Column: Danger zones add some spice to Island life
Here’s a question that the “Street Talk” person could ask for a future issue of this publication:
“What do you think is the most dangerous road on Shelter Island?”
Could it be Manwaring Road, where evil drivers, hoping to knock maybe five seconds off their route to South Ferry by avoiding the thriving metropolis in the center of the Island, hurtle Hamptonward with a wanton disregard for all creatures great and small?
Maybe it’s Menantic Road, perhaps the longest straight-away on the Island, interrupted only slightly by the stop sign at Smith Street. that seems optional to many motorists.
How about the intersection of Route 114 and West Neck Road, where a giant privet hedge has eaten many an auto failing to negotiate the southbound turn, especially when wet or icy?
I’m quite sure that everyone has their own candidate, but if you ask me, it’s got to be New York Avenue. Certainly just by the number and variety of hazards, this lane should at least be in the top three. Dedicated followers of this column will no doubt recall a previous piece in which I detailed a perilous commuter route along this road, having to choose between oncoming traffic and giant silver maples early on a foggy or snowy morning.
The traffic is ramped up during the summer months, just like everywhere else, but with one important difference. New York Avenue is the short cut of choice for gi-normous construction and service vehicles heading to jobs out in Silver Beach, Montclair Colony or on Nostrand Parkway, so a jogger or bicyclist is at increased risk of being flattened in the hours before and after work.
(The Heights is planning a bike path soon that will detour cyclists through Ice Pond Park, I hear.)
Golf balls add another fun element to summer travel on New York Avenue, although West Neck Road between Shore Road and the bank also shares in this particular hazard. Driving past a golfer searching the rough for his wayward ball, only to see it rolling down the road toward the storm drain at the four-way stop, is one of life’s little amusements. The hazard, of course, is a strongly whacked ball that bounces off the roof or hood of your vehicle, or if you’re lucky, the windshield. On the New York Avenue side, golfers are defoliating the side of the road with scythe-like swings of their clubs, unaware that their errant balls are now in Ice Pond. These same golfers are, of course, oblivious to all traffic, foot, wheeled or otherwise, thereby adding to the frolic.
It is the bicyclist, or perhaps more accurately the bicyclists, that scare me the most. Don’t get me wrong. I think bicycling is a healthy, environmentally friendly activity and, certainly here on Shelter Island, a wonderful way to take in the sights, sounds and aromas of our surroundings. I have no problem with the one, two or maybe even three bikes that dutifully ride single file, aware of traffic, two-footed, four-footed and four-wheeled. Any more than that and things start to get dicey.
The aforementioned four-way stop at the intersection of New York Avenue, West Neck and Menantic Roads seems to be a natural place to pull out the map. Of course, the entire group needs to see where they’re going so they all huddle around, ignoring the fact that there are four vehicles simultaneously arriving at the intersection, each driver trying to remember proper traffic protocol for who goes first. Things get further complicated when a bicyclist gets his shoe stuck in a toe-clip, causing him to fall over or onto another bike, or bikes, domino style. Chaos.
As everyone knows, finding a parking space on Bridge Street on a Saturday is like picking a winning lotto ticket. Imagine my dismay to see a coveted space taken up by four bicyclists, who, upon turning and seeing that I am politely signaling that I am desirous of the space, completely ignore me. There is now a line of cars behind me, the drivers of which are increasingly not polite, as I try to gently move in to the spot. All the cyclists do is hunch up toward the forward end, as if they think we can share it. I point to the bike racks only 50 feet from them. They smile and nod, like I do when I’m in a foreign country and have no idea what someone is saying.
The bike “hordes” are the worst. Seemingly always on a Sunday, hundreds, sometimes thousands, of brightly adorned shouting bicyclists test the patience and evasive tactics of every other person on the road. What I might term “horde arrogance” seems to take over. Forget single file, these guys are riding four abreast at a fairly decent rate of speed. And if you even try to “politely” give a little beep to let them know you’re trying to go around them while also hoping to avoid a head-on collision with an oncoming car, you get a burst of language and gestures almost as colorful as their biking togs.
Knowing that they’re coming does not make the ferryman’s jobs any easier. Floating toward Greenport on a Sunday morning, we see an oncoming ferry that would look more at home in Bangladesh. Arriving at the slip, there are at least another three boats worth of cyclists all knotted up, looking at maps, fishing for ferryage, untangling toe-clips and drinking water and coffee.
We’re happy to share our Island but also happy to be going the other way!
