I heard it was going to rain today. So I tried to sneak in an early ride: just a few miles on Tosca. It felt about ten degrees colder than it was when I pedaled home last night after teaching in the technical institute. And yesterday was at least that much colder than the day before. At least, it seemed that way, for the wind blew hard enough to strip nearly all of the remaining leaves from wizening branches.
One of the things that amazes me about cycling is that, even after all of these years, I can ride down some street I've pedaled dozens of times before and a moment, an image, will imprint itself in my mind. Just south of LaGuardia Airport, in East Elmhurst, an elderly black woman stepped, with dignity if not grace, from behind a door on which dark green paint bubbled and the wood splintered and cracked into ashen hues like the ones on her coat, which she expects, or at least hopes, wil get her through another winter.
She is probably thankful for even that. You might say that I am, too, for being able to ride by and see that, and to be able to ride home, then to Millie's house for Thanksgiving dinner.
I hope yours was at least as good as mine.