Twenty-Five Years Later

 

Today I pedaled to Point Lookout and back. I wasn’t trying to forget what happened 25 years ago today: I couldn’t have, even if I wanted to. 

Ships were docked beyond the South Shore beaches. They are more than likely research vessels, but I couldn’t keep from wondering whether they were defending against some kind of “commemoration” or “celebration.” After all, while I didn’t see much traffic on my way out and very few other cyclists, or even casual strollers, along the Rockaway and Long Beach boardwalks, cops seemed to be everywhere. Some, of course, were on their way to or from 9/11 commemorations, as many fellow officers died that day.  But I wondered whether some were deployed as deterrents even though, I suspect, someone wouldn’t have launched an attack today: it would be too obvious. But, hey, what do I know about such things?

Riding today was a sort of commemoration for me. I didn’t know anyone who died in the Twin Towers, but I knew people who did. I can’t help but to think it changed the dynamics of, or ended altogether, relationships between those who lost someone and those who didn’t.  I have lost friends and relatives, sometimes in unexpected ways, but I don’t think they compare to someone going to work and never coming home.  Also, I believe there must have been a particular shock in knowing how those parents, siblings, neighbors and friends experienced their last moments: Who anticipates dying in that way?

Today I realized that, perhaps, 9/11 has been part of the changes in how I ride. While cycle-commuting wasn’t as popular in New York as it is now, some of the people who died that day took their last rides to their desks, tables or other work places in the Towers. Some were making deliveries. 

Perhaps as a result about the bikes that survived even if their riders didn’t, I don’t stress as much as I used to about a ride going “perfectly,” whatever that means. If my bike feels good under me and I’m enjoying the ride, whether I’m on a commute, errand or “joy” ride, that’s all that matters. If it’s not cold and raining at the same time, the weather is fine. (The planes that struck the Towers flew through the most preternaturally clear blue skies I, or many other people, had seen in New York City.) I don’t know whether the ride I take  tomorrow, or twenty or fifty years from now, will be my last. But if I can ride, and I can savor it afterwards, I have a gift, whether or not I deserve it, denied to so many other people on that terrible day 25 years ago.

This Isn’t What They Mean By “Going Green”

What I see during rides is a surprising —and sometimes shocking.

Witness this, from a recent late-afternoon ride:

A puddle with its own ecosystem?

The Abbey Road Ahead

 ht

Is it nostalgia? Or does it mean I haven’t given up? Jo

I am pondering those questions as I’m listening to “Abbey Road,” specifically “Something.”

When “Abbey Road,” I was a couple of years shy of the demographic that made it one of the most iconic albums of all time. Still, whatever your age, you heard its most popular songs, like “Come Together,” “Something “ and “Here Comes The Sun” on the radio in 1969. The album is great because of its songwriting, musicianship and the sheer charisma of “The Fab Four.” But it’s also a reminder—or, at least it reminds me—of how what some would see as idle whimsicality is as necessary as analysis. Actually, rationality has nowhere to go without imagination.  

The album also reminds me that cynicism is not to be confused with wisdom, and it’s not naive to believe that joy is still possible. If anything, it might simply be an act of defiance: It’s not about not letting go, it’s about not allowing something to be taken from you.

That is not nostalgia. It’s what we need to move forward or, more precisely, what’s necessary to make the journey, whatever remains of it (personally or globally) meaningful.