Remembering that first motorcycle ride of a NYC spring

By Tony Mangia

After almost 40 years of living in New York City, I permanently — and stubbornly — moved out of Manhattan to Florida. One of the reasons I made the switch from concrete sidewalks to sandy beaches — besides the fortuity to work out of what was my second home — was the weather and opportunity to ride my motorcycle almost any time I wanted. It’s been three years since I traded that one-bedroom apartment under the shadow of the Empire State building for a three-bedroom house with a pool, boat dock and garage on the Gulf Coast of the Sunshine State.

Oh yeah, did I mention I now have a garage?

I never knew having my own personal space to park my 1976 Harley-Davidson Super Glide would yield so many benefits after years of parking it on the 32nd Street sidewalk (technically illegal, but I was young, broke and the city was the Wild West back then) outside my building before being able to afford storing it in various indoor garages around the neighborhood.

Finally, for the next couple of decades I knew my garage-parked bike would be relatively safe (I did have my car stolen right out of a Sixth Avenue parking garage once), a little expensive ($250 a month), but wouldn’t have to worry about parking tickets, tow trucks or that ubiquitous homeless guy who occasionally “decorated” it with trinkets he culled from the garbage. The problems with the garage were that the bike was usually stashed in a dank corner swaddled under a perpetually dirty motorcycle cover (You wouldn’t believe how much exhaust soot the cars make and that the parking attendants must breath in) and it was jammed behind a couple of cars (I had to tip the attendant to move them while I unlocked the half dozen or so locks I secured it with). The act of retrieving my motorcycle became a task that actually made getting the bike out on the street a tiresome and sometimes time-consuming chore. It was easier to jump on the subway or grab a cab. Leisurely putts became a rarity.

The luxury of having my own garage now goes past just parking the bike. It means I can work on that leaky AMF (One rebuilt engine and two paint jobs later) in comfortable surroundings, leave parts scattered where they fall — all with with the convenience of an array of tools at my side. It is sure a big difference from when I would slip my bike between two parked cars on the street, kick some garbage out of the way and hope it didn’t rain before I finished changing the oil or whatnot. 

But a Manhattan parking garage did provide my Harley with secure storage over the winter months.

From November until March, I would occasionally stop in the garage, reach under the gunk-coated cover and start the old warhorse for a quick battery charge thinking about a joyous warm day when I could take it out for the ceremonial first ride of spring. Honestly, I mostly neglected the bike during the winter storage more than I should have. Out of sight, out of mind.

In Florida I have the luxury of being able to ride the bike almost any day I want. It’s sitting right there at my house. I’ve become spoiled by the warm weather and easy access to my bike 365 days a year. And in shorts and a tank top no less! No more soiled cover, no more airborne grime, no more drained batteries, no more waiting for the temperature to rise above 55-degrees (My personal comfort level) and no more 250 bucks for a three-foot by six-foot corner space every month. Florida is Nirvana for motorcyclists — and cheaper too. 

Now after three years in southwest Florida, I came to the conclusion that I have been been taking my motorcycle for granted and find myself reminiscing about that first day of spring ride ritual.

Looking back, after six months being cooped up during a New York City winter, the snow and cold, that first spin on your scooter every spring was like the last day of school and Christmas rolled onto two wheels. The act of gearing up — my 30 year-old leather jacket that has who knows how many miles and the scuffed patches from a few spills to prove it — and hoping that you have enough juice in the battery, the jets didn’t clog and the fuel didn’t evaporate (gas stations are rare birds in Manhattan) are now distant flashbacks.

The anxiety of those annual first city starts still linger though. Every year, while stepping around that puddle of oil under the bike before wiping off the accumulated dust and filth, there came the pressing of the start button followed by its first wheezing cough through the air filter, the popping burps from the exhausts and the prayers you don’t have to hump it up the parking lot ramp, then down to push-start it. Funny how those nuisances are fond remembrances now. 

Back on those first days, with any luck, the points and timing were okay, the gas was potent, tire pressure okay and there was enough oil left in it to take her out for that first annual spin.  

The sensation of riding my motorcycle into bright sunlight outside the darkened garage exit was a glorious feeling. Cruising down Fifth Avenue, the 1200cc vibrating underneath, a slight wind in your face with Mother Nature somehow finding a way to send a chill down your neck. The smell of Sabrett’s hot dog carts filled your other senses. The staleness of winter being exorcised from your bike through temporary plumes of black exhaust  and an occasional sputter. At the same time, your own pent-up soul being cleansed with a healthy blush on your cheeks and a smile on your face.

For me, it was always over to the FDR to rev this baby out of her doldrums. Cruising along the East River, dodging potholes and taxis was dangerous, but also a delightful, welcome adventure. Then it was up to 96th Street and over to Park Avenue southward for my favorite secret shortcut through a tunnel slicing through the Pan Am Building (What real New Yorkers still call the renamed MetLife Building) and around Grand Central Station on an elevated roadway looking down at Vanderbilt Place before tooling up 42nd Street. It was a thrill gliding past Times Square over to the West Side Highway up to the the George Washington Bridge into Jersey for a fresh tank of gas for that thirsty beast. 

In the coming weeks, it would be a wash, an oil change and tune up done on the crowded street. The leather jacket would go back in the closet and, considering the weather, more rides out of the city.

Today in Florida, like almost any day, I opened my garage door, hopped on the seat and rode that motorcycle to the local store for some groceries — hassle-free. No stuck padlocks, no ashy covers and no attendant with his hand out. 

In exchange, there are no more first rides of spring anymore.

Like that incurable drip of oil from my motorcycle and the eternal pool it leaves on my garage floor, the recollections of those anticipated first rides in New York City have stayed with me — even with the city inconveniences.

Three-Wheeling Around Manhattan As A Pedicab Driver

By

Tony Mangia  

(Reprinted from 2005)

You see them hauling people all over Manhattan these days, but unlike yellow taxis and horse-drawn carriages, these quiet rolling forms of transit are people powered. I’m talking about pedicabs. Yeah, those ubiquitous tricycles with a two-seat bench for a rear-end. Make no mistake these trikes (Some costing upwards of $5000) are here to stay and the fast growing industry may soon hog the lanes of every traffic jam and backgrounds of city movie scenes everywhere.

I always wanted to find out who drove these contraptions and discover if it was as feasible a way to earn money as people were saying. So after a chance spotting of an old barroom buddy Rodney — whom I knew as Rock — being chaperoned down 46th Street on the back of one, I gave him a call. I remembered a conversation a couple of years earlier, while knocking down beers at Rudy’s Bar, he mentioned he was going to invest in a few of these newfangled pedicabs. Idle bar talk I thought, until someone later told me Rock and a partner owned seven of the buggies, which they run out of an old horse stable on West 52nd Street.

Over the phone, Rock gives me the okay to go out one night in one of the electric-assist pedicabs for a fifty dollar leasing fee. So I met up with him on a warm October afternoon, only to find out one of his brand new electric-assist pedicabs was stolen the night before and I’d have to wait until later when one of his drivers brought back another cab and after he took care of filing a police report. While I cooled my heels outside the stable, I convinced myself that I might be good at this sort of work. I’m in fairly good shape, mountain bike regularly in the summer and those two years of driving a yellow cab during my college days had to give me an edge over other pedicabbers.

Man, was I in for a shock.

Rock finally returned and we entered the three-story former equine storage space. Even years after it had its last hooves inside, the building still had a hay, straw and horse bun stench. In addition to that fragrance, three levels of horse urine had drained into the basement where we were standing and, I think, still dampened the floor. Outside, Rock gave me a crash course — and I literally mean crash — on steering, but — thankfully — far enough away from the fetid odor.

Like giant training wheels, the two tires in back make it awkward at first, but after a little wrangling I seemed to get used to the extended turning arcs. He reminds me that the rear is over three-feet wider than the front and, believe me, it’s easy to forget when you are used to riding a regular two-wheeler your whole life. After nearly bumping into a few parked cars on a test drive in the street, Rock tells me not to go “all gangsta” and try and squeeze through traffic or race around corners. 

“I want my pedicab back in one piece,” he said with a serious face.

“Oh, and one other thing,” he added. “The electric-assist motor doesn’t work on this one.”

I shrugged.

“Alright,” he said — sort of rolling his eyes.

“How much do I charge?” I asked.

“Whatever you want, but never under twenty dollars,” he stressed. “The other drivers won’t like it if you undercut their price.”

Well, that was my whole lesson. I was now a qualified New York City pedicab operator. That’s one of the perks of being a pedicab driver — no regulations, and basically no rules. They don’t even have to be insured, although Rock’s fleet is. Other benefits include not having to pay taxi commissions or get hassled by any animal rights groups. You are your own boss. It’s basically street anarchy!

It is a gorgeous night. The sunset had left a cloudy fire over the Hudson River. I’m wearing a tank-top in the middle of October. I take a deep breath and exhale it into a warm autumn breeze blowing down Eleventh Avenue. I have no idea what I’m doing or where to even go look for customers. I don’t get very far when two young girls sharing a bicycle ram into me at 53rd and Eleventh. I barely went one block and already had an accident. I look around to see if Rock is still watching me because I’m so close to the stable I can still smell it. The girls laugh at my clumsiness, ride off, and I’m in the clear.

I hearken back to my taxi driving days while studying at St. John’s University and figure not too much could have changed in those twenty years, so I head down 57th Street towards Fifth Avenue looking for a pick-up. I peddle along and keep assuring myself that this isn’t difficult. That hill on Eleventh was pretty easy. Just pace yourself. This is going to be a piece of cake. After a few close calls with taxis and a couple of choice words from commuters (They apparently don't like being stuck behind me), I reach my destination —  the Plaza Hotel.

Oops, I forget it’s closed for renovations and there aren’t to many people hanging around so I head to Rockefeller Center where it’s bound to be filled with tourists or at least some on-the-town Jersey girls. It’s quiet, just bunches of harried workers in too much of a rush for a leisurely pedicab ride. Maybe the Yankees playoff game has something to do with it? I get rousted out of the promenade by security and wait by the NBC Studios entrance where I run into some real-life pedicab drivers. Ronaldo, an ex-soccer coach from Brazil, tells me he’s been doing this for a few months while he’s in between jobs and wants to write a book about his pedicab experiences. But when I ask him for a good pedicab story, he has none. I shrug and figure he’s saving all his great exploits for the book and doesn’t want anyone to steal them. I talk with another driver, Mahmet from Turkey. He’s been driving a pedi about six months now and — surprisingly — likes to peddle around in the rain. 

“You get more fares because people are desperate when they can’t get a yellow cab,” he explains.

Well, it is a business.

I’ve been cruising around for over two hours by now — and without a single fare during rush hour. How do these guys make a living? It costs fifty bucks a day to lease the pedicab and most of the drivers go out four of five times a week, so somebody must be hiring these things!

I aimlessly cruise the streets and end up back on the West Side where a man and two large boys wearing red baseball caps (Real-life Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, I giggled to myself) approach me for a ride. I am so excited that I blurt out “Ten dollars!” when he asks me how much for a ride from 43rd and Eighth Avenue to Rockefeller Center and back again. My first fare and I’ve already broken Rule No. 1. Rock’s voice keeps echoing in my head, “Never charge less than twenty dollars!” A fare’s a fare I reason and I take off with my new charges.

I head up Eighth Avenue and encounter a slight, and I mean slight, incline. Any plans for small talk with my passengers like I did driving a yellow cab fly right out into the suddenly hot night. Already I can feel my legs tightening and my breath getting shorter. 

What have I gotten myself into, I scream to myself. 

I’ve only gone one block with my first passengers and I’m having a coronary. 

Sweat is pouring down my face. I start to panic and look back at my passengers through the rear view mirror. The two boys must sense I'm fading. They both have sadistic smirks on their chubby faces and the father has this god awful look of disdain on his face. I think about quitting and refunding their money. I’m suddenly parched. I need hydration. How embarrassing!

Where’s that giant bottle of water I stashed? Oh great, it rolled behind the 500 pounds of passengers in the back seat. How’s it gonna look if I pull over after only three blocks and pounce on that bottle of Poland Spring with one hand, clutching my chest with the other?

The man looks at me funny and I go to ask him to hand me the water bottle. Nothing comes out of my mouth — only some grotesque dry hacking noise from my throat — while I keep peddling. He looks at me like I'm possessed, then picks up the bottle which I quickly snatch from his hand. We make it to Rockefeller Center thirty minutes later.

“There it is,” I gasp, pointing upward at the ring of international flags circling the closed ice rink while almost collapsing out of my seat.

They barely get a glimpse of old Prometheus before I start peddling back to Times Square. The ride back was a little better. I think my body’s initial shock to the physicality of hauling a quarter ton of people had worn off. I began purposely riding in traffic — a good reason to slow down and catch my breath. It still felt like my chest was about to explode. And talk about cardio. I made a mental note to never get into a street fight with an experienced pedicab driver — they’ll always outlast you.

I slowly peddled around bustling Times Square — mostly to keep my legs from cramping — thinking what life on a functioning electric assist pedicab would be like. While I wasn’t too anxious to get my second fare quite yet, I had to acknowledge that I had only made ten dollars after three hours on the job. Then, when I got my second wind, lo and behold, outside the Broadway show, “Beauty and the Beast,” the mother lode. There must have been twenty pedicabs waiting for the show to end. All those tourists and their little princesses just waiting for their magical carriages to whisk them away on three wheels. I head over just as two large white stretch-limos pull up and a couple of cops shoo away all the pedicabs to make room. I quickly circle the block, but when I return all the princesses are gone. No Belle. No LeFou. Not even Cogsworth.

I park and talk with Bernard, who has been driving for a while. He’s a plumber by trade, but says he makes more some days pedicabbing. I have to stifle a laugh when I hear that. He tells me that before 9/11 the city was talking about testing and licensing the pedicabs, but afterward the issue seemed to be put on the back burner. That’s good news to Bernard and probably most of the other drivers. Who really wants the city over-legislating something else?

At 45th and Eighth, a middle-aged couple want to go to St. Mark’s and First Avenue after seeing a show. This time I ask for twenty dollars with kind of a guilty smile before they hop in. I plot a course in my head and try and remember if there any hills on the way to the East Village. They are a nice artsy pair and don’t complain when I plow into some big potholes near Macy’s. It’s nearing midnight, I haven’t eaten and my blood sugar must be getting low. I think my passengers suspect I’m tiring and offer to take a cab from 14th Street. No, I’m proving something to myself and on a mission now. I refuse. Then the conversation turns into pleasant discussion about how much the East Village has changed since they moved there in the early 70’s and the early 80s when I was there. Time flies and twenty minutes later we arrive at their appointed destination. They give me 20 bucks and a ten-spot as a tip. I finally feel like I’m getting the hang of this thing.

I decide to book straight back to the stable and call it a night. I’ve done construction and worked in a truck garage, but this was the most physically demanding job I’ve ever had. I actually lost ten dollars — and maybe a few gallons of sweat — on the night, but saw the city in a different perspective — not to mention get a workout Lance Armstrong might admire.

There’s a good chance I might even call Rock for another night behind the handlebars again. But only if he has that newfangled electric-assist pedicab in working order.

"Fascination" is a rowdy trip back to 1970s New York City

By Julia Nash

"Fascination" is a novella that takes a series of unblinking written pictures of the less than stellar days of New York City in 1971 as seen through the eyes and rowdy adventures of a teenage boy exploring the frontiers of Fun City the summer before he entered, and then escaped his own high school demons in New Jersey. Tony Mangia's "fictional-memoir" pays attention to many details of the turbulent times—in a both pop culture and social issue sense—and is right on target. It isn't all politically correct, but neither were those times. And through all of the wonder and notoriety of that city, he somehow finds some goodness and redemption. It might even be called a love letter to the Ugly Duckling New York City of the '70s.

The story follows the 14 year-old's journey through the "White Flight" suburbs and his coming of age visits to that gritty New York City during an important mind-shaping, and altering, era of his life. The lessons learned come mostly from darkly humorous experiences and raucous escapades in the decaying yet colorful city, and are centered around a seedy Times Square arcade called Fascination—a hangout that "could take more than just a kid's money." At Fascination, where he meets city kids his own age, but of different colors and socio-economic backgrounds, the teen observes things close up—much of it not safe, good or even legal, but all of it fondly remembered. In one instance, he recalls Fascination as a melting pot of gangs, runaways and those who had nowhere else to go:

"Most chickens seemed to embrace the lifestyle, mainly because Fascination provided them with a safe haven. Some of them got busted up pretty bad just for being queer out on the street. Black eyes and even broken arms on some of the frailer ones—the results of hate-fueled muggings or beatdowns—weren’t uncommon. At least at Fascination, they had something of a sanctuary among their own kind." 

Fascination is available on Amazon Kindle and as a paperback.

Legendary Roseland Ballroom hosts final boxing event before closing its doors forever (PHOTOS)

Story and photos by Tony Mangia

On Wednesday night, DiBella Entertainment hosted the last ever boxing event to take place at the historic Roseland Ballroom in mid-town Manhattan before closing its ticket booth forever in April. 

The nine-bout card, entitled "The Last Dance," was a bittersweet reminder of old-school New York boxing, and was as good of a sendoff as the ballroom could have asked for. The standing room only crowd included rapper and SMS promoter 50 Cent, actress Rosie Perez along with many New York City boxing luminaries.

Since opening at its current location on 52nd Street in 1956, and long before Lady Gaga will give the venue its final curtain call on April 7, Roseland has hosted everything from taxi-dancing to bobby soxers to mosh pit diving and every fad in between. 

And a history which includes a long line of boxers from the city's club fight circuit doing their own style of footwork as well.

Over the years, Roseland has seen all kinds of boxing action — both good and bad.

In 2001, a hyper Brooklyn kid named Paulie Malignaggi had his fourth pro fight here before going on to becoming a champion. And then there was a feverish 10-round junior middleweight bout between Delvin Rodriguez and Powel Wolak on July 15, 2011— which ended in a draw — that was named SI.com's 2011 Fight of the Year.

Roseland also hosted one of boxing's darkest moments as well.

The immediate aftermath of a nondescript super middleweight main event between Richard "The Alien" Grant and James "The Harlem Hammer" Butler ended with one of the most cowardly acts (VIDEO) ever seen in the ring. After Grant's unanimous decision over his hard-hitting opponent, he extended his hand in the customary post-fight handshake when Butler reeled back and broke Grant's jaw with a sucker punch. The brutal cheap shot (called "assault" by announcer Teddy Atlas) essentially ended Grant's career.

Lou DiBella, who has promoted 11 of the last "Broadway Boxing" cards at Roseland, had other reasons to reminisce about the historic building.

"It's very sad," said the Brooklyn-born DiBella. "My parents were ballroom dancers and used to dance at Roseland. It's part of New York history and soon it will be gone."

But on Wednesday night it wasn't just about about saying farewell to a bygone era. It was also a big hello to young fighters and the future of boxing.

The night's cards were filled with plenty of local up-and-coming talent including hopefuls such as Boyd "The Rainmaker" Melson, Bryant "Pee-Wee" Cruz, Heather "The Heat" Hardy, Joe Smith and New York Golden Gloves champion Travis Peterkin — all who went on to victories.

They all had the honor of being among the last fighters to display their skills at the venerable dance hall among a crowd who showed their appreciation with every jab and hook. And, if you listened closely, you could also hear the cheers of bouts past.

Buildings — like fighters — may come and go, but even after this final bell rings, Roseland Ballroom's spirit will live on.

See the All-Star Game's 'Apples on Parade' without going to NYC (PHOTO GALLERY)

Story and article by Tony Mangia

The world knows New York City as the Big Apple and — in celebration of the 10th anniversary of the first placement of All-Star statues around the host cities — MLB has scattered 35 six-foot tall, 350-pound sculptures shaped as the healthy fruit around NYC in a tribute to the 84th Midsummer Classic.

The commemorative All-Star statues have become a big part of the ASG experience and tourists searching out their favorite team's statue for a photo-op has become a great way for fans to get involved with the annual event and see the host city close up.

This year, the 2013 collection of statues (one for each team and a few add-ons) are on display at various locations in Manhattan with the exception of the one at Citi Field (a Matt Harvey toss from the Mets' iconic Home Run Apple).

The mostly unassuming apples can be spotted in the shadow of the nearly completed Freedom Tower at the World Financial Center (Rockies), uptown in bustling Harlem (L.A. Dodgers), outside the battle-scarred Intrepid aircraft carrier on the Hudson River (Nationals), blocking the aisles of a Fifth Avenue Tommy Bahama shop (S.F. Giants) and being ignored by young gamers in the Rockefeller Center Nintendo store (Mariners).

I spent three days with my trusty Nikon peddling through rivers of yellow taxis via mountain bike to capture the essence of the soon-to-be-forgotten apples. Did I mention the heat wave?

Along the way, I met a troop of Boy Scouts (Nationals), a protective 150-pound dog (Cardinals), an ASG ticket winner (Tigers), break-dancing street performers (Rangers) and got the opportunity to enjoy parts of the city I haven't seen in years — or just plain forgot about. I even saw Mets and Yankees fans (Athletics) making nice by taking pictures of each other.

If you aren't lucky enough to be visiting New York for the game this week — or just don't want to deal with the subways, the heat or rent a Citi Bike to see the "Apples on Parade" — here's all 35 of the colorful creations in one photo show to see what you're missing.

I think you'll like dem apples.

Citi Field

Photos by Tony Mangia

Rangers-Zuccotti Park

Angels-Bed Bath & Beyond

Mets-SNY Studios

Blue Jays-Intercontinental Hotel

Marlins-Grace Building

Closing of OTBs is the end of a NYC era ... and culture

By Tony Mangia

It looks like this could be the final stretch for a lot of the dreamers, schemers and a cultural stereotype in New York City if a last ditch rescue of the Off-Track Betting Corporation doesn't come through—and it looks like a long shot.

After a year of Chapter 9 bankruptcy, it appears the New York State Senate has failed to vote on a bailout package and will shut the doors on Friday. A last minute vote is the OTB's only chance of survival. Over a thousand employees of the legal bookmaking joints are bracing for the impact of the closings. 

OTB has run this sloppy track before.  Since 2008—when the state took control—and as recently as last April, talks have swirled of shutting down the forty year-old old state-run betting parlors.  Analysts have called for privatization of the system as a way to rid the city of it's debt. It is currently short-changing the New York Racing Association $2 million a month and owes them over $25 million. OTB filed for bankruptcy exactly one year ago tomorrow and has been—like trans fat and salt portions—a sore spot with Mayor Bloomberg for years.

OTB's CEO, Greg Rayburn, said OTB is "prepared for the shutdown, if it's necessary...and [he] would continue to talk to people in the Senate and explain to them what the provisions are in the bill."  Rayburn—who pulls in $125,000 a month—said he would "urge them to come and act before Friday, because, realistically, once you close, you close." 

The pending plan is to design a new business model with concessions by unions and management in an effort to modernize and lower expenses. Hmm ... maybe Rayburn could start with his salary.

The New York City institution once had parlors in every neighborhood and catered to die-hard railbirds, senior citizens and a wide array of characters who couldn't make it out to Belmont or Aquaduct. Just plunk down a talent agent and every OTB could pass for a Central Casting office. Where will where these New York City extras play the ponies, loiter and socialize after the windows are permanently closed?

Even the adventurous and curious, who didn't know a furlong from a filly, learned how to parlay and pick a trifecta under the fluorescent glow of a ticket-strewn linoleum floor. There were the frat boys and yuppies, with fat bankrolls and loud talk, who strolled in before their Triple Crown parties—and were about as welcome to the old ticket-rippers as Julian Assange is to a White House dinner.

Now, only a dozen or so of the once ubiquitous hangouts remain scattered about the boroughs. Old timers—who think Facebook is the 5-2 favorite at the Meadowlands—blame the decline in OTB attraction on everything from computer games and Internet wagering to a new generation raised on televised football and basketball. Native New Yorkers, who grew up with OTBs, just blame it on more lousy government involvement and believe it should have been sold to a private corporation years ago. Others cried slot machines were the OTB's only salvation and now it is too late.

It's reasonable to suggest that this race between the frisky Senate and the has-been OTB was over before they hit the gates. There was never going to be a neck-and-neck finish down the stretch. Even though one thousand jobs and a way of life in New York City are on the line, it's looks like they're going to put the old nag out of her misery.

No Seabiscuit story here.

Middlebury Routs Tufts For Quidditch World Cup

Story and photos by Tony Mangia

On Sunday, under the night lights of a Hell's Kitchen park in New York City, Middlebury College defended it's title in the fourth Quidditch World Cup by defeating Tufts University 100-20.  In a sport where the the most prominent pieces of equipment are brooms, it seemed only fitting for Middlebury to sweep seven games over a two day span to win the magical title.

The whimsical sport, made popular by the beloved series of Harry Potter books and movies, was played by 40 participating high school and college teams in DeWitt Clinton Park on the west side of Manhattan.  Teams from schools like Yale, NYU, St. Lawrence, U Mass and Pittsburgh entertained a few thousand fans who filled the park for two days.

The weekend's festivities came right before next weekend's release of Part 1 of the the final chapter "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows."

The complicated game mixes a combination of dodgeball, basketball, soccer and a light touch of rugby into a fast moving sport. Players pass a ball and toss it through one of the opponent's three hoops to score ten points—all while holding a small broom between their legs. In the books, contestants actually fly like witches. If you can get past the initial sight of young adults hopping around with broom sticks between their legs, it actually looks like a really fun game and it's a lot more physical than that other broom sport—curling.

The co-ed teams play for about 20 minutes and the action is fast and rough.  The first aid tent was treating a lot of scraped knees and elbows, but an EMT said there were a few iced sprains too.

Teams with names like the "Violet Hipster Horcruxes" and the "Butterbeer Broooers" field 7 players from a roster of 20.  Headbands are mandatory. The game features player positions like "seekers', "beaters," and "keepers" who try and grab the "snitch"—a small purple sock in the waistband of a neutral player dressed in bright gold.  The snitch runner is probably the best athlete on the field because he is constantly running away from his pursuers or wrestling with them on the ground. The snitch whizzes around the 30x 40 meter field like a hyped up canary after a couple of Four Lokos.

Even for someone unfamiliar with J.K. Rowlings' fantastically popular books about the young wizard, and doesn't know a Muggle from a huddle or thinks Quidditch is a specialty sub at Quizno's, the game still has appeal.  There are currently over 500 college and 300 high school teams in leagues all over the country, so it's getting attention.

Middlebury College, where the real life version of Quidditch originated in 2005, is like the New York Yankees of the game. They are big and fast and were heavy favorites going into Sunday's game. Kate Olen, a returning chaser on last year's championship team was optimistic but cautious before the title game. "Tufts has a good finesse game," she said, "But this is the first time we ever played them, so we'll find out." Peyton Manning couldn't have been more diplomatic.

Even with the growing popularity of Quidditch, it's nice to see the simplicity of it hang on.  From the trophies constructed of gold and silver painted paper plates and cups to the hula hoops held onto poles with duct tape, everything rings backyard fun.  Even the out-of-the-box remarks from the game announcer over the loudspeakers—a snide reference to computer software or a nod to liberal politics (Well...just look at the schools)—and pop-culture exclamations about a rough play over the loudspeaker are erudite. "They (the players) are like extras in a Jackie Chan movie!" is just one verse of his colorful commentary.

The ever-growing event manages to stay as innocent as most of the youthful characters at Hogwarts.  No drug testing here and no Cam Newtons either.  They even have their version of the Heisman, the "Mansnel Award" for good sportsmanship.

I have seen the future sports star and he or she wears a headband and carries a small straw broom.  Most of the the sport's fans have top SAT scores and MBA's in their futures—even though they yell gibberish like "Get the Snitch" from the stands or razz players who get yellow or red penalty cards and are "sent to the hoops."

Maybe in the future, when either a bored Harvard or Yale genius is kicking around some crazy idea to advance the game, those brooms will actually fly.

Mysterious artwork appearing along Hudson River explained

Story and photos by Tony Mangia

MYSTERIOUS WOOD SCULPTURE ARTIST REVEALED

Upper Westsiders have been noticing the whimsical art for a long time — maybe years. Bikers and runners on the riverside path can't help but stare at the ever-changing piles of driftwood with the occasional plastic or metal accessory stacked up every twenty feet or so apart. Car drivers stuck in rush hour hell can even see the odd folk art along the West Side Highway. It helps break up the monotony of a long jog or boring commute. Dozens of these sculptures appear out of nowhere north of the 79th Street boat basin and disappear before crossing 110th Street.

Like wood cairns popping up out of nowhere, these displays line the east shore of the Hudson River. Some are simple, maybe a couple of small pieces of driftwood, to the elaborate jigsaw of a hundred sun-bleached branches and trestles which form small fortresses. Most of the sculptures look like giant eagle's nests or life-sized wooden figures waving to the sailors toiling on the endless procession of river barges. Other pieces need a little more interpretation. Maybe they resemble a tiny wooden Stonehenge or the stick man of Blair Witch to some of recreational boaters. "They are fun," exclaimed a fan named Mary. "Haunting," comments her friend, Andrea. Both agree that they like the stick monuments and, like anyone else who has seen them, wonder why and who would spend time building these temporary exhibits rising up for a mile and a half along the banks of the Hudson.

For years I peddled up Riverside Park to the George Washington Bridge on my bike—even when the path was an obstacle course of muddy patches, stairs and ventures onto Riverside Drive, not the smooth paved path it is today. The funny looking bundles of river wood were always there--always changing. The maze of crooked branches and driftwood made me smile. They were a wonderful mystery until I met the single-named creator—Alvaro.

Alvaro, who lives in Manhattan, and rides his bike to the river weekdays around noon to scavenge among the rocks for his building materials. Alvaro explained that he has been doing this since spring and has taken up where the "unknown old man" who started it, stopped. The unassuming artist doesn't delve into his personal life except to say he's of Italian descent by way of Columbia. He has been in New York for 22 years and proudly states that he is a stained-glass artisan by trade. The tanned Alvaro claims his Italian heritage draws him down to the river to "create and do something artistic." The Hudson River Greenway is his art gallery.

Wandering on the craggy river shore, between casting fisherman, and lazing street people, Alvaro picks through the bottles, paper wrappers, old diapers and "Coney Island Codfish"— otherwise known as used condoms. Alvaro doesn't specify what makes a good piece of building material. He doesn't seem too particular, but he does pick and choose. Maybe it is the crook of a branch or the width of a stump? Maybe it's the right bow of a small tree that completes a previously unfinished piece? Only the soft-spoken artist knows.

The sculptures usually have a short life. They have no names or titles. They are never the same and like a child's sandcastle swept away by the tide, Alvaro's creations meet a similar fate—only to wind and vandals. The northern gusts of the Hudson can topple some of the lighter stacks, but the real culprits are kids and "one bitter, old homeless man who has something against my work," claims Alvaro. He doesn't know who his nemesis is, but has spotted him vandalizing his work. Alvaro doesn't come to the river on weekends, so that's when the packs of destructive teens usually break up his displays. Each Monday, the artist starts gathering his wood, finds a new spot and starts building his happy parade of formations again.

I don't know how long Alvaro will keep crafting his temporary driftwood curiosities. The river will continue to yield an unending supply of material and inspiration and—in a city full of franchise chain stores, loud pop culture and fake celebrity—Alvaro's vision and anonymity help give New York City back some of its quiet incantation. I know the quirky little structures in Alvaro's free art show can make anyone's journey up or down the Hudson shore a little more enjoyable. See it for yourself.

3,000 People Take Plunge Into Hudson River

Article and photos by Tony Mangia

THE 2010 NAUTICA NYC TRIATHLON
It's a Sunday morning at 99th Street alongside the Hudson River and with the sun barely peaking over the skyline, over 3,000 colorful, rubber-capped athletes line the riverbank and get ready to take a plunge. The temperature is already over 80 degrees, so a dive into the murky water will be more of a welcome relief than a shock to the system.

Welcome to the start of the 2010 Nautica NYC Triathlon—the only Olympic-distance triathlon event in New York. Won this year by Filip Ospaly of the Czech Republic—the field included participants from 44 states and 23 countries. People from all walks of life including men and women pros, first-timers and a record number (over 70) of para-triathletes competing in conjunction with the Accenture USA Para-Triathlon National Championship.

YOU WOULDN'T KNOW THEIR FACES

In a world of entitled and wealthy sports "heros", triathletes are an anomaly. The $30,000 in prize money is called chump change in the NFL and NBA and it is basically pro-sports minimum wage considering all the hours a triathlete puts into training.

Today everyone will be challenged by the heat, humidity and soupy air of Manhattan. The thousands of enthusiastic supporters and rubber-neckers lining the Hudson, West Side Highway, city streets and paths of Central Park will push the athletes past limits some couldn't imagine. The heat will fell a dozen runners and one London man will end up in critical condition at New York Presbyterian. In 2008, Esteban Neira was pulled dead from the Hudson. "It's a tough day," said Race Director, Bill Burke, "its a pretty low considering what we expected." This is no leisurely jog around the park.

REAL CHALLENGES

Such are the challenges of any athlete—especially these. There is a "Psych Station" at the starting tent, manned by psychologists who offer consultation for the jittery beginners and the occasional seasoned pro. Some competitors must overcome more adversity. There are inspiring stories all along the riverbank. War veterans missing limbs and people overcoming a multitude of traumatic emotional and physical set backs. This year's women's division winner---repeat champion—Rebeccah Wassner, was followed two minutes later, into second place, by her twin sister, Laurel. Laurel is a cancer survivor. "One-arm Willie" Stewert was one of 12 National Champions crowned in the Challenged Division. This race is the only qualifying event for the ParaTriathlon World Championships. To qualify, competitors must finish in less than 4 hours.

TRUE GRIT

I met one 33 year-old man, Rajesh Durbal, from Orlando. He started participating in the combination 1.5K swim, 40K biking, and 10K run thirteen months ago. His best time is 3 hours and 5 minutes. Raj does this despite missing both legs from the knees down and part of his right arm at the elbow.

I first see Raj near the starting dock, relaxing, sitting under a tree with his prosthetic legs splayed wide. His smile is almost as bright as his spirit. He tells me, simply enough, he started this as a "challenge." Is that an understatement? He also mentions he is getting ready for the Ironman in Hawaii on October 9th. A man of few words and many goals.

Rajesh's "handler" stands by the triathlete. He is an intricate part of Raj's day—as are other handlers for the many challenged athletes. He will carry the athlete on his shoulders from the swimming exit dock to the bike rack and, later, meet him to give him his running legs. These are the same type of carbon-filled prosthetics made famous by the South African sprinter, Oscar Pistorius, in 2008. The Cheetah Flex Foot, as they are called, make Rajesh stand about 6'6", although he needs no accessories to stand tall.

At the finish line, runners in all dimensions roll in. Some stagger while some speed up. Rajesh appears to welcoming cheers as he bounces through a finish-line ribbon. The 90-plus temperatures and steaming pavement haven't crushed him—physically or spiritually. "Did I break three hours?" are his first words. He's finished in the top-half of the field—an amazing feat of athletic ability.

I only met Rajesh Durbal briefly. There are a lot more questions I would have liked to ask, but it was his moment. He did tell me the hardest part of the day was the biking. Well it was only 40K, my man—and, oh yeah, you did break three hours. Best of luck in Hawaii.