Change Thinking

The Street Store is an example of Tactical Urbanism. A beautiful example of how urban spaces can be transformed to accommodate interventions that give rise to a shift in strategic thinking about urban issues.

In my next post I'll address Tactical Urbanism more fully by publishing the keynote address I delivered on this topic this week. Suffice to say the creation of guerrilla gardens and pop-up parks with free wi-fi are a more sanitized and 'creative class' outworking of the concept. Cape Town and the cities of the Global South are clawing forward through a legacy of stifling policy that demands a more robust and even disheveled urban outcry. The Street Store is the beginning of something new.

When I asked one of the organizers of today's Street Store what he thought of the idea of Tactical Urbanism, he had never heard of it, yet resonated with its claims. As an urban designer with a passion for public engagement, I see the Street Store as strongly supported public comment submitted via discarded fashion.

Citizens who have are being invited into an admittedly still awkward place of relationship with citizens who have not. This place is the street. The best place for these renewed discussions to take place. As a coat covers an new owner, so the street lays bare an opportunity for a new friendship.

The next step is to translate these interactions and occurrences into usable and transformed local government policy. Hopefully a collaboration is possible where research into the outworking of the multiple iterations of this concept can inform thinking on inner city poverty and need. A fascinating space where I love to maneuver and for me must be informed largely by empathetic experience.

So here are are a few observations from my morning at The Street Store in Greenpoint today.

I asked one of the assistants what clothing items seemed to be the most popular. "First to go are always the jerseys," she said "and then belts". Belts, because most of the clothes donated are too large to fit the malnourished frames of those who receive them. To imagine myself to be clothed in a way that underscores my hunger. I cried.

One of the recipients of a new pair of athletic shoes was ecstatic. In a gutteral Afrikaans he told me the story of The Strollers. It's the name he uses to refer to himself and the groups of the city's homeless who are moved numerous times every night by police and security guards. As soon as they rest somewhere, the cops chase them away again. As a result, they walk the city for kilometers on end every night. I'm sure Nike didn't have that in mind when they designed his newly acquired shoes.

After frankly too much emotion, I decided to take a stroll up to a nearby coffee shop. Cognisant of what a financial splurge an artisan roasted coffee and bagel would be considering the poverty and need I had just witnessed, I did it anyway.
There is always a way to justify habit.
While my coffee was being prepared, I grovelled in my back pocket for a R50 note I thought was there. Despite checking and rechecking, it became clear to the manager serving me that I had no money. He looked at me compassionately amidst the clinkity laughter and conversations of the privileged and handed me my refreshments with a wink.
"It's OK" he said.

I was overwhelmed for the second time. I had witnessed such unexpected favor. I too had stood in a queue and received, yet  I can only think that somehow it had something to do with how I was dressed.

Rule #83

Being self sufficient is a critical part of cycling etiquitte. On the Tour of Arae, its lore.

The very ethos of the race is a intimate understanding of bicycle and rider. That which is required to ensure optimal performance of both must either be administered before the day begins or carried to be used as needed. Under the most extreme and glorious conditions, both bike and rider must be attended to, and for 700km of Karoo rumble, much was expected.

As a self proclaimed newbie to cycling, here are some helpful and amusing insights I gained into preparing for, and surviving this unique multistage race:

Things that Fall Apart

Derailleurs fall apart. Clusters fall apart. Handbars fall apart. These must all be somehow reassembled on the road with what is available and given proper attention back at camp if you make it.
Should you be in the unfortunate position of having a mechanical that involves your derailleur, experience has shown the best solution is to rip it off and convert your bike to a single speed machine [hipsters clap quietly with crocheted woolen gloves]. Remove chain links to ensure correct tension and be on your way.
     Carry a 'chaintoolthingy'. They are very helpful.
     Carry Vaseline, lipice or massage oil. Its terribly awkward to ask passers-by for lubrication.
     Its entirely possible to have 5 punctures on one day #quickrelease
     Always have zipties and duct tape. 

If you have a crash or mechanical issue, be encouraged. It is possible to still win a stage on a buckled frame.

Gone with the Wind

On a multistage race, weather can become somewhat inclement as was experienced on the tour. Rain, sleet, hours of howling headwinds and snow were all the rage this season.
Pack carefully.
Here are some creative suggestions and essentials that proved their worth from last week's race to deal with the worst weather imaginable.

    Buff: Protects your face from bugs, dust, sun, hail and
    pictures taken of your 'effort face'
    Washing gloves: Yeah. In cases of extreme cold and
    circumstance hands can also be warmed
    during a visit to the bushes to relieve oneself. Yeah, that too.
    Layers layers layers. Including wrapping of plastic bags and
    anything waterproof as a top covering.
    Hypothermia is sneaky. Ride together. Look for early
    warming signs
    If you do happen upon a padstal (roadside shop) and take
    refuge there, run a warm footbath, make yourself at home
    with a horde of other plastic bag wrapped cyclists cracking
    jokes and playing sombre Scottish highlands tunes on
    an iphone. Its fun.
    Don't go into barns. 

The Great Gatsby

Eating and staying hydrated over long distances in isolated areas can be tricky. Within hours we had passed out of the winelands cappacino belt with no promise of padstal or farmstead ahead. Here are some useful and creative food and packing ideas for tour riding that I experienced during the week:

Eat a lot. Eat more. On your bike and off your bike.
Snacks, energybars and fruit can be taped to your frame to be ripped off and eaten as required.
Make your own trailmix and decant into packets for the ride.
Gherkins are quite delicious when complimented by a swig of bourbon
Winegums, biltong, raisins and bananas featured on most mobile menus.
Eating while riding one handed on sandy dirt roads is not always wise.

Les Miserables

Possibly the best application of the rule of self sufficiency is about attitude.
The most fun, most adventure and most joy is to be found with those who, in addition to bicycle and legs have prepared their minds. Prepared to win. Prepared to wait. Prepared to listen. Prepared for more of the same dished out after a day that brought many to tears.
And so, my final observation is to always pack a book and stash it in your sleeping bag. Position yourself to be inspired as more will always be required when you wake to do it all again.

My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.

[Pablo Neruda]

Trail Mix

When I eventually found cell reception mid way through Day 3 of the Tour of Arae, I called my husband.
"How is it going?" he asked enthusiastically
"Its just like Iraq." I answered.

We lived in Baghdad at the height of the US occupation - it was the best parallel I could muster. I had just been swept up by the support van after just 300km of riding and knew that my race was over. Severe ITBS had set in and despite walking up and freewheeling down the undulating Karoo landscape for over 15km, I knew I needed to stop. Its a terrible feeling. Not the excruciating pain, so much as the acceptance of continued motionless. Not cycling.

Iraq was amazing, grueling, life changing and terribly hard. When we had to leave prematurely, I also felt like there was so much more good we could have still done. So many more miles to be traveled. More dust. I fell in love with the culture, the landscape, the buried heritage and the relentless blustering heartbeat of the desert. Everyday was peppered by that wonderful question,"why would you do such a crazy thing?!"

It's just like Iraq, my love.

While sitting on the road, trying desperately to rip the left pedal off of my crank to convert my vintage road bike into a machine which would allow my injured leg to hang comfortably lame while I eeked my way to the finish, pedaling with one leg, I asked myself what I wanted to achieve.
Really achieve.

I wanted to know cycling. I wanted to know the bike, the landscape and the heart required to truly love them both. That's when I stopped. Already way over my limit for pain meds, I cried with Stan on the roadside. The Overberg pass pretended not to notice as I unclipped my helmet.

Now to watch, carry, encourage and pray for everyone along the way hoping to find what they were looking for. The Tour of Arae continued for me from the front seat of the Green Mamba support van. And perhaps with some rest I could complete the last day. Perhaps.

I started Day 4 the following morning with the group and tried a 10km loop out of Merweville in a bout of sheer denial, but returned to the van grateful for the fresh air and the wise decision I had made the day before. Race Director Roelf and I continued on in the van, both making the most of this fantastic journey. Marking routes, taking pics, moving luggage and picking up other weary cyclists. I was determined to work as hard as if I had been on a saddle.
Cyclists make poor passengers. I got stuck in.

What a privilege it was to spend the remainder of the tour seeing the fighting, the fallen and the freezing. This week I'll be going through a series of experiences from this daring and delightful journey that was the 6 day Tour of Arae. From the gritty lessons of bike maintenance to the intrigue of racing to win. I hope this in some way bears witness to the making of these magnificent bicycles and the unmaking of every rider on this epic journey.

...I managed just one more kilometer on my bicycle during the Tour. Through the most grueling snow, sleet and hail, the last four riders entered Matjiesfontien as the sun made its departure on Day 6.
On hearing about their imminent arrival, we quickly grabbed bikes made our way up to the town limit to welcome them in and ride the last processional together. All the riders.
That was by far the hardest kilometer of the journey, but by far the most rewarding.

follow me on @contestedspaces
kirsten[at]bicyclecapetown.org

BEN and the Art of Bicycle Maintenance

Shortly after my previous post on the velocity of vulnerability, I had my most sobering moment as a female cyclist in Cape Town. Well into my commute, where the my speed of travel all but nullifies the vulnerability I would have otherwise felt while walking, my front wheel looked spongy.
Puncture.

I looked around desperately hoping that the panic of realization that had set in would only be visible to a good Samaritan, not an opportunistic criminal. This was not an area to stop. This certainly was not an area to change a tube. I made some emergency calls...

           Dear male cyclist friends, 
           If you have a female friend who you know is commuting and they call saying 
           they have had a puncture:
          1. Firstly, always answer your f*@#ing phone and 
          2. Stop what you are doing and come and f&#!ing help.
          sincerely, 
          All the women in the world.

I wheeled my bike as far as I could before help eventually arrived. I reckoned that moving was better than waiting, although it was very clear to observers that my bike was injured. It was disarming how vulnerable I felt.

Here are the obvious questions:
1. Didn't you have a pump to inflate your tires for a km or so to get to safety?
A: Yes. I had never actually used it though, and subsequently discovered that it needed to be disassembled and reassembled with the correct nozzle to fit the value on my particular bike. Huge newbie oversight!
2. Surely it doesn't take that long to change a tire?
A: Currently takes me about 10 minutes somewhere comfortable.There are very few places along my regular commute that I would feel safe to do this. I'll need to practice to get faster if need be. I replaced my tubes with their slime filled compatriots to lessen problems.
3.  If you started fixing your bike, maybe someone would stop and help.
A: ...Or help themselves to my bike and me.

In 6 days time, on Women's Day, we are celebrating freedom, women and the bicycle in Cape Town's inaugural 27km Freedom Ride.
I'm looking at my freedom machine, realizing afresh that in many ways freedom is still so aspirational. When you go slow enough or even stop, you cant help but see poverty and unemployment while breathing in the desperation and hopelessness in our city.
Bicycles are a versatile way to move people out of these conditions. Literally in my case and more conceptually when we understand for example, the ability of the bicycle to release finance otherwise spent on expensive and limited transport options.

In order for women to seriously take up commuting, there are some very practical issues that will need to be addressed. A good understanding of bicycle maintenance is an obvious first step. More broadly and further to my ongoing discussions with the City of Cape Town, cycling routes must be designed as safe public spaces. Not lines on a map. Places that are inhabited, have surveillance, lighting, community engagement etc as one would expect in any well functioning dignity honoring public place. Just adding bikes.
In discussions with Bicycle Cape Town on this matter, we have collaborated to conceptualize a Women's Bootcamp of sorts - developing ways in which we can equip and empower female cyclists to commute more safely. Removing barriers to entry. Celebrating and equipping the union of freedom and bicycle (bloomers optional!)
Watch this space.

Freedom can move from being aspirational to real by a series of decisive steps. Equipping. Empowering. Knowing your bike is a good start in saving you from a long walk.

If you have ideas on how cycling in Cape Town can be safer or easier for you please mail me at kirsten[at]bicyclecapetown[dot]org and lets get started. 

twitter@contestedspaces

The velocity of vulnerable

I had a first date today that lasted for 70km. We were introduced before, but only in passing. I dared not look too closely for fear of growing attached when we were first together, but after EFT confirmation pinged my inbox, I was glued to every aged detail. From the distinctive swirl of the Campagnolo embossing to the scuffed remnants of racing days gone by. A beauty.

This is Tuareg my very own vintage, South African built, steel frame road bike. We got to know each other today and I do believe we are a match. Tuareg is an Arabic term meaning 'paths taken', a name given to the nomadic tribes of the Sahara Desert. The root word used by these people groups when referring to themselves (both men and women) translates as 'freemen'. Entirely appropriate for the rebirth of this crafted bicycle to take on the gnarled desolation of the Karoo while whispering to a bullet-proof perseverance I found where Arabic first began.  

It is fascinating to note that the women of the Tuareg enjoy a degree of freedom seen as rare to the majority of Islamic cultures. Worth investigating in depth.
With just 12 days to go until the first Cape Town Freedom Ride, to be held on Women's Day, I have been more carefully considering how urban design and the bicycle are serving the furthering of women's rights in our culture today. We speak of freedom, emancipation and opportunity, but what does it mean in real terms for a woman to be on a bicycle.

Here is my simple story from today.

After riding for 3 hours today through almost every urban condition our city has to offer, I was elated and exhausted. Lung squeezing climbs, and bladder squeezing 60km/hr descents(!) left me feeling utterly spent but not once, not for a single moment, did I feel vulnerable. I received the usual amount of sexist jeering, surprised double-takes and occasional flirtatious greeting by my two wheel mounted male counterparts. Amusing but never threatening.

I showered and changed when I got home from my glorious ride, heading out for dinner and the Tour de France finale at a friend's house just two blocks away.
I walked.
It was then that I realized anew, the power of the bicycle. The weight of the vulnerability I felt when traveling so slowly and deliberately was visceral. My diminished travel speed and sluggish options available as a pedestrian in danger are so contrasting with the flexibility and dynamism of the bicycle I had enjoyed for the day.

As women, we are faced with the frighting, cold and concealed question when venturing out.
Not if, but when will that moment be when we are called to defend ourselves.
That gnawing question is wholeheartedly stifled every-time I head out on my bicycle.
Call it training, call it commuting.

I call it freedom.
الطوارق

That which is immeasurable

Perhaps the most challenging aspect of urban design is for me is to give expression to that which is difficult to quantify. How do you measure vulnerability, joy, claustrophobia or solitude? 
City spaces inscribe these into our very being, yet in order to make spaces that heighten and evoke, these concepts must be quantified, contained, described and ultimately scrutinized at a budget meeting usually so mundane, that it too cannot be measured.

So, here is some delicious poetry as a necessary departure from a pragmatic dogmatic systematic hepatic system where the heart of the city has been muted and those who inhabit its streets stand petrified by change. 
Written as one does of love. 


Oh city, my aching contradiction
Your beauty is a hushed sentiment I encourage 
every time I close my eyes
Your solitude overwhelms me with the stench of love unmade
You would have loved me if I were a soft spring rain, 
but I was born a hurricane, and I nearly died tying to be small.

Oh city, the kiss of water in my lungs
In creases and in dog-eared promises.
The night pressed in as though I alone was responsible for your shadow
How is it that you are composed of such absence

I searched the urban imagined to find respite from your charcoal gaze
Flawed celebrations invaded my quietest moments 
where your taste was most real
Walk with me. Speak to me of the ordinary
and whisper to me in the language of tormented cities

 

The Maker Place

I am so entirely inspired by the idea that a journey may be all-together too much to manage.  It will require an excavation, a creation and a fashioning of that which cannot be measured. 

It will become my maker place.

In two months time I will find myself in a place I fell in love with because it overflows an absence clutter by day and the primal magnificence of creation by night. The Karoo is one of South Africa’s treasures in its understated succulent diversity and hardship. It is essentially who we are. 

Elegant perseverance.

Photo and inspiration to ride by Stan Engelbrecht

Hundreds of kilometers of gnarled rock, gravel and time-hardened semi desert will roll out beneath the wheels of 40 vintage racing bicycles for the inaugural Tour of Arae. A 6-day stage race unveiling 730km of Karoo landscape and the antifragility of the South African frame.  This journey pays homage to the ‘Hero Era’ in cycling where participants in events were entirely responsible for their bikes, minds and strategy. En-route support was unknown and unwelcome. Jerseys were made of wool and riders were made of mettle.

This will be my first race. My first dance with machine and expectation.

On Arae, two things will become clear: the legacy of South African makers who have crafted machines of excellence, and the making of a steele of cycling camaraderie amongst participants that will add to the legacy of the sport.    

Preparation for what essentially amounts to 6 Argus tours ridden back-to-back is an unknown to me. I cannot waste energy wondering if it is even possible. I must set my mind to knowing that in its completion, I will be made. Taken apart, moulded and remade. As each component of my bicycle is being assessed, scuffed and reshaped in the workshop of a master frame builder, so too will I allow Arae to be my maker space.

When Francois du Toit and I ride alongside one another climbing up to Sutherland we will smile knowing that master building from racing machines to city streets are much the same – made with passion, to be fully enjoyed, entirely tested and then remade for new pleasures.

Can a journey ever be truly known?

It’s distance is but the skeleton upon which beauty is woven.


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