Project: ghostbikeny

New York, NY

Number of GhostBikes placed 3

About:<h3>New York City Ghost Bikes</h3> Ghost bikes are moments of silence made physical. A hidden tragedy made visible. A daily reminder, a human intrusion into an otherwise anonymous corner of a city that forgets too soon. Each time a bicyclist is killed, a memorial appears at the site of their death: a single bike painted all white, from the handlebars to the spokes, locked to a pole with a simple descriptive plaque bolted in place above it. The installations are meant as reminders of concealed tragedies, and as quiet statements in support of bicyclists’ right to safe travel. At the time of this writing, there are 30 ghost bike memorials throughout the five boroughs of New York City. <b>How It Started</b> On June 9, 2005, Elizabeth Padilla was six blocks into her morning commute, biking up Fifth Ave. in Park Slope, Brooklyn, when a truck driver opened his door in her path; Liz swerved to avoid the door and was hit by a passing truck. She was killed instantly. Liz’s death came a short month after that of 21-year old Brandie Bailey, killed by a hit-and-run garbage truck on her ride home. Both women were commuters riding on busy streets with no bike lanes; both were killed by drivers who acted irresponsibly but were never fined or charged with any crime. None of us knew Liz or Brandie personally, but we were fellow cyclists and knew that with a change of circumstances, it could just as easily be our friend or we ourselves that were killed. We felt compelled to do something, anything, but felt powerless and alone. A co-worker said the word: “ghost bikes.” They’d been popping up in St. Louis, then in Pittsburgh, silent and anonymous installations marking the crime scenes the police ignored. We got a friend’s junk bike, painted it, carved a stencil, drilled and bolted a wood plaque, and quietly installed Liz’s ghost bike the night before a hastily-arranged memorial ride. We posted a short notice on our website that ended: “We’d like to never have to do this again.” … but, as the grim machinery of a cold city kept in motion, we did it again, then again. Another death, another ghost bike – 13 by the end of 2005, including one for 12 riders included in the Department of Transportation’s statistics but whose names and stories we were unable to recover. <b>Too Close </b> I’d been working on the ghost bike project for about a year and a half when it came home too me, became way too awfully real. On December 1, 2006, my friend Eric Ng was riding his bike up the West Side bike path. He was on his way from a show to a party — that was Eric, always busy, always seeing people — when a drunk driver ran him down. The driver had traveled at speed for over a mile on the bike path, ignoring dozens of exits, literally dozens of chances to return to the road. Dozens of choices. The car hit Eric with such force that his bike was crushed, he was thrown into the air, his tire and shoe landing fifty feet away. I met Eric at NYU, four years ago. He was three years younger than me. Straight outta Jersey, a beautiful punk rock kid with a constant smile on a direct line from a big heart. A staccato laugh like a snare drum in a string section. A teddy bear with muscles. I remember his guitar, taped together & with a few screws missing, the one time we played music together: “Dude. I think we should play it faster.” And now a phone call and a shock. Not Eric. I feel old too soon; Eric was 22 perfectly. A body full of honest energy and a face like contagious hope. Making a ghost bike is always a sad process, but Eric’s was the first that made me hurt. A big group of Eric’s friends spent the week mourning, talking, and, finally, making. We made a ghost bike for him on Saturday and 4-foot wooden stenciled sunflowers on Sunday. We organized a day of memorial events on Saturday, December 9th, starting with a memorial bike ride from Washington Square Park to the site of Eric’s death. Around 200 cyclists joined together for a silent ride and extremely emotional gathering at the site. Dozens of people placed flowers on Eric’s ghost bike. We spoke, screamed, cried, and sang. We rode from there to St. Mark’s Church, where Reverend Billy officiated a moving tribute. Later in the night we threw a party at Time’s Up, with a dance floor like a group hug. <b>What It Means </b> In the first days after Eric was killed, it was very difficult for me to act like an “activist.” I didn’t really want to hear about infrastructure improvements or traffic regulations or elected officials. I just wanted to be alone with my friends so that we could grieve and help each other through this shattering loss. At the same time, it was immensely comforting to have something we could do. Something to keep the hands and the mind busy, sure, but also something to make you feel a little less powerless, a little less alone. Something that reminds you there is at least some terrain you own, some space you can control, and some community that will help support you when you need them. When we installed the ghost bike the morning of the ride, Andy asked me if Eric’s would be the last ghost bike I would work on. There was a distinct surreality to the whole process; I had to stop cutting the plaque’s stencils each time the horror hit me. Too close. Too real. But in an odd way, Eric’s was the first ghost bike I’ve ever done. I’m more committed to the project than ever; everything else seems remote, abstract. The people we’ve created ghost bikes come from all five boroughs and incredibly divergent backgrounds. They are doctors, lawyers, waitresses, bakers, teachers, messengers, students; life-long New Yorkers, recent immigrants, and suburban transplants; children, grandmothers, husbands, wives, friends, lovers. Whether their lives crossed ours or not, they traveled these same streets and our affinity for them is as citizens and fellow cyclists. In creating ghost bikes and participating in memorial rides, we choose to honor these strangers as friends. We refuse to our fellow humans be reduced to statistics, their death report filed in a box on a shelf. We recognize the horror of a machine that runs at an inhuman speed, indifferent to its peripheral victims. We confront that indifference as a tragedy in itself. We choose to remember, even if we never knew. We care. Reverend Billy speaks of the city as a “fierce industrial landscape that we struggle to humanize each day.” The ghost bikes are an attempt to repopulate that landscape with reminders of the people who lived and struggled here and were taken too soon.