To those of us who prefer to transport ourselves about on two rather than four wheels, weaving past the obstacles on Park Street, along the new bike lanes crossing town, over the bumpy wooden bridge that takes us to the Bay Farm Island loop, or hauling offspring to daycare on pedal powered station wagons, we have but one God and his name is George. With respect and love to all the other people at all the other shops that sell and maintain bikes, and with respect and love to all the folks who work alongside George at Alameda Bicycle, he is the citadel, the Statue of Liberty, the Eiffel Tower. It helps that he is tall. It helps that he knows bikes and can talk bike to toddlers and elders. And it helps that he has the kind of voice and demeanor that calms an upset rider who, let’s say, had the bolt that holds the clamp that holds his seat snap in two nearly resulting in mayhem.
George is who I want to be when I grow up. I want to have bikes like his that have been tricked out to look Hollywood or London cool. I want to dress like George, on whom even a work apron is haute couture. And I want … okay, enough is enough. Let me stop so he can start. Ladies and Gentleman, allow me to present the Bicycle Mayor of Alameda in his own words: 5Q4 George Stephens.
At what moment did you discover that you wanted to be an artist?
Artist is a big term. Life Artist, maybe. I had a stroke at 41, in the hospital, at the admissions desk. I’m definitely more of a craftsman. I feel like artists are a different species—creative, visionary. I see disparate parts and combine them in aesthetically pleasing ways that just happen to be mechanically sound. My love of bikes probably began as a child. I think I learned to ride at around 4 1/2 at Joyce Kilmer Park, off the Grand Concourse in The Bronx. In the ’70s, for a kid, a bicycle meant freedom. I guess that’s where my longest-running addiction began.
Who was the most influential person who helped you achieve your goal?
I guess that would be my father, an angry man, with no time for crying. The look of exasperation and disappointment on his face made me want to learn to ride even more—so I could ride away from him. His threats and derisive words made me the person I am today, by setting the best example of the person I didn’t ever want to be. Being able to ride meant I could feel like I’d accomplished something that made me free. And it gave me a much healthier way to channel the anger I felt into something productive. And my love/addiction began.
Tell about the best—or a best—experience you had as a bicycle enthusiast?
Getting to teach kids about bicycles and inertia at Ruby Bridges. One of our clients, Andrew LaBarre (RIP), a teacher there, asked if I would come speak to his class. It was like talking to a room full of sponges—they soaked in everything. And for a minute, I felt the awesome weight of having the responsibility of molding the future. I’ve always had a great respect for teachers, but this was the first time I truly understood what an incredible responsibility teaching is. If young minds are clay, teachers are the most important artists in our society.
Conversely, tell us about a pretty bad experience?
Sitting with my comatose mother as they turned off the ventilator. It really drove home the feeling that life is fragile and finite. And, three minutes after they declared her dead, she let out her last breath and made everyone in the room jump. We must have giggled for five minutes after that. My mom’s sense of humor transcended death.
Any advice to folks out there hoping to pursue a life in the arts?
Accept the fact that many people around you may disagree with the choices you make. In the end, you are the sum total of every choice you’ve made. Choose to do something! The only true failure is inaction.
Gene Kahane is the founder of the Foodbank Players, a lifelong teacher, and former Poet Laureate for the City of Alameda. Reach him at [email protected]. His writing is collected at AlamedaPost.com/Gene-Kahane.
