Scooter Share Coming to Asbury Park

30 Stations, Up to 250 Electric Scooters

Scooter parking area, Kingsley at Deal Lake Drive.

Asbury Park is launching an electric scooter share program on July 24. There will be up to 250 scooters distributed among 30 stations.  Asbury's bike share company, Zagster, and its partner, Spin, will be involved with the program. The scooters will not be able to go faster than 15 mph, and they will be available from 7 a.m. to 9 p.m. Riders must be at least 18 years old.

Scooters will not be allowed on sidewalks. They may ride on the street, on bike paths, and on multi-use paths. Scooter riders must yield to pedestrians and stop for pedestrians in the crosswalk. Only one rider per scooter. Helmets, although not required, are strongly encouraged.

Rental is through an online app.

For more information, see the Asbury park press release and this story in the Asbury Park Sun.

The Space-Time Continuum

Adventures in Nonlinearity

Sunset Avenue, Wanamassa, N.J.

One day in March, I was standing in our bedroom on the third floor of our house in Philadelphia, looking down into the garden. It was still raining.

I thought of a day in Paris. I was standing looking out of one of the French windows in the living room of an apartment a friend had lent us. It was raining. I was in love with Paris in the rain.

But, back in Philadelphia, I was tired of the rain. I went downstairs and mentioned to my wife that I wouldn't be tired of the rain if we were in Paris. She said she was tired of the rain, and would be tired of it in Paris too.

We had just gotten back from Asbury Park, where we have a small apartment near the beach. It had rained a lot, and we had snuggled in quite happily.

During a break in the weather we had run our errands, including putting gas in the car at our favorite gas station, in Lois's hometown of Wanamassa, which is next to Asbury Park. That's where we saw the man in the leather suit, getting gas for his car.

Time travel in Wanamassa.

When I saw the car, I thought of time warps. The guy and his car probably belonged in the Indianapolis 500 around 1920, and yet here they were. (I assume that the engine cowling was hanging in the garage at home, perhaps awaiting some minor adjustments. And on second thought, this may be too small to be an Indy car - perhaps a sprint racer of the same era.)

Things like this happen - to me at least - quite a lot in Asbury Park. You're walking along, minding your own business, and then you notice that you've slipped into a slightly parallel universe. You're in a different place, at a different time.

It's not always a guy in a leather suit trying to gas up an antique race car. Sometimes it's a little girl in the Batman car on the boardwalk. If only we could get the carousel back. Or sometimes I'm just watching a sailboat catch the light out on the Atlantic Ocean, a few feet from where I'm standing in the sand. Something punctures the surface of prosaic reality, revealing surprise and delight, and perhaps wonder.

Reality is a shape-shifter. People spend a lot of time ignoring this fact. I used to do that too. Then I took up running marathons, and I got a lot more comfortable with my ride on the space-time continuum.

In Paris the rain stopped, and I found myself standing by the Arc de Triomphe, waiting for the race to start. We would run down the Champs d'Elysees, the Rue de Rivoli, through the Place de la Bastille (the refreshment table handed out figs, among other things), up to the Bois de Vincennes with its fabulous medieval castle, and then turn and run through the park back towards the town. And then we would go around a curve and find ourselves at the top of a hill, looking out over the City of Paris. I hadn't noticed the gradual climb up, and the unexpected and spectacular view took my breath away.

There was another refreshment station. There were no refreshments, not even figs - one of the penalties of being a back-of-the-pack runner. "Ils ont pille tout," said the nice lady behind the table, apologetically. I didn't mind. We ran down to the Seine, and up to the Bois de Boulogne, and along the Avenue Foch, and back to the Arc de Triomphe, where we finished in pain and euphoria.

Through this I was also in Philadelphia, out on the Wissahickon, doing my long training runs through the woods, battling injuries and sadness. One day I noticed that my knees were better and I could attack, both uphill and down. On one downhill turn on the way home, running on a muddy surface, I noticed the ghostly forms of my mother and father, and Socrates. They were cheering me on from the inside of the curve. I was very tired, but because I am a child of the twentieth century and not the fourteenth century, I knew right away they weren't real. Still I was happy to see them. I guess what I'm trying to say is you don't have to go to Paris to enjoy the rain.

There are a bunch of magical places in Philly. The Wissahickon is only one of them. And yet the moments where we pierce the veil of everyday reality seem harder to come by in Philly than they do in Paris, or Asbury Park. I've been trying for years to help "improve" Philly's public spaces, and it occurs to me that I've only recently started to be honest with myself about the reasons why, and our path to what I think would be a better city. Yes, we need to kill fewer people on our streets, and we need to design public spaces where people feel - and actually are - safe. But we, as a city, also need to stop denying our potential for the magical. I hope we're up to it.

Near Convention Hall, Asbury Park.

See also Lafayette: We Were There, A Cure for Anger, No Fear, Rush Hour at the Endorphin Factory, Runners Are Different, On Breathing.

The Pavements of Asbury Park

Buried Treasure

The Asbury Park boardwalk is built out of wood. This is worth mentioning because Ocean Grove, to the south, has started laying in planks made out of plastic. Coney Island in New York has also done this. And the new boardwalk on the Schuylkill River in Philadelphia is made out of reinforced concrete.

I'm okay with these new materials, but it got me thinking about the idea that modern roads are almost always paved in asphalt. It was not ever thus. Roads could be paved in wood. We actually still have one in Philadelphia, on Camac Street. It's currently under a protective layer of asphalt because of some drainage issues, but I'm told that the wood will come back to daylight soon. And of course there have been cobblestones and Belgian block and brick.

I was thinking of this as I was walking along Park Avenue in Asbury Park, near Deal Lake Drive. I'd noticed for some time that the asphalt near the curbstone was often missing, revealing a layer of brick pavement. I'd never thought about it very much. I started looking closer.

This particular stretch of street hasn't been repaved in a while, and large parts of the wearing course of asphalt are missing, particularly at the edge of the street. One of the reasons for this is that the wearing course of asphalt - the top layer of pavement - is often less than an inch thick over the bricks. In the cartway of the street, where the cars go, it is generally about 1 3/4 inches. There were enough potholes to allow me to measure this quite a few times.

In summary, under the curb-to-curb slathering of asphalt there is an old road. At the edge, where the cars park, there is brick. Then there is a single line of Belgian block, which separates the brick shoulder from the cartway. Under the asphalt on the cartway there is a dense mixture of blond sand and round beach pebbles. Back in the day you would lay this down and then drive over it with a steamroller, and call it a macadam road. Then, later on, you could put a thin layer of asphalt on top and call it tarmac. I hope I got that right.

I felt like I'd discovered an old Roman road. This street in Asbury Park was blond macadam in the middle and red brick at the edge, with a thin strip of grey Belgian block separating the two. Imagine what that would have looked like.

I'm not suggesting that we abandon asphalt and return to macadam. But our roads were not always wall-to-wall black asphalt. Visually, we had lost something on Park Avenue. The street used to be more interesting to look at. And frankly, as the asphalt disintegrates, we're getting back to a very good place. Need to work on the sod.

What Streets Can Learn From Boardwalks

The Asbury Park Boardwalk and the Teacup

What would our streets look like if we gave them back to the people? In my opinion, they'd look a lot like boardwalks.

Recently I've been spending a bunch of time on the Asbury Park boardwalk. Just to orient you, the boardwalk runs north-south. To the east is the beach and the Atlantic Ocean. To the west is Ocean Avenue, on the western side of which lie a number of cultural attractions, including the Stone Pony, where Bruce Springsteen still shows up occasionally to jam. Madam Marie's is actually on the boardwalk, along with a bunch of pavilions that contain restaurants, saloons, a pinball museum that also sells pizza, and a variety of retail shops ranging from schlock to above my pay grade.

Towards the north, and straddling the boardwalk, lies Convention Hall, which has a bunch of shops, two theaters, two saloons, an oyster bar, and one of my favorite coffee shops in the world. I have to say that my favorite favorite coffee shop in Asbury Park is Volan, which is over in the business district, near Cookman Avenue.

Towards the south, near the Methodist camp meeting site known as Ocean Grove, is something called the Casino, which figured greatly in television news broadcasts after Hurricane Sandy. The Casino is a wreck. It was a wreck many years before Sandy. But still it was a good backdrop, and it helped bring money to the Jersey shore at an important time, so I'm not complaining about the journalistic shorthand. The main attraction at the Casino is the guy with the keyboard who plays carousel tunes - there once was a carousel in the carousel house next to the Casino, but it's not there anymore.

The Teacup
My favorite part of the boardwalk is the Teacup. It lies about midway between Convention Hall and the Casino, and it is part of a children's water park. The Teacup is very large and sits on a high podium; it fills slowly as the little children stand below, and when it is full it tips over and showers them - inundates them - with water. The children squeal with delight and run around. I stand and watch this, and I am delighted.

Photo by Alicia West

The Teacup tells us something about fun, and it reminds us that we were not necessarily designed for the world that we now live in. And here's the thing: the whole boardwalk is that way. It shows us, pretty much, what streets were like before the cars came.

Streets used to be about people on foot - pedestrians. Of course there were other occupants of the road, mainly horse-drawn wagons, carriages, and streetcars, but pedestrians set the tone, and most traffic didn't go much faster than a brisk walk.

And the street was not just for coming and going. It was also for socializing and entertainment - for dwelling. It was okay to stop in the middle of the street and talk to a friend you had just run into. And people did not march down the right side of the street in columns of four, like infantry regiments on parade. They wandered, they swirled, they doubled back to look at something interesting. Pretty much the way they behave on a boardwalk today.

No Lines, No Signs
Naturally there are those who would like to organize the traffic on the boardwalk, make it look more like the car traffic on the street. In Asbury Park even some bicyclists find the random, impulsive, darting behavior of pedestrians frustrating, and there has been talk of striping bicycle lanes on the boardwalk.

But the search for order misses the point. Carving up the boardwalk with separate lanes for different uses would simply turn it into a modern street. In the old street nobody owned a lane, and the pedestrian had the right of way over the street's larger, faster denizens.

And in fact there were no lane stripes. There were no traffic signals. People actually had to deal with one another and negotiate their paths. This goes on today, every day, on the Asbury Park boardwalk.

The system was a bit chaotic, but it allowed people to behave naturally, and everybody was moving slowly.

Scorchers
This approach to life on the street had been around for millennia, but it began to break down in the 1890's, with the arrival of bicycles and the electric streetcar. People were particularly incensed by rapid bicyclists, called scorchers, who had the temerity to pedal at 15 miles an hour!

Needless to say, the arrival of the car took everything to a new level, and fairly rapidly the old, pedestrian-centric street pretty much disappeared, except for niches like the boardwalk.

A Reasonable Compromise
Today, on the Asbury boardwalk, bicycles can and do participate in the dance of traffic until noon, which strikes me as a reasonable compromise. It can get very crowded in the afternoon. Service vehicles - the glorified golf carts used by the police and trash collectors - are on the boardwalk at all times. No horses pulling trash carts, but still the analogy with the pre-car street is strong.

We even have scorchers. Not many, but there is a lady on an elliptiGO - a mashup of an indoor elliptical trainer and a bicycle - who loudly bulls her way through the crowd. People make way, perhaps a bit grudgingly. Again, you're not going to go very fast on an elliptiGO; I personally think she's afraid of going too slow and falling over. Bikes are easier. You just put a foot down and wait.

The towns south of Asbury also have boardwalks; you can ride a long way. I've done it a lot, and it's a nice ride. However, many of the towns to the south have more restrictive riding hours than Asbury Park. I think the bicycle interests could do a good thing by asking these southern towns to extend their bicycle-friendly hours.

The guys on road bikes - the ones in spandex - will still need to go share the road with the cars. This raises the subject of protected bicycle lanes, which is a topic for another day.

A Liminal Space
Beyond being a pedestrian street, the boardwalk in Asbury Park is special in another, and probably more powerful, way. It is a liminal space, mediating the dry land of Ocean Avenue and the Stone Pony (well, perhaps not entirely dry) and the world of water represented by the beach and the ocean. There is a quiet magic to liminal spaces, perhaps none more so than at the water's edge.

And so people may not be entirely conscious of the undertow that the boardwalk wraps them in, floating them back into the old, pedestrian-centric street, an experience that is astonishingly rare today.

Perhaps tomorrow it will not be quite so rare. I hope.