What kind of person goes to a factory after work? (No, I'm not talking about The Factory!)
Better yet: What kind of person rides her bike to a factory in a skirt and heels?
All right, you know the answer to the second question. And if you know that, you know the answer to the first question, too.
Today, after work, I got on Marianela and didn't give a thought to anything else besides riding home. However, as they say in the old country, a funny thing happened along the way. I made a couple of "wrong" turns but still ended up within a few blocks of my place. But I wouldn't get there for another couple of hours.
The next thing I knew, I was climbing the stairs to the concrete ribbon that parallels the Randalls Island-bound traffic lanes on the RFK/Triborough Bridge. From there, I pedalled the asphalt and concrete maze to the Bronx-bound spur of the bridge, where I rode along the metallic-hued water and through a couple of parks that were more crowded than they normally are on a weekday, even at this time of year.
Somehow or another, I ended up at the Concrete Plant Park. I didn't object, even though I had no say in it. You see, Marianela wanted to go there. I don't take her on such long rides very often, but I know that her primary motive wasn't to stretch her downtube and spokes. Instead, I think she listened to Arielle, Helene and Tosca talk about the rides they took there, with me. Marianela knows that they're all really pretty in their Mercian paint color number 57 with white lug striping. But she was convinced, I think, that she would look even better than they did by the old concrete plant:
She may just be right. (Did I actually say that?) At any rate, it is one place where, I believe, she looks good.
Better yet: What kind of person rides her bike to a factory in a skirt and heels?
All right, you know the answer to the second question. And if you know that, you know the answer to the first question, too.
Today, after work, I got on Marianela and didn't give a thought to anything else besides riding home. However, as they say in the old country, a funny thing happened along the way. I made a couple of "wrong" turns but still ended up within a few blocks of my place. But I wouldn't get there for another couple of hours.
The next thing I knew, I was climbing the stairs to the concrete ribbon that parallels the Randalls Island-bound traffic lanes on the RFK/Triborough Bridge. From there, I pedalled the asphalt and concrete maze to the Bronx-bound spur of the bridge, where I rode along the metallic-hued water and through a couple of parks that were more crowded than they normally are on a weekday, even at this time of year.
Somehow or another, I ended up at the Concrete Plant Park. I didn't object, even though I had no say in it. You see, Marianela wanted to go there. I don't take her on such long rides very often, but I know that her primary motive wasn't to stretch her downtube and spokes. Instead, I think she listened to Arielle, Helene and Tosca talk about the rides they took there, with me. Marianela knows that they're all really pretty in their Mercian paint color number 57 with white lug striping. But she was convinced, I think, that she would look even better than they did by the old concrete plant:
She may just be right. (Did I actually say that?) At any rate, it is one place where, I believe, she looks good.
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