Last month, a driver swerved into the bike lane on Grand Street in Williamsburg and knocked Matthew van Ohlen off of his bike, then ran over his body and dragged him 20 to 30 feet, killing him. Police recovered the driver’s Camaro a few days later, but they still have not yet made an arrest. Why not?
Cyclist Silas Patlove, who documented the 30-MPH crash above via helmet cam, wrote on YouTube that he survived the ordeal with only "a mild concussion with a bit of memory loss around the event." If only the same could be said of the other guy.
Imagine you're walking in Central Park. A cyclist speeds by, dressed in full Hasidic garb, then skids out of control, toppling to the ground. His injuries are brutal: broken eye orbit, fractured shoulder, bone poking through the skin of his arm. He looks up at you as if to plead for help, and surprise! It's Bono!
If your lock gets cut and your bike disappears in midtown Manhattan, you should call the cops. Not because you need to report the crime—because there's a good chance the cops stole the bike themselves.
Getting doored—that is, having a driver or passenger open a car's door into you as you ride by—is a constant, looming threat for urban cyclists. The point-of-view video above, shot near New York City's Union Square, shows exactly what it's like when it happens, but the real drama comes after the crash.
The cyclist in the video above was riding through a London suburb "to gain some fitness," he writes on YouTube, when a car going the opposite direction suddenly turned right into the bike lane. The head-on collision that ensued is the stuff of bike-riding nightmares.
"Sorry mate."
A 22-year-old man suffered an erection for seven weeks after a mountain bike crash. The hard-on finally subsided after two weeks of medical treatment in a hospital.
"Just Buy a Bike!" the editors of the New York Observer encourage their readers today. That is, if you must ride a bike—and the only reason the Observer editors can think of that you might want to is "to feel morally superior"—you should not participate in the Citi Bike bike share program, inaugurated this week.
Last night I left my warm, powered apartment in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, and biked over the Brooklyn Bridge into lower Manhattan with two friends. It was the most perverse kind of adjusted New Yorker tourism: leave behind your quaint Brooklyn neighborhood, with unlimited burrata and cold craft beers, to see the blacked-out skyscrapers of Wall Street in the dark. But we were getting antsy-my muscles may be atrophying by now, I think-and we wanted to see it for ourselves.
Bradley Wiggins won biking's biggest this weekend, becoming the first Briton in history to claim first place in the Tour de France. He beat out other bikers by a huge margin of three minutes and twenty-one seconds.
