The World Is About To End, Again, And I Decided To Enjoy The Ride!

The world is about to end, again.

So what did I do?  I went for a bike ride, of course.

All right...I wasn't as cavalier as I might've sounded.  For one thing, the situation isn't quite as dire as the end of the world, or even the end of the world as we know it.

But tomorrow the beaches will be closed.  Think about that:  Beaches closed on the day before Labor Day, a.k.a., the penultimate day of summer--at least unofficially.

Hurricane/Tropical Storm Hermine has plowed across northern Florida and Georgia and is in the Atlantic, where she is surging her way toward New Jersey, New York and New England.  Even if we don't get the wind and rain she's dumped to our south, forecasters say that the strongest riptides in years will roil in local waters.  So, as a precaution, Mayor de Blasio has declared that our beaches--Coney Island, the Rockaways and South Beach of Staten Island among them--will be closed tomorrow.

I decided to ride toward those littoral landscapes.  First, I took my familiar jaunt to the Rockaways and, from there, to Point Lookout.  

The view to the east was ominous--at least, in the sky.  Those clouds looked as if they could have solved all of my hydration problems for a while.  But, as the day was relatively cool (high temperature around 25C or 77F) and the sun wasn't beating down on my skin, I didn't sweat much.

People seemed to think the beaches were already closed (well, the Mayor's pronouncement wouldn't affect Point Lookout).  Not many of them were on the sand or in the surf--or even on the boardwalk--in the Rockaways.  With those skies, it looked more like a mid- or even late-fall day than the End of Summer.

And Point Lookout was deserted!  Even the streets were all but empty:  the few cars I saw were parked.  A long, wide sidebar surfaced in the water, belying the predicted storm surge.  Normally, people would walk themselves and, perhaps, their dogs, on it.  But today the seagulls and egrets had it all to themselves.

Vera, my green Mercian mixte, seemed to be enjoying it.  Or, perhaps, she was anticipating the ride back:  We had pushed into the wind most of the way from my apartment to the Point.  So, of course, it would give us a nice push going back.

Except that I decided not to pedal directly home.  The ride felt so good that as I approached Beach 92nd Street in the Rockaways--where I would normally turn off the boardwalk (where we rode today) or Rockaway Beach Boulevard for the bridge to Broad Channel--I decided to continue along the boardwalk to its end in Belle Harbor, and from there along the Boulevard to Riis Park and Fort Tilden.

Then I rolled across the Gil Hodges/Marine Parkway Bridge to Brooklyn, along the path that rims the South Shore to Sheepshead Bay, Brighton Beach and Coney Island.  

Along the way, fissures split the cloud cover.  By the time I got to Coney Island, the sun had reclaimed much of the sky.  And, when I got there, I saw crowds of the size one would expect on a summer day.  I wonder whether they had been there all day or if they started to stream in for their "last chance" as the sky cleared.

Sunlight glinted off the water as I rode the promenade from Coney Island to the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, where I once again saw the kinds, and numbers, of people one normally finds there on a summer Saturday:  cyclists, skaters, skateboarders, fishermen, young couples, older couples and Orthodox Jewish families enjoying their shabat.

Speaking of enjoyment:  Everyone has his or her own definition of that word.  Apparently, some Nassau County officials have their own interesting interpretation:

For the record, that women's bathroom in Point Lookout Park was filthy.  And the doors of the stalls didn't shut.  Nor did the front door of the bathroom.  I thought about calling Supervisor Santino, but didn't.  I was enjoying everything else about my ride and didn't want to interrupt it--especially since, if we incur Hermine's wrath, I won't be able to take another like it for a while!

Riding In Dry Heat To The Sea--And An Old "Friend"

In my youth, one of the things I did when I was trying to figure out--or, perhaps, avoid--whatever it was I was supposed to be doing was to teach English in a language institute near the UN.  

In every lesson, I would give students at least one tip on "how to sound like an American".  One--as I've mentioned in another post--is never to call the largest city in California "Los Angeles".  To us 'Murikuns, it's "L.A."

Another one of my tips was to talk about the weather.  Americans are always talking about it, I'd tell them, and that's one of the easiest ways to talk with an American--and learn everyday English.

In that vein, I'm going to say something about the weather, as I did yesterday.  It was hot today, though not quite as oppressive as the last couple of days.  But there was a huge difference:  very low humidity.  Those of you who live and ride in places like "L.A." or Arizona are probably accustomed to such conditions.  But here in the NYC Metro Area--indeed, on most of the East Coast--heat=humidity, at least most of the time.

It's weird, at least for me, to ride in 90 degree F (32C) weather without sweating. I take that back:  the body sweats, but it doesn't drip.  Rather, the beads of sweat evaporate before you can see or feel them on the surface of your skin.  Meantime, you're sucking down water or your favorite color of Gatorade or whatever your preferred libation is for bike riding.

In some way, I guess it makes sense that I'd ride to the ocean on a day like this. Specifically, I pedaled to Point Lookout:  into the wind to Rockaway Beach, balancing the wind on my right side to the Point and on my left side back to Rockaway and, finally, with the wind at my back from Rockaway Beach.

The tide was in, so the sandbars and many of the rocks I've seen on previous rides were submerged.  However, I did get a glimpse of an old friend:


He's at the center of the photo.  Look closely and you can see--no, not Jaws

but the Point Lookout Orca!

I hadn't seen him in a while. Whatever he (somehow I think he's male) is, he deserves the same respect accorded other mysterious aquatic and amphibious creatures like the Loch Ness Monster.  I think he prefers that to being compared to Pac-Man:

Hmm...Could the inventor of that iconic video game have been working from some Jungian archetype?  Could that person have had the Point Lookout Orca in his or her subconscious without realizing it?

Whatever Point Lookout Orca is, he's never chased me.  I guess I'm not as tasty as the crustaceans and bivalves he can find in those waters.  After all, who ever paid $100 for a plate of me?  Orca, on the other hand, gets to eat what's served in the city's most expensive restaurants--for free.

And I get to have a great ride without breaking a sweat.  It all works out sometimes.

Riding Into Crowds And The Wild Blue Yonder

One thing about air shows:  You don't have to be at the venue in which they're held in order to see them.  You can see them for miles around.

I should have remembered that when I decided to head for Point Lookout yesterday.  When I got there, I wondered why it was so crowded (well, at least in comparison to the way it usually is).  Jones Beach, where the the Bethpage Air Show was held, is only the length of a football (soccer, I mean) field from the rocks at Point Lookout where I usually lunch and/or meditate in the middle of my ride.  So, of course, the spectators at Point Lookout had as good a vantage point as the folks at Jones Beach or Bethpage.

In a way, that turned out just as well.  I took Tosca--my Mercian fixed gear--along a sandy path to a more remote area of the beach.  The tide was out, so there was a lot of beach.  (In places like Jones Inlet, what's good for bathers or beach loungers is not good for boaters:  The fact that the tide was out also meant that sandbars were exposed.) She didn't mind that I pushed her along the sand:  I pedaled into the wind most of the way out there, so I was pushing pretty hard on the pedals.  

Of course, that meant I had the wind at my back for most of my way back. Interestingly, even though there was a crowd at Point Lookout, I didn't see much traffic anywhere along my ride--not even along the strips of bars and restaurants in Long Beach and Rockaway Beach.

They were still watching the air show, I think, when I got home.

Am I Normal Yet?

Public figures and everyday people talk about the world or their lives "returning to normal" once Mango* Mussolini is out of the White House or "when the pandemic is over."  Of course, the new "normal" is never the same as the old "normal;" it never can be.  When our routines or the machinations of society are disrupted, things change and we, hopefully, learn.

Even with this knowledge, however, I am going to give in to the temptation to say that something in my life might be returning to normal.  Yesterday and the day before, I did something I hadn't done since I was "doored" in October:  On Saturday, I pedaled up to Connecticut; on Sunday, I rode to Point Lookout.

The Saturday trek was my standard route to the Greenwich Common via Glenville Road, about 140 kilometers (85 miles) round-trip.  As I hadn't done the ride in about three months, I actually wondered whether I'd get up the last climb on the ridge, just after I crossed the state line.  But partway up, I realized that I was fighting not only "rust," but also a headwind.  

The last time I saw the Common, leaves were turning red and gold and orange.  On Saturday, bare trees bore witness to the cold and wind through which I'd pedaled.

On my way home, I felt ready to challenge Jeanne Longo, Rebecca Twigg and Missy Giove in their prime.  Pedaling downhill with the wind at your back can make you feel that way!

Yesterday's ride took me to the South Shore of Queens and Nassau County, through the Rockaways and Atlantic Beach to Point Lookout.  Under a clear, bright sky, the water barely rippled.  And, in contrast to Saturday's ride, this one is flat, and I encountered barely a breeze on the 120 km (72 mile) round trip.

In late summer or early fall, when I'd normally have pedaled a lot of miles, the Point Lookout jaunt would be a "recovery" ride if I did it the day after a Connecticut ride.  But it seems odd to call it a "recovery" ride when the past three months have been a time of recovery for me!

One thing I couldn't help but to notice was how little traffic, motorized or otherwise, I encountered on both rides.  I guess the cold kept people in their homes in spite of the bright sunshine.

In case you were wondering:  I rode Dee-Lilah, my Mercian Vincitore Special, to Connecticut and Zebbie, my 1984 Mercian King of Mercia, to Point Lookout.  Being able to do those rides again was enough to make me feel good, but being on bikes that look and ride the way they do made me feel even better.

Things may not be "normal" yet.  But at least one part of my life is getting there, I hope!

*--I feel guilty about equating  a mango, a fruit that brings nothing but pleasure to those who eat it, to someone who's slammed democracy and people's lives with a baseball bat.

Looking Out At My Great Luck

Every traffic report I heard said, in essence, that traffic would not be heavy today, as most people who planned on traveling this weekend had left yesterday, or even earlier.

Those reports turned out to be true--even for going to the beach.  I decided to take a chance in riding again to Rockaway Beach, but continuing to Point Lookout because today was just as hot as yesterday.  And, as with yesterday, I was pedaling into the wind on my way to Rockaway Beach, though it wasn't quite as stiff as what I experienced yesterday.  Or, perhaps, it didn't seem as difficult because I was riding Arielle, my Mercian Audax, which has gears.  In contrast, yesterday, I was riding Tosca, my Mercian fixie.

Perhaps it's strange to antrhopomorphosize a bicycle, but sometimes I swear Arielle is just excited to be outside on a beautiful day.  She may not be the lightest machine--she is steel, after all, as are all of my bikes--but she's hardly porky.  To me, she's proof that design--specifically, design by and for cyclists--is more important than exotic materials. Though, I must say, people in much of the world would probably think Reynolds 631 is pretty exotic compared to whatever bikes they have available--if indeed they have bikes available!

But back to Arielle's sprightliness:  Sometimes I think she's like that because she knows the sun brings out her colors!

Anyway, the ride--both to Point Lookout and back--actually was faster than I thought it was.  That, or my watch slowed down, which seems unlikely as it was, at the end of my ride, still in sync with my cell phone and every other time-keeping device I saw.

Even after my decades of riding, there are some things I haven't figured out.  What I experienced today is one of them:  To wit, I have done considerably less cycling during the past month than I would normally do at this time of year.  Yet my time today on a ride I have taken many, many times before was about the same, give or take two to five minutes (over a 105 kilometer ride) as it was at my peak during last year's riding season.  Yet there have been times when I was in better shape (and younger!) and thought I was pedaling like Eddy Mercx or Jeanne Longo, but my ride took a lot longer than I expected.  Not that I care so much about time, except when I'm "sneaking away" or "playing hooky" and have to be somewhere (e.g. work or a date) at a specific time after my ride.

Oh well.  Perhaps I should also mention that I didn't stick around long at Point Lookout. (I don't count the time I stay at my destination in my ride time.)  A lot of people were there, but none in the water, there or anywhere else along the coast.  As I mentioned yesteday, the water is still fairly chilly (at least for most people).  Also, at Point Lookout, most of the people were there to see the air show at Jones Beach, directly across the inlet.  The show wasn't scheduled to start for another couple of hours, but as I understand, the beach would be as packed as if it were the Fourth of July, with weather like we had today.  I couldn't, however, bring myself to stay for it--in part, because I wanted to continue riding, but also because one of the planes scheduled to fly in the show crash-landed in the Hudson River, killing its pilot.  I don't know how I would have felt while watching the stunts after seeing footage of poor Bill Gordon saving everybody but himself after his plane's engine failed.

Today I was luckier indeed.  And I am grateful for that:  I had to do nothing but enjoy my ride. 

The Point Of Today's Ride

Today I took my first 100k ride of the year to...where else?...Point Lookout.

The day was fairly warm, topping out at about 18C (64F), though the temperature dropped a few degrees as I neared the ocean, from which brisk breezes blew. I didn't mind:  along my entire ride, scarcely a cloud cluttered the sky.

The last time I rode to the Point, I saw almost no cars along the roads.  The playground and playing fields were deserted.  As I recall, it was a Suday not long before Christmas, and people were at home or in bars, watching (American) football on TV.  Apparently, one of the local teams was in the playoffs, or was vying for a spot in them.

Today, though, more cars and even vans rumbled down the streets leading to the Point.  And, when I got there, the parking area was full.

I soon realized why.  It's Saturday in mid-April, which means kids are playing baseball.  Someone told me Little League season had just begun.

While some kid on the ballfield did something to make his family and friends cheer, other kids perched on rocks jutting out from oncoming waves, terrified at their mother or grandmother or somoene who was screaming at them to pose for a picture.

They all left, but I would have been happier, I think, if just the grown-ups (alleged) had gone.  Whatever.  I got to hear the surf throbbing against rocks.

There is absolutely no reason to use a kickstand with a fixie!

Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bike, enjoyed everything at least as much as I did.  I chose her for the ride because I actually hadn't planned to go to Point Lookout--or any other place in particular--when I got on my bike.  I reasoned that if I took a shorter ride, I'd still get a good workout from spinning her fixed gear.  As it happened, she took me to Point Lookout today.  I am happy.

What The Tide Left

I had luck with the wind again today.  I was glad because it was stronger than it was yesterday.  Or, perhaps, it just seemed that way because most of today's ride took me along shorelines.  Also, the sky was even clearer than it was yesterday, and large bodies of water magnify the sun's rays. Sometimes I think long exposure to direct sunlight tires me out even more than the wind, or anything else.

Anyway, I rode to Point Lookout today.  It's not as long as the ride to Connecticut, and it's almost entirely flat.  There is one fairly long gradual incline up Woodhaven Boulevard from Jamaica Avenue to Forest Park.  Even though it's near the end of my ride, it isn't very arduous.

Best of all, the wind was at my back, as it was from the time I turned on to the Veterans Memorial Bridge from Rockaway Beach.  That meant, of course, that I pedaled into the wind on my way out, and that it blew from the Atlantic onto my right side on my way to the Point, and onto my left on my way back.

The thing that struck me most about today's ride, though, was at Point Lookout.  The tide was out--and I mean really out.  There were no boats in the water.  Most telling, though, was this:

A family picnic on the sandbar!  I've never seen it so long or wide.  It was like a boardwalk, with all of the people walking their dogs and toddlers toddling on it.  Naturally, no one was fishing.

Now, I am no climate scientist.  In fact, I can't claim to be a scientist of any sort.  So perhaps I am revealing my ignorance in describing the observation you are about to read and the question I will pose from it.

As I understand it, the extreme blizzards so many places experienced during the past few winters are actually a result of global warming:  Increasing temperatures, especially in the oceans, are causing the atmospheric instability that leads to all kinds of storms, including blizzards and ice storms as well as hurricanes and tornadoes.  

So I wonder whether tides that are receding further out (I've noticed this in other places besides Point Lookout) are a result of the rising sea level.  Just as the tides are higher and stronger, could the pull-back also be stronger--enough to pull the tides further from the shoreline when they recede?

Again, I emphasize that I am not a scientist:  What I am saying and asking is based entirely on observation and logic.  Also, I know it doesn't directly relate to cycling.  But what I see in the oceans, on the shorelines, in the hills or anyplace else is part of my rides.  I can't help but to wonder what I will and won't see on future rides!

I Rode From It As Fast As I Could!

Yesterday morning, before I went out to ride, I was listening to the radio while I sipped on green tea and ate some Greek yougurt (from Kesso) with almonds and a banana, which I washed  down with an orange.  

While enjoying my breakfast, I was listening to an interview an NPR host conducted with a fellow in Inverness, Scotland who maintains the official website that records sightings of the Loch Ness Monster.  The interviewer is clearly skeptical, to put it mildly, about the existence of "Nessie" and other mythical creatures like Bigfoot.  

Now, because I'm the sort of person who takes a lot of things--even stuff that's more credible than, say, most of what Trump says in his speeches and tweets--with more than a few grains of salt,you might not expect me to be a believer.  But how can I be anything else?  I know for a fact that the Randall's Island Salamander and Point Lookout Orca exist.  I can't not believe.  After all, I made them up saw them and even photographed them, however crudely.

About the latter:  I didn't see him (I think I decided he's male because he reminds me of a Pac Man!) yesterday even though I rode to Point Lookout.  But could there be something else lurking in the waters by "the Point"?


It looks ready to take over the bay, the ocean and even the land:

A clever creature it is:  It showed up in the same part of all of that photos I took.  I guess it's trying to make me believe that it was dirt or some malfunction in my camera rather than a sea creature.

A tech-savvy monster?  Should we be scared?  Does the Point Lookout Orca stand a chance against it?

Oh, no:  It's following those folks home.  And their little dogs, too!

The Tides, Coming and Leaving

Today I did another ride to Point Lookout.  This is the third time in the last four weeks I've done that ride.  So, as you might imagine, I'm starting to feel like my physical condition is returning, and I am therefore gaining some more confidence. 


The ride offers so much that I like:  seaside vistas, a laid-back feel and the opportunity to ride from city to small town and back again.  In that sense, it reminds me a bit of touring in Europe:  Because that continent and its countries are smaller than North America and the United States, city and country are closer to each other in the "Old World" than they are here.  So I could indulge my passions for art and architecture as well as for sunshine and fresh air and food.


In a way, you can say that today I channeled my Inner European in one small way:  the way I made my bike stand when I got to Point Lookout:

Obviously, I'm not doing a track stand.  And there's no kickstand on my bike.   So what's my secret?  It's one of those many tricks I learned in Europe:

If you lean the bike on the left pedal, make sure it's slightly behind the 90 degree position.  Otherwise, the bike will topple--unless, of course, it has  a fixed gear.


I've done this ride at least a hundred times before, and I'll probably do it that many more times, as long as I'm living within a morning's ride of it. According to Bike Snob, I'm in the same league as babies, dogs and designers.  Like them, I can be fascinated by everyday objects, or at least by the everyday.  So, when I got to Point Lookout, I watched the tide going out.  

People who live there can tell you when the tide comes in or leaves.  They remind me, in a way, of a rather old couple I met in Liborune, France.  The town is about 30 kilometres from Bordeaux and is situated at the point at which the Garonne river bends and begins to open to the sea.  I'd cycled from Paris via the Loire Valley and Aquitaine; my intention was to cycle to and along the sea.   It was late in the afternoon; I'd stopped by a riverside grove.  The couple were   taking a walk, as they did every day, he told me.  They'd asked about my ride and what brought me to their part of the world.  "J'aime ces pays," I said.


"D'accord," they replied in unison.  Then, suddenly, the woman tapped me on the shoulder.  "Regardez!  Regardez!"  

I turned to look at the river, which was swelling like a small tide.  The man explained, "Les marees vienent deux fois chaque jour":  The tides come in twice every day.  He took pride, not simply in knowing that fact, but in his intimacy with a place and life he clearly loved, and with a woman who shared his passion.


The tide left, and I did some time later.  Just a little way down the road from that grove, I picked up a bike path that paralleled a route departmentale to Bordeaux city line.


(Note:  I'm looking for a scanner I can use on some of the photos I took during that, and other bike trips.)

Obedience And Therapy

Yesterday I was such a good, healthy citizen, it was almost disgusting.

On Tuesday, my orthopedic doctor told me I'd healed enough to do anything my conditioning and endurance will allow.  And, in spite of what Governor Greg Abbott and other legislators are doing, anyone who knows more about epidemology, immunology, virology, microbiology or public health than I know is telling us to continue the practice of social distancing.

I managed to follow my doctor's, and other health professionals' orders, yesterday.  Late in the morning, I hopped on Negrosa, my vintage Mercian Olympic, and pedaled to Point Lookout.

Throughout my ride, I couldn't have violated social-distancing regulations if I tried, or wanted to.  I saw only three other cyclists and maybe half a dozen people walking along the seven kilometer stretch of the Rockaway Boardwalk.   I saw little traffic, and very few people crossing at traffic lights, as I spun through the streets of Queens, Atlantic Beach, Long Beach and Point Lookout. 

Even Point Lookout seemed as if it had never been visited by humans:  The tides had receded further than at any other time I can recall, leaving more sand, with barely any footprints, than I'd ever seen there.  The gulls and erns seemed curious at my presence.

As for the clouds that shrouded the sky throughout my ride, I was glad for those, too.  The day was cold and a strong wind blew out of the northwest:  I pedaled with it on my way out and into it on my way back. Perhaps the sun would have brought some cheer, but I'm not sure that's what I needed:  The subdued light, with no threat of rain, and the sea gave me a canvas, a slate, a stage on which to purge sadness of the past year and my hopes for what is to come. 

Call me selfish, but I was enjoying it all:  I felt as if I'd had those streets, the boardwalk, the beaches and even the ocean and sky all to myself.  So, not only did I follow the guidelines of Anthony Fauci, the CDC, the New York City Department of Health and any other real authority about the pandemic; I also did something for my mental health.  So did Marlee, who immediately curled up on me when I got home.

Fixtures In The Landscape

Have you ever gone someplace--particularly a place very different from the one in which you were born, raised or lived--and felt as if the people there were always there, as if they were part of the land, sea, wind, stones or sky--or as if they were forms of the very light in which you were seeing them?  

I hope that I don't seem to be dehumanizing or merely trivializing him, but this fisherman, when I first looked at him, seemed to be part of the rocks and concrete slabs on the beach:

Perhaps he looked that way because I'd pedaled against the wind all the way from my apartment to Point Lookout before I saw him.  I wasn't tired:  I've been feeling really good on my bikes--especially Arielle, my Mercian Audax, which I rode today--lately.  If anything, I was feeling pretty giddy.  For some reason (or perhaps no reason), I've often felt that way while and after riding.


Somehow I felt that man will be there again the next time I ride to Point Lookout, along with all of those slabs and stones, and the tides, whether they're in or out--and, oh, yes, the Point Lookout Orca.  

I assured Arielle that she didn't have to become part of the rocks, or part of any art installation.  All I wanted was for her to take me back--with the wind at my back, all the way to my apartment.  After you're giddy, you get to exhale.

To The Beach, Gently Weeping

Tomorrow is supposed to be more like an early-spring day in Belgium or the Netherlands than an early July (i.e., The Fourth) in the US.  Not that I mind, particularly.  But today was beautiful:  a clear sky and a high temperature of about 26C (80F) with little humidity and a moderate breeze.  

I had a few things to do today but I was able to get on the bike by two in the afternoon.  Given that we are just past the longest day (in terms of the length of daylight) of the year, I figured I'd still have enough time to ride to Point Lookout and back before dark--especially if I rode Arielle.

Which is what I did.  Even though I pedaled into the breeze (which turned into a veritable wind by the time I got to Broad Channel), I made one of my better times going out there--and, of course, had an even faster ride back.  Without pushing myself and with a stop at Point Lookout to ponder and soak up sun and salt air--and consume a packet of Welch's Fruit Snacks (Cherries 'n' Berries) with a bottle of seltzer water--I still managed to get home more than an hour before sunset.  (If I were Jewish, I could've been lighting my Shabbos candles!)

Even though my logical mind told me not to go anywhere near a beach, I did.  I saw the traffic I expected.  Notice I said "I saw".  I structured my ride so I didn't have to spend much of it pedaling alongside rows of SUVs with cranky drivers and their spouses screaming at their screaming kids--or each other.  And those vehicles went to the places I expected:  Rockaway Park, Rockaway Beach, Atlantic Beach, Long Beach and Lido Beach.  I also expected to see some of those vehicles and crabby kids at Point Lookout, which is right across from Jones Beach, one of the most popular summer seaside spots in this area.

But I saw this:

That tree, or whatever it is, always looks the same, no matter the time of day or year.  I've asked a couple of people what kind of tree it is and how it got there; no one seems to know.  Next time I see a Parks Service employee, I'll ask.

Somehow it fits into my  "While His Fixie Gently Weeps" post-- or the spirit of Salvador Dali that helped to inspire it.  While a bare tree/Gently weeps.

Now I'll show you someone who gently weeps:

At least, that's what she did when I walked by.  She and the window are across the street from where I live.  I passed them after I got home, returned Arielle to The Family and went to the store.  

She gave a soft, rather forlorn, meow.  I think she knew she was looking at a friend but we couldn't get any closer than we were.  Perhaps one day...

Our Flag--Or Their Banner?

On Sunday, the day before "the 4th" (American Independence Day), I rode La-Vande, my Mercian King of Mercia, to Point Lookout.  I have taken that ride many times, on every one of my current bikes and several I've owned previously.  Although the weather was just a bit warmer than I like, the skies were clear and bright and the temperature dropped as I approached the water.  Best of all, I was pedaling into the wind, blowing from the ocean and bay, most of my way out. That meant, of course, that I rode with the wind at my back for most of the way back.

Still, I couldn't help but to notice something that distrubed me.  Perhaps the holiday, and its associations sensitized me to it.  A ride I took the other day--the day after the Fourth--confirmed my observation.

Holidays like the Fourth, Memorial and Veterans' Day and, of course, Flag Day, bring a lot of Stars and Stripes out of closets, attics, trunks and storage lockers.  People hang flags in their windows and on their doors and fly them from awnings and poles.  I couldn't help but to feel, however, that the way those flags were displayed was more ostentatious and aggressive than usual.  

My Point Lookout ride takes me through strongholds of Trump-mania:  Broad Channel, a Jamaica Bay island between Rockaways to the "mainland" of Queens, and the Long Island South Shore communities of Long Beach, Lido Beach and Point Lookout itself.  Just past the Long Beach boardwalk, one house flew a flag so wide that it unfurled over the sidewalk in front of it:  Anyone walking by could have been brushed by it which, to some, would have been offense--by the person brushed, mind you--against the flag and therefore the nation. I noticed many other flag displays that were disruptive or simply more in-your-face than ones I saw in years past.

But the incident that showed me that the flag has gone from being an expression of patriotism or simply gratitude to one of agression and hostility, or even a threat, came the other day, as I approached an intersection in Eastchester, a Westchester county town on Negrosa, my vintage Mercian Olympic. Something that looked like a bloated pickup truck--it was nearly as wide as the two eastbound road lanes--pulled up behind me, veering into the shoulder where I was riding.  From poles driven like stakes into each corner of the rear flatbed, American flags fluttered.  Another banner, about the size of those four flags combined, visually blared, as loudly and ominously as the revved-up engine (which seemed to lack a muffler), its message:  Let's Go Brandon.  That, of course is a code for what the driver bellowed at me:  "Fuck Joe Biden."

I pretended to ignore him.  I guess I'm not a very good actor:  I noticed him, the truck, the flags--it was impossible not to.  Eyeing my bike, he growled, "If you hate this country, leave it." 

"I am here because you have the right to say that.  And I have the right to disagree with you.  Members of my family fought for both."

He eyed my bike some more.  "At least it's a 'Merican' bike.  To be fair, he's not the first person to read "Mercian" as "American" or "Murrikan."

"Have a good day, sir."

With a perpexled look, he motored away.  I hadn't felt such relief in a long time.

In 1983, people--including some friends and family members--begged, cajoled and even tried to strong-arm me into not moving back to New York.  In those days, the news, movies, television and other media depicted my city as a lawless hellhole where people were robbed, raped, stabbed or shot.  The implication, of course, was that the victims were like me--a mild-mannered white person (I was still living as male) and the perpetrators were drug-addled black and brown thugs.  

The irony is that some of the people who were sure I'd be dead within a year of moving to New York--and other people who think like them--voted for Donald Trump, a hero to the fellow who was using his truck--and the flag--to intimidate me.