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The first time you use a hand truck you will crash into a corner and run over your feet. It’s normal. The guy with infected knuckle tattoos lies when he howls his hand truck skills. But once you get the hang of manoeuvring around corners and avoiding others’ toes, you’ll discover a functional task that is remarkably empowering.
The hand truck has an obvious purpose: move lots of stuff from point a to point b without hurting yourself or the objects. Maybe you’re moving a couch or boxes of books. Regardless, the object or objects are heavy and unwieldy and it’s duty of these four-wheels to transform the item from intimidating to acceptable. With the hand truck you gain a powerful ally in negotiating space with the heaviest things.
Although the hand truck mitigates the threat of the large and overwhelming object, the truck itself retains an aura of intimidation. With it’s looping handle and stiff bars and corrugated metal bed it resembles a medieval torture device. And that’s when folded up. Open and ready to drive, hand trucks appear weather-beaten. The long metal bed hangs down a few inches while inexplicable scratches and loose screws punctuate the handle. Standing ten feet away you picture steering it with ease. Then you approach. And as you play Tetris to fit your couch or boxes of books on the bed, you realize that the hand truck isn’t a soft ally: it wants skill and attention in return for moderated conveyance.
You move. At first you push, forcing your body weight force against the hulking object to make pushing flimsy metal wheels less fatiguing. But after twenty feet you run against the wall. You switch tactics. You pull. The back wheels rattle ominously. Fifty feet later a corner blocks your progress. It doesn’t physically bar like the wall, but as you skirt the edge you realize the back left wheel is stuck. You push back a little, then push forward. Nothing. Standing there, slightly dumbfounded, you contemplate going behind the truck to heave up the back wheels. But, no, that won’t work as you could barely lug the object you’re moving onto the truck. So you drive back further and after manoeuvring and manoeuvring and manoeuvring you finagle a turn wide enough to slide the hand truck through the corner you newly perceive as narrow.
The first time you use a hand truck you will run into someone or something or both. And then you’ll use it again and again and again and at an undefined point your path will function with the vehicle’s. Through changing the way you move through space, the hand truck presents a new lens through which to view everyday objects and passages. All it takes is practice, patience and humility to understand this new outlook.
(Image via Flickr: Jeremy Brooks)
- ‘The History of Being Found‘ from The Design Observer Group.
- ‘Dining with the Stars’ from Lucky Peach (16).
- ‘A Social History of Jell-O Salad‘ from Serious Eats.
- ‘The Simple Perfection of a Cookbook Bookstore‘ from Eater.
- ‘Finding New Uses for Baltimore’s Many Vacant Rowhouses‘ from Curbed.
I enjoy my commute. It takes approximately thirty-seven minutes: ten minutes walking to the subway, four minutes waiting, sixteen minutes riding the train (with three of idyllic Brooklyn Bridge views), seven minutes walking to work. During this spell the city fades away and I exist in my own orbit together with others existing in theirs.
Enjoying your commute isn’t a given: its daily repetition threatens to quash happiness. Commuting exists within a nebulous neither/nor time. You are neither working nor playing. You are neither productive nor unproductive. You exist. Commuting time is passive time. It shouldn’t be. Articles arguing for a better commute insist upon actively savouring your ‘me time’. But the word’s Latin root suggests otherwise. ‘Com’ means altogether while ‘mute’ signifies mutare, to change. Thus, commuting is a shared transitional activity. It’s a concentrated period during which individual citizens share time, space and routine to shape their city.
Commuting together forms a group identity. By moving in a specific way in a certain place, you assert your identity and build a shared one. Your non-relationship with the person you always see on the subway demonstrates how these different layers of identity form passively. You don’t speak and you don’t know their name, but you share a space, a time and a moment. You share the pole, the delays and the stench of other passengers. You make up stories about this regular traveller, recognize them and invent a name for them. Through sharing in time, space and routine you passively develop a relationship. This non-vocal relationship constructs your commuting persona.
Although these bonds shape how we feel about our routine movements, they form without recognition. Their hidden nature subordinates the commute in our daily movements. Riding the subway and walking to work aren’t inherently disagreeable, but ignoring the commute’s nuances turns these minutes into nebulous, so-called lost time. In a culture where “time is money” such undefined instances become evil through their lack of remuneration. If we adopt an active attitude toward our routine movements, we can acknowledge communal relationship we form and appreciate commuting.
I read. Through books I actively participate in the subway reading community and appreciate the role I adopt within it. Through these self-identity affirming actions, I perceive my thirty-seven minute commute not as lost time, but as daily moments of routine interaction with my city. These actions compose the fabric of my identity and work to form the fabric of a community. I enjoy my commute as shared active time and personally productive space.
- ‘The End of Walking‘ from Aeon. The modern city is designed to discouraged walking, but cultural stereotypes against walkers will need to change if we want pedestrians to reign.
- ‘The Importance of MTV Cribs’ from Apartamento. A scripted peek into someone else house reveals design choices, but really reveals how society perceives and classifies these certain objects and spaces.
- ‘Dining in the Wilderness: The Restaurants in America’s National Parks‘ from Eater. More than just cafeteria, the restaurants in America’s National Parks must negotiate between pleasing the public, maintaining tradition and producing healthy meals.
- ‘Jonathan Franzen’s Great Expectations‘ from New York. Franzen is one of the few novelists who merits a feature article when publishing a new book. What does this say about literature in America?
- ‘“Moment” Is Having a Moment‘ from The New York Times Magazine. As digital media changes cultural perceptions of time, the moment has become essential in defining the social and political zeitgeist.