A Matter of Time: Grace Periods

Yesterday, a great change went into effect that will impact the lives of many Americans. While this legislation was hotly debated, and while some feel it will improve the lives of millions, I am of the opinion that it has already started us down a well-lubricated slope, at the bottom of which lies our society's ruin. I am referring, of course, to the New York City Council's decision to add a five-minute grace period to parking meters and alternate-side parking rules:

Here in New York City we are quite accustomed to both accuracy and to doing things quickly. In fact, it's pretty much a way of life for us. Here, the most meager Category 4 racer analyzes his rides right down to the last watt. Wall Street traders gain and lose fortunes on the New York Stock Exchange in a matter of seconds. A moment's hesitation will cost you that apartment you just looked at, or that job offer you just received, or in some cases even your life. Our existence is full of streaming data, quick calculations, and split-second decision-making. We even have a calorie count law here now, so whenever you go to Starbucks and look at the menu you see exactly how fattening your Frappuccino is.

So why do we--a people who are supposed to be the hardiest, savviest urbanites in the United States (if not the entire Western world)--need an extra five minutes to move our cars? I thought we had hustle. Five minutes is an eternity here. We're so fast that they actually named a unit of time after us--Merriam-Webster defines a "New York minute" as an "instant" or a "flash:"

Nevertheless, while a "New York minute" is more than enough time for a New Yorker to execute that career-making multimillion dollar business decision, it's not enough time for that same schmuck to look at his watch and realize, "Whoa, I better move my car!" Apparently we now need five traditional minutes so we can wait for the barista to finish our gourmet coffee beverage and then slowly haul our Frappuccino-fattened bulk down the block to our cars. And of course the fact that people now have an extra five minutes to move their vehicles does not mean that, once they start driving them, they will wait five minutes to return a phone call or a text or an email. No, they will continue to do that as they drive, thereby leaving the old-fashioned split-second life-saving decision making to the rest of us.

Sadly, the only conclusion I can draw from this is that New York is "slipping." It used to be a quick deli coffee in a paper cup and then hitting your car before the officer's pen hit the pad; now it's "five Japanese slow-drippers" and a city-sanctioned grace period. If you're not fast enough to move your car on time or flush enough to pay the fine when you don't then maybe you shouldn't own a car. In this respect, when it comes to car ownership, it should be "survival of the fittest." Instead, though, the struggle for survival is left to the cyclists--who, fortunately, are not only surviving but thriving. Here's one rider who went from accident victim to "Men's Fitness" model:

Here he is bearing his white abs and washboard teeth, with what may or may not be a Chai pendant buried between his hairy pectorals:

I was of course tremendously pleased for Matthew Long, and anybody who forgets to move his car at 9:00 and gets a ticket at 9:04 should read this before whining about it so they can understand the difference between true hardship and mild inconvenience. However, it's also a shame that a firefighter almost had to die in order for the New York Post to write something positive (or at least not overtly negative) about cycling. (According to rigorous Post style guidelines, anything involving cycling is to be covered negatively, and anything involving firefighters is to be covered positively, so in this case the two factors essentially cancelled each-other out.) Personally, I think the Post should have sent Mr. Long to try out the new popular search engine bike directions, but obviously that would not have yielded the slapstick haplessness they wanted.

The simple fact is that, when it comes to matters of timing, introducing grace periods and buffer zones is a dangerous trend. Certain things should be safe from timetables, but parking is simply not one of them, and if this falls who's to say what will be next. What about sports? Maybe we need more grace periods there, too. It seems unfair that teams and individuals should be able to win competitions by margins as narrow as a single point or a fraction of a second. Consider Milan-San Remo, for instance, which took place last Saturday and was won by Oscar Freire:

Certainly Boonen and Petacchi (and Modolo, and Bennati, and Hushovd with his milky frame) worked just as hard as Freire. So why then should Freire get all the credit when all he did was finish a few centimeters in front of them? Say what you will about the UCI, but if the New York City Council were in charge of bike racing then first place would go to everybody who finished inside of a five minute window. As it is, even organizers of unsanctioned bicycle races manage to declare winners and losers. One recent example of this is the "Red Hook Criterium," which took place this past weekend in Brooklyn and which also managed to make VeloNews:

The Red Hook Criterium also illustrates yet another handy use for time. In addition to using it to enforce parking rules and to determine winners, you can also use it to "curate" your participants. Starting a bike race at 11:00pm (as they did with the Red Hook race) ensures that your race will be mostly free from uptight roadies, who become cranky and begin to panic if they are not in bed by 9:30pm. Conversely, beginning races at 6:30am (which is when most sanctioned local races start) ensures that your event will not include the sorts of people who race in t-shirts and beards.

Speaking of irreverent races receiving "mainstream" coverage, Cyclingnews reports that registration for this year's Singlespeed World Championship race is nearly full:


According to the article, if you want to race, you need very little to qualify:
Of course, what they fail to mention is that, unless you're already there, you will also need a way to get to New Zealand. This must be why having "a good sense of humour" is a prerequisite, since if you're coming from North America you will need something to sustain you as you spend thousands of dollars and like 40 hours in a plane in order to participate in an ironic bicycle race while wearing a tutu.

But while irreverence can be expensive, a reader informs me that bicycle advice can be free--as long as you live in (where else?) Portland:

Here is the charitable bicycle advisor explaining to one cyclist why he's having trouble with his rear wheel:


While I applaud the fact that he's not trying to charge for his services, I also don't think the bicycle advisor would be able to "hack it" here in New York. For example, I'm relatively certain that this overpriced pin-up girl/ghost bike "collabo" would leave him at a loss for words:

40's pin up girl fixie/SS 48cm - $1500 (new york)
Date: 2010-03-22, 3:36AM EDT
Reply to: [deleted]

this is a 1980's schwinn frame (size 48cm) make me an offer part list below

48 cm 80's schwinn frame

white leader crankset 46t

white riser handlebars / white and black star grips

white/sliver pedals

white chain

velocity glow in the dark polk dot rim (0 miles)

white spokes/black nipples

white saddle

white tires on both wheels

cash only


Also, while I'm sure he'd help you adjust your headset, I doubt he'd be willing to groom your bicycle's beard:

To the dude who waved at me on his bike - w4m (Upper East Side)
Date: 2010-03-19, 11:59PM EDT

I was pretty blatantly staring at you when I was walking somewhere in the 60s near lexington.
You were riding a bike with a full beard and waved at me. I was wearing a red bandana in my hair and red lipstick. I was only staring cause you're a babe.

Instead, he'd probably stand there in silence, perhaps while admiring their skinny jeans:

We admired each other's skinny jeans in silence - m4w - 26 (Williamsburg)
Date: 2010-03-18, 1:08AM EDT

I pulled up to the library and started locking my bike to the railing when you came out and started unlocking yours. Our eyes never met because we were so enthralled with what was going on below the belt. "Look at those jeans," we both exclaimed to ourselves. "How tight, and fashionable, and similar to my own."

I think this is jogging your memory.

As you put on your helmet and mounted your cream-colored geared bike, I felt better about my life, about not owning a fixie despite living in Williamsburg, and about spending my afternoon surrounded by old guys watching porn on the public library computers.

And as you might have guessed, without a fixie or a four dollar coffee, I needed something else to feel good about this afternoon.

Anyway, for all the good-feeling and self-congratulatory populism you inspired in me, I didn't have the courage to tell you that, with your jeans, your bike, and your implicit affirmation of the principle that no one's too hot to go to the library, I think we'd make great hipster-poster-children for the Brooklyn Public.

So let's make this happen.

Alas, the poster should have acted then. Sometimes in life, there are no grace periods.