It's a wonder the city hasn't put them out of business.
"Chariots for Hire: Dodging
Cars, Pedaling Fares
WSJ.com
By NED CRABB
July 1, 2005; Page W11
New York
On a cold day this spring, I debouched from Maggie's Place in a fish-and-chips-induced torpor and in no mood to be ambulatory. It was raining and somewhere, somehow, my umbrella had been liberated into the ecosystem. Madison and 47th was a roaring mass of people, cars, buses, trucks, scooters and herds of dodging, weaving, tooting yellow cabs. I needed one of those taxis tout de suite.
But as any New Yorker can tell you, you can't get a cab after 4 p.m. in midtown. Raining? Forget about it. Other people can get cabs, but you cannot. Taxis are everywhere, and they all have people in them, but you never see anyone actually getting into a rush-hour cab and you sure as heck don't see anyone getting out. Nevertheless, hope triumphed over experience as commuters waved haplessly at taxis hurtling by and splashing dirty water on their shoes. My mood darkened as my ensemble -- linen-and-wool herringbone jacket, silk tie with fly-fishing motif, summer-weight wool trousers -- accumulated moisture.
And then suddenly, right in front of me, so close that I could've reached out and touched it from where I stood, was an odd but strangely attractive little vehicle -- a two-wheeled, convertible-topped, two-person steel carriage attached to the front half of a large bicycle. A strong (wet) young man was at the handlebars and pedals.
"Is this thing for hire?" I startled myself by asking. "Sure," the young man said. "Hop in." I lifted the transparent plastic rain shield hung from the convertible top and crawled into the tiny seat, and the carriage lurched forward, swaying to the motions of the cycler. "How much is this thing?" I shouted. "Dollar a block," he shouted back.
Wow. Totally cool. A fantasy born of history-book photos and old movies possessed me: White-suited, pith-helmeted, discreet campaign ribbons pinned to my left breast, I am being wheeled through the streets of a tropical city, saluting passing fellow officers with my fly whisk.
An SUV horn blasted several feet from my left ear, and I nearly shot through the plastic shield. Visions of Singapore circa 1935 evaporated as I white-knuckled the sides of the carriage in sudden terror -- I was in a tin can on spoked wheels smack in the middle of Manhattan traffic beside drivers with the black hearts of those chaps in "Ben-Hur" who sported sharp, competitor-destroying blades on their chariot wheels. I was going to be crushed like an ant.
But my cycler was an ace -- ignoring the horns, weaving through rows of cars and ducking into gaps in the traffic, the carriage sweeping perilously close to cars but never bumping. Ah, a real New Yorker, I thought, relaxing a bit and believing now that I would survive the ride. Out-of-work actor, I guessed.
I hopped out at my destination, paid the fare and told the cycler how I admired his street skills. "I bet you grew up in these mean streets, huh?" He laughed. "No, I'm from Texas. Been in New York three days. First time. Great city."
I stared at him, speechless. I had just been transported in a virtual doggy cart through the meanest traffic south of the Arctic Circle by a working tourist. I recovered my manners, introduced myself and learned that he was J.T. Wright of Austin. And he assured me that he had plenty of experience pedaling in cities such as New Orleans. Before he cycled off I elicited an exchange of email addresses, telling him that I had some questions.
It turns out J.T. is an entrepreneur who owns two pedicabs and is saving up to buy more, with the intention of starting a multicity business. During the next couple of weeks he sent me emails from the Kentucky Derby and the Indianapolis 500, where he had days of steady pedicab customers. There are many others like him, he wrote, in Santa Barbara, Honolulu, Houston and London, offering, in his words, "affordable, hundred percent pollution-free, urban transportation."
Around the time J.T. was doing Louisville, I was again in mid-Manhattan without bumbershoot or cab on yet another cold, rainy rush hour (we had a rotten spring here). But I wasn't worried. I smiled indulgently at the frantic fools around me uselessly flapping their arms at taxis and waited until I saw a fellow pumping a pedicab. I stepped from the curb, raised my hand and... two passengers smiled at me through the plastic rain guard. I jumped back, miffed. Then I saw two more pedicabs heading up the avenue, so I hailed them. No dice; occupied. I ducked under an awning and watched four more of the darling little things -- gaily painted blue or yellow or red -- rattle past carrying dry office workers.
New Yorkers had discovered pedicabs. At that moment I knew what was coming in the not-distant future: "Ya can't get a pedicab in midtown after four. If it's raining, forget about it.""
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