.

 

The perfect Spring seaside dinner. I earned this one.

I finally got to make up for NOT going into that carnival.

The trip back was a total pussy move. Rehoboth to the ferry via actual roads, which made a huge difference in speed, as in, we could ride twice as fast. The ride from the ferry into Cape May was something I could do with my eyes closed. We took the easy bridge instead of the more fun/dangerous big bridge, but I think that is a young man’s game.

On a disappointing note: I was REALLY looking forward to the eggs Benedict with crab at the Mad Batter, but they had closed at 10 am for a wedding. Man, I wanted those.

From there, it was just the bus back. We might have ridden, but it was raining on-and-off and it had to be done in one day to make a 9 am appointment the next day. And saying I could ride it would definitely have been a case of my mouth writing a check that my ass couldn’t cash!

And now for the shameless plug for charity: This September I am riding from Boston to NYC to raise money for the NYC LGBT Center's AIDS Outreach, Prevention, and Education programs. The tour is 275 miles over 3 days. It's a fantastic cause, and I encourage you to donate and spread the word. Contributions are tax deductible and many companies will offer matching donations for their employees. Have I nudged you enough?

This is the link to my fundraising page: Cycle for the Cause

My Favorite NYC Disaster, or the Risks Associated with Wearing Wool in the Summer

Today is June 15th. My rent is due, second-quarter estimated income taxes are due, but those are just details of the day. What is important is that it was on a day just like this — exactly 109 years ago, almost to this very moment — that the St. Mark's Evangelical Lutheran Church of the Lower East Side must have really pissed off Varuna.

It was time for the Lutherans' much anticipated annual summer picnic. A boatload (and I mean that literally) of fine church-going woman and children piled onto the General Slocum to head out for a day of wholesome, God-sanctioned fun on the North Shore of Long Island. We're talking the kind of fun that One Million Moms would approve of and not the kind where you put Zesty Italian on romaine lettuce.

Obviously, we're talking this                                not this                  

Clearly, decorum dictated that they were bedecked in their best Sunday finery, despite the fact that it was Wednesday. At the risk of editorializing (sometimes I even make myself laugh) I do have to admit the clothes were very fetching. As I have written time and time again, I miss the days when no respectable human would leave the house without a hat and gloves. Much as we don't think of this as summer picnicwear today, I would happily return to this style.










You can refer to my previous posting on swimwear,
but here are some scantily-clad children at full frolic.










Remember that good, working-class German men would have no time for picnics, so there were few on the boat since they were all busy cheese-mongering that day.

On to the tragic tale: The General Slocum set off up the East River laden down with 1,342 souls aboard. The details of what happened next are incomplete and at time contradictory, but the boat caught fire shortly after launch. The captain was reluctant to beach his craft (there was no way he would get paid for the day if he had done THAT), so he just sailed along on his merry way. Here is where the story becomes gruesome, reflecting the lack of regulation and oversight of the time. The safety equipment was purely ornamental. In fact, I do believe the lifeboats were merely frescoes painted on the exterior. The fire hoses were rotted out. The life preservers had been filled with cork, sawdust, and possibly iron filings. Capacity regulations and inspections were non-existent at the time. Mothers watched their children dragged down under the surface of the river, weighted down by the life vests that they had strapped to them. It was bitterly ironic. Ultimately, 1,021 people drowned in that fire.

A rare photo of the General and Widow Slocum

Since you, my gentle readers, are clearly intelligent, motivated, and well-appointed with Internet access, I expect that you can research further information yourselves, and there is no need for me to copy text from WikiWorld and the like. Suffice to say that this disaster is important beyond just being the second-largest loss of life in a single New York City incident. Despite the fact that The Knickerbocker Steamship Company was barely penalized afterwards, maritime safety regulations received a substantial overhaul. Ignore the Titanic for the moment, which had a better survival rate.

It's all very wool. Very wool, indeed.

Now back to the wool part of this whole affair. It is fairly well believed that had these people NOT been wearing a fabric that became so heavy when waterlogged, more might have been able to stay afloat long enough to be rescued. In realty, no one could swim back then — even actual naval sailors and assorted seamen often drowned when they fell overboard because THEY never learned to swim.

Don't even try it. I always have this on under my clothes.

Another fun fact: I can't swim either, so if you are going to murder me and make it look like an accident, I suggest you hold me face down in the tub and dump my body on a nice beach somewhere... somewhere it will be found by children making sandcastles. I probably shouldn't have told you that.



Fun fact number two: you should not go boating drunk while wearing one of those awful puffy down jackets. Natalie Wood died that way. Just to be on safe side, don't ever wear a puffy coat.

Incidentally, that particular church is now a synagogue right in the middle of Curry Row. Varuna will just not let this one go.














Coming soon: Wool Underpants and Why Come They Are So Scratchy.