Community

Ten years of Citibike

The summer of 2014. I was seventeen, and visiting
my brother for the first time in his unfamiliar new
life at the bottom tip of Manhattan. He had just
turned 23 and, like me, hadn’t spent much time in
New York until now. Determined to orient himself in
the city before starting his new job, he wanted to cover as much ground as possible that weekend. Earlier that summer, his brand-new foldable Brompton bicycle – a graduation gift from my mother – had been lock-smashed and swiped from his front porch in Boston.

That weekend visit was the first time I remember using a Citi Bike. I inserted my People’s Bank debit card in the large blocky kiosk and quietly swallowed a lump in my throat after agreeing to the $200 dollar hold on my card in case of loss or damages. Still, I felt honored to be exploring my brother’s new home and tried my best to keep up. And for a while, I did. But I have vague recollections of struggling behind him, seeing him get smaller and smaller beneath the landscape of the Manhattan Bridge. Winded and slow.

This upcoming May, depending on how you feel, you’ll either be celebrating or denouncing the 10 year anniversary of Citi Bike’s arrival to New York City. In that time the bike share program has recorded over 100 million rides and expanded the original 6,000 bike fleet into 25,000 bikes, many of which are electric. With over 90,000 rides per day and docks in every borough but Staten Island, Citi Bike is a New York City fixture. Like most fixtures, its development and presence are contentious — not appreciated by all, or even a majority. Over the last ten years, New Yorkers have gathered together to both fight and to insist upon its expansion. New Yorkers have died on Citi Bikes. They’ve relied on them for their commutes. They have grown to love riding, or conversely, have been repelled. As we head into the second decade of Citi Bike, I set out to understand where we’ve been on these bikes, and where we’re pedaling towards next.

Four years after that first Citi Bike ride, I moved to New York myself. In my third week in the city, my bike got stolen too. I watched security footage of a middle-aged man and a mini chainsaw. The grainy play-by-play showed him whipping out the electric blade from his backpack and cutting my scrawny lock within seconds. “A rite of passage,” the security guard at the front desk of my work building said, “It happens to everyone at some point.” I’ve been granted the rite twice since. And while I still own a bike in the city, I am no longer willing to lock it up. “That’s definitely one of the reasons

I’m contemplating a Citi Bike Membership”, said Thomas Gerity, a resident of Bed Stuy. “I generally wasn’t worried about locking up my bike when I first moved here but I poked the beast, so to say. And I lost”

In the wake of the pandemic, Citi Bike memberships are more popular than ever. Cooped up New Yorkers gravitated towards bike riding as streets emptied and concerns for safety surged. Everyone had their reasons; a safer way to commute or to exercise, an urge to leave the neighborhood. Whatever the reason, the desire to ride a bike spread, and a global bike shortage quickly followed suit. It’s been a perfect storm for Citi Bike; increased demand and a lack of supply.

With more riders in the city, on Citi Bikes or personally owned bikes, the future of cycling in New York will only be as viable as the infrastructure built for it. Former Mayor Bill DeBlasio was seen as a fervent proponent of expanding riding infrastructure. In his seven years as Mayor, he shepherded the implementation of over 1000 miles of bike lane across all five burrows. More recently, current Mayor Eric Adams announced an “historic 900 million five year traffic safety plan” last April. The plan, which is a continuation of Deblasio’s “NYC Streets Plan,” promises New Yorker’s 250 more miles of protected bike lanes within five years. “When I first started biking in the city, in the summer of 2020, I was surprised by the amount of bike lanes and general safety I experienced,” said Gerity. “It’s not a city made for biking, but it feels like it’s made a lot of steps to really accommodate them.”

Statistics provided by the Department of Transportation reflect Gerity’s sense for the improved infrastructure. In 2020 alone, 546 miles of protected bike lanes were installed. The question however, is whether this continued expansion can keep up with the 116% increase in daily cycling around New York since 2010. And while most of the country experienced a spike in car ownership during the pandemic, New York’s rate among single family households decreased. Instead, time and energy were spent on expanding bus lanes, bike lanes, and building Citi Bike stations.

In my first weeks in New York, I was biking over the Brooklyn Bridge to downtown Brooklyn every morning. Without fail, this was the most stressful part of my day. Veteran commuters, fueled by entitlement, were prone to lash out at blissfully unaware tourists that stepped in and out of the bike lane. At times, it felt like the least welcoming spot to visitors anywhere in the five boroughs. The one upside of having my bike stolen that first month was no longer having to endure that mile-long stretch. The forthcoming ten year anniversary of Citi Bike seems to mark the end of a chapter. A stage characterized by expansion, controversy, growing pains, and technological advancement. It’s a new dawn for Citi Bike.The streets are changing. People are ready to ride. And if you find yourself on the Brooklyn Bridge, you’ll notice the bike lane is now separate from the pedestrian path. And tensions are lower.

During my many rants on the Park Slope Together Facebook Group Page, I often challenge neighbors whose expressed interests in a safer community are ignorant to the fact that private automobile ownership provides safest transportation, especially during the COVID19 pandemic, to many of our most respected neighbors: older adults. I wasn’t talking about my own needs; I barely consider my 46-year old self a grown-up, let alone the appropriately titled “middle-aged”. I reflect, instead, the importance of having a car in supporting the productive and long lives my grandparents (and now, parents) enjoyed in Brooklyn. 

While others, usually newer to Brooklyn than me and my family, seem to connect urban car use with disdain, the thought of cars in Brooklyn is more than nostalgia for me; cars are about family. My relationship to one of the closest people in the first 33 years of my life was built, largely, through car rides in and around Brooklyn. That person was my smart and complicated maternal grandfather, Anthony Charles “Nicky” Nicoletti (1912-2008).

If you had the pleasure to know my grandfather, you probably called him “Nicky”, “Nick”, “Big Daddy Nick”, or “Mo” (go figure). My sisters and I always called him “Nicky”. Though he had 10 grandchildren and 17 great-children when he died, “Grandpa” was never a term he accepted as endearment, due to his vanity. As little kids, if you wanted to get a rise out of Nicky, you would call him “Grandpa”, and run away laughing as he chased you around the dining room table with hands outstretched pretending a wicked fate would meet you, but giving tickles, when he caught you.

Nicky was born in Brooklyn, the son of Italian immigrants, Sabato Nicoletti and Anna Gregorio. He was the second of three sons. He was smart, quick-witted, and prideful. Similar to most of his first-generation peers, he didn’t attend college. But he boasted about graduating from Erasmus Hall (picture), a competitive public high school in his day, and would reminisce about his academic achievements: “Did you ever get 104 on a test?”, he would ask. “Well, I did…”, he’d continue after your answer, with a wink and a smile.

He was proud of being a retired officer of the New York Police Department (picture). At the time of his service, there were strict standards, largely set by Irish-Catholic leadership, and clearly designed to keep Italian-Americans off the force. One of these rules was a minimum height requirement. This rule, and many others, invalidated the applications of many (shorter) Italian-Americans of Nicky’s time, and then Puerto Rican and Black applicants through the early 1970’s. Since Nicky was strikingly tall for his generation, and a good test-taker (as evidenced by his achievements at Erasmus), his eligibility for entry into the NYPD was hard to ignore (and having a political boss as a father-in-law didn’t hurt, either).

By the time I was born in 1975, Nicky (then, 63 years old) was long retired from the NYPD, but still had many forms of employment, paid and unpaid. He and my grandmother, (Nana) Rose, owned a two-story, one-family, house on the corner of Maple Street and New York Avenue, in what was then called “Flatbush”, and now borders on Prospect Lefferts Garden. That three-bedroom, 1.5 bath home, with finished basement, had not just one, but FOUR garages. 

They rented 3 of the garages on a monthly basis and retained one to facilitate one of Nicky’s side-businesses, car repair. He wasn’t a “mechanic”, but he could fix almost anything before cars relied on computers to function. The finished basement was once a great hang out for my mother and her brothers, with wood paneled walls, and a built-in stereo system. But, in my lifetime, it served as Nicky’s shop where he repaired tube televisions and radios, amongst other electronics and mechanical items. But, the garage was where he worked on cars; his car, his family’s cars, his friends’ cars, his neighbors’ cars, etc.

Nicky never drove fancy cars, or the big cars that many Italian-American men of his generation are often associated with, like Lincoln Continentals or Cadillacs. My sisters remember his Mercury sedan. In my lifetime, the car that I have the fondest memories of was his Datsun, 4-door, hatchback. That car was my favorite for one special reason: with a lot of help from Nicky, that car taught me how to drive a standard transmission, even when my feet didn’t reach the clutch.

Back in the days when children weren’t relegated to the back seat for fear of death in car crashes, I loved being Nicky’s co-pilot, cementing myself in the passenger seat whenever I could. This was a feat, since as the youngest of three girls I was not entitled to that position when my older sisters were anywhere near the car. When the three of us were in the car with Nicky, it was a competition between Kristin and Karen for the honor. Jousting for seats happened often in Nicky’s car because Nicky drove us ALL over Brooklyn, but mostly shuttling us from our house to his house, and back. 

For the first 9 years of my life, we lived just a half a mile away from Nana and Nicky on Midwood Street near Flatbush Avenue in Prospect Lefferts Garden (PLG), but we rarely walked the distance; we didn’t have to. Nicky was retired, and he had guaranteed parking when he got home: my current Brooklyn dream! Many weekend mornings our phone would ring, but none of us would pick it up. It rang twice, and then fell silent. The signal was received. Nana was letting us know that Nicky was en route to pick us up. Our dog, Kwincy, recognizing the sound of Nicky’s car engine, would start barking long before we could see him pull up in front of the house. We’d get on our shoes and coats and head out the door. After jockeying for position, with me moping and resigned in the back seat, he’d drive us to his house, where Nana would be preparing us breakfast, and/or lunch, and definitely dessert. LOTS of dessert.

On Sundays, my parents would join us after the weekly WPIX showing of an Abbott & Costello movie, and we’d have an early dinner/late lunch. When these family Sundays coincided with an afternoon game for the NY Jets or Giants, that meant Nana would make her signature fried chicken, and macaroni salad, served with Pillsbury Crescent Rolls, and we’d all eat in the living room, the girls on the floor, by the console tv. 

When we moved a few more miles away to Park Slope in the mid-80’s, we still kept up this routine, though more often than not, I was the only passenger. My sisters, then teenagers, had busier lives than I did on the weekends. Instead of a trip of 2 simple right turns connecting Nana & Nicky’s house to ours, the trip between PLG and Park Slope often involved driving through Prospect Park, from the 3^rd Street entrance around to Lincoln Rd, and back. Access to the park by motor vehicles was first limited in the late 1960s with “car-free” weekends. By the 1990s, car traffic in Prospect Park was limited to weekday “rush hours”, and then eventually banning car traffic all together in 2018. Every time I cross West Drive to coach my baseball team, I think fondly about my rides with Nicky through the park, knowing that on the other side there was good food and family waiting for me.

When it was just Nicky and me in the car, and my position as co-pilot was secured, he would share his musings about the mechanical nature of cars. If I was ever to be a decent driver, as most women weren’t in his eye, I needed to know how a transmission worked. He had a disdain for automatic transmissions. Anybody could drive them (“even women”, was implied). Automatic transmissions took the skill out of driving. “Who wants to drive a car, but not know how it works?” 

My grandmother never learned to drive a car, but arguably, she didn’t have to. Nana was Nicky’s perennial passenger for 72 years of marriage. Every weekday, they ventured out into Brooklyn together in their car. Nicky at the wheel; Nana to his right. He would wait patiently in the car, reading his Daily News, and listening to 770AM, while Nana would get her hair colored and styled, later in life at Helen’s Beauty Salon on Coney Island Avenue and Cortelyou. They went to Landi’s meat market in Mill Basin for sausage. They went to the Sabrett’s outlet on Ralph Avenue for hotdogs. And, then the desserts: Ebingers in Flatbush for the original Brooklyn Blackout Cake, Leske’s Bakery in Bay Ridge for apple cake, Court Street Pastry for “dots”, and Lords Bakery at the “Junction” for Black and White cookies and seven layer cake. While Nicky never taught Nana the “ways of a standard transmission”, her lack of education in the area might have been by her choosing. Their relationship was challenging, to say the least. But, car rides in and around Brooklyn were central to their long, fruitful, if not perfect, marriage.

Thanks to Nicky, all three Krase girls, now women, proudly know how to drive a car with a standard transmission. My sisters remember the days of sitting in the front of Nicky’s Mercury sedan, but not in the front seat, exactly. They remember straddling the “bump” between the driver and passenger side seats. While driving, Nicky would direct them to shift the car into a particular gear, while he depressed the clutch. “First”. “Second”. “Third”. Even “neutral”. For me, similar memories are in his Datsun. My favorite times were when Nicky would depress the clutch and ask “which gear?”. When I made the right choice, to up-shift, or down-shift, depending on the traffic and the situation, he was pleased as punch, and so was I. It felt good to receive Nicky’s validation; such was not so easily achieved for most people. 

Besides driving me to and from his house on the weekends, Nicky also picked me up from school to drive me to appointments. Weekly allergy shots in Sheepshead Bay. Monthly orthodontist visits in the Williamsburg Savings Bank building (now luxury condos across from the Brooklyn Apple Store and the new LIRR station). Choir practice at St. Francis Xavier. And of course, sports… Tennis lessons at Parade Grounds. Swimming practice at Brooklyn College. By the time I was in high school, multiple hours a week with Nicky in his car were an accepted part of my schedule; how else would I do everything that I did?

When I was a two-varsity sport student-athlete at Midwood High School at Brooklyn College from 1989-1993, Nicky and Nana Rose were in their late-70’s/early 80’s living in Park Slope, in the third-floor apartment of my parents’ Brownstone on 9^th Street. Sports were just as important to Nicky as his cars, and he hardly missed any of my games, home or away. He would drive around Brooklyn, Queens, even the Bronx, to watch me and my teammates play volleyball in the fall, or tennis in the spring. 

While the volleyball team would travel to matches together on a bus, Nicky would meet us there, often with one or both of my parents in tow, to watch us play, and then drive me home. During NYC Public School Athletic League (PSAL) playoffs and the Mayor’s Cup tournament at the end of the tennis season in the spring, Nicky would transport 4 players (including me) from Midwood’s celebrated girls’ tennis team to the USTA Center at Flushing Meadows Corona Park to watch us in action. Nicky’s dedication to our tennis team, in particular, earned him a special award upon my graduation (picture).

Some of our greatest days together in the car were on our way home in celebration of doubles tournament wins with friend, and Park Slope neighbor, Olana Hirsch (Khan). But, there was that one time, in 1993, when Olana and I lost a match that we should have won in the finals of the PSAL tournament, and Nicky was our ride back to Park Slope. After the disappointing loss, Nicky was not waiting courtside to console us. Instead, he met us at the car, without saying a word. He, literally, did not utter a word to either of us, the entire ride home. I think it was days before he spoke to me again, and we lived in the same house. Winning our fourth consecutive Mayor’s Cup Tournament, just a few weeks later, helped ease the tension, but I’ll never forget that dismissal. Message received: achievement was celebrated; failure was not an option.

Nicky, himself, wasn’t perfect. He was complicated. Much like driving, and owning a car in Brooklyn. He often refused to wear a seatbelt, especially across his chest. The standard “3-point” seatbelt we rely on today was “new technology” in the late 1950’s. By then, Nicky had been driving for 20+ years, and wasn’t welcoming of change, especially if it was government mandated. He also had a special relationship with traffic lights. Green meant “go”; red meant “stop”; but yellow lights prompted Nicky to chant, “gonna make it, gonna make it”, as his foot came off the break, and sometimes lightly applied pressure to the gas.

By moving to Park Slope, Nicky gave up his repairman role, and almost all of his tools. And, while he lost his garages, he did NOT give up his car. He would still shuttle my grandmother for their daily shopping outings. He also added driving my mother to and from work at Brooklyn Hospital downtown on Dekalb Ave, or Caledonian Hospital on Parkside Ave. The man did not need Waze or Google Maps to tell him the best route or its alternatives. His entire lifetime on the roads of Brooklyn gave him all the direction he needed, coming from the depth of his soul. Though, if he saw the current state of rush hour traffic at Park (now P.O. Machate) Circle, by the Parade Grounds, he would be just as disgruntled as all other Brooklyn drivers.

As a result of his committed Brooklyn motorist role, most of his Park Slope days involved waiting for a parking spot. He was not one to circle the block, and find any spot he could a few blocks away from home. He would sit in his car, outside the house, waiting for a spot to open up. He would often stand by the car, chatting with neighbors and passersby. He would take these occasions as opportunity to clean his car, inside and out. It was, as a result, attractive and spotless, which undoubtedly prompted the many break-ins of his car. The stereo, for instance, was stolen on a few occasions; one such occasion my most valuable possession (a cassette soundtrack to “Beaches”) was taken along with the stereo. 

These days, street parking is even harder to come by than in Nicky’s day. When anyone tries to raise the concern on Park Slope Together, or similar neighborhood fora, some neighbors insist car owners should suffer for the privilege of their eco-scourge. But, I can’t help but think about how Nicky’s car helped he and Nana live the “buy-local” lifestyle that those same current neighbors claim to ascribe to, while simultaneously accepting Amazon packages at WholeFoods, and scheduling their FreshDirect orders for delivery during daytime hours, as they work from the comfort of their homes during a pandemic. 

Nicky gave up driving as he neared his 90^th birthday (pictured with me at his party at the Montauk Club). He lived another six years relegated to the passenger seat in any car ride he would take at that point. We drove our cars to his funeral at Greenwood Cemetery, and regularly drive there to visit his and Nana Rose’s graves, and those of 10 other deceased family members. They can all be found near the intersection of Vale Avenue and Primrose Path, if you’d like to join us for a visit.

Cars continue to be an important and vital part of my family’s lives. Driving, now, gives my father an alternative to biking when he has to teach at Brooklyn College on cold and/or rainy days, and means my mother can regularly and easily connect with long-time Brooklyn-born friends who made the move to Staten or Long Island. They can independently continue their own grocery shopping, and while they don’t spend their days shopping for local delicacies in all corners of Brooklyn, they continue to use their car to follow the sporting careers of their five Brooklyn-born, bred, and blooming grandchildren all over NYC and beyond.

I do not apologize for having a two car family in Brooklyn. My husband uses his car to transport himself and his tools as a carpenter and essential worker, rehabilitating units long-neglected due to being owned and operated by the New York City Housing Authority. Me, I’ve used my car to reverse-commute to Northern New Jersey to teach at Ramapo College, oftentimes carpooling with other Park Slope friends. I’ll admit, I also have driven the two miles to the faculty and staff parking garage at LIU Brooklyn on Dekalb Ave, across from where Nicky would drop my mother off to work. And, while I’m not willing to wait hours for a spot outside my house, my husband has been known to do so. These days, my car spends more days parked than moving. But, the way I see it, I’ve got a good 40 more years of driving (and parking) in Brooklyn, G-d willing/inshallah. So, in the meantime, I guess I’ll continue to practice my social media rants. I think Nicky would approve.