No Destination, But A Memory

Yesterday was a no-particular-destination ride. The morning sky was so clear and bright I could have believed that the previous night’s “Blue Super Moon” was helping the sun. The temperature—around 19c (66F) felt more like an early Fall than late Summer. The north wind rustled leaves and spilled cool waves against my skin.

Though I had particular place I intended to ride, I knew I wanted to pedal into that wind so that, depending on my route, it would blow at my back on my way back.

So my ramble took me up and down the hills, and past estates—some inhabited, others turned into museums, libraries and other monuments and institutions. That meant going first through the Bronx—and up the new Bruckner bike lane I rode on Sunday.

As I entered the lane from 138th Street, I had a flashback that caused me to stop at one of the pillars holding the highway above me.

The scene I recollected may have happened at that post. If not, it took place at one nearby. Whichever it was, realizing that the memory was from about thirty years ago made me feel, for a moment, old.  But I’m still in midlife. Really!

I was riding with some of my old mountain biking buddies. We all lived in Brooklyn and rode trails in nearby parks or took trains or rides with whoever could drive to places further from the city.

That day, if I recall correctly, we were pedaling home from Van Cortlandt Park. We prided ourselves on not having to stop for a traffic light—until that moment. 

As we waited, I saw a boy who looked about 12 or 13 years old facing the post, his hands cupped in front of his crotch. I didn’t judge him: After all, countless men and boys (and I, once upon a time) took care of their needs in a similar way when they (we) couldn’t find a toilet.

Except that he wasn’t taking care of that kind of business. I couldn’t help but to notice something longer and darker than the “jewels” a boy of that age would’ve had. And it was darker, and made of something that wasn’t human flesh.

He took one hand off it, reached into his pocket and brought his hand to his crotch.

The light changed. As we pedaled down the next block, I turned to my riding buddies. “Did you see what I saw?”

I didn’t need to ask. They nodded. “Yeah, he was loadin’ his gun,” Ray—“Crazy Ray” to us—deadpanned.

As I continued yesterday’s ride, I couldn’t help but to think about that boy.  Did he live to see a day like yesterday?  If he’s still around, he’d be even older than I was then.  Did he make it to midlife?

A Lane Along A Great Ride

 Bright sunshine, high clouds, temperatures gthat ranged from late-spring to early-summer from brunch time to early-dinner tine.  Those are the perfect conditions for a Sunday ride, right?

There’s no “but” or “however” in this story.  The cherry on top of this Sunday (pun intended) was that I pedaled into the wind on my way to the Greenwich Common in Connecticut—which meant that the same wind stroked my back (and stoked me!) on my way back.

At the Common, I watched folks in their most carefree moments strolling and sashaying in polo shirts tucked into navy or beige chino shorts, frilly dresses and skirts and college T-shirts over gym shorts whose wearers were trying not to show that they were showing that those shorts didn’t come from discount stores.

Was it all a great show?  Or had the ride and weather elevated my dopamine levels higher than someone who paid a visit to the local cannabis shop half an hour ago? All I knew was that I could’ve held the ride, the weather and the day, if not forever, then long enough to, well, write this post.

Oh, and along the way I found a good, if short, bike lane in the Bronx.

Built on a concrete island on Bruckner Boulevard, under the Bruckner Expressway, it runs for about two kilometers from East 138th Street to Hunts Point Avenue.  I saw some evidence that it might be extended further.  Even if it isn’t, I am sure to use it on future rides, as it will allow me to avoid the chaos of delivery trucks, tow vehicles pulling in and out of auto body shops, motor bikes making deliveries or simply trying to outrun young guys who really want to turn Southern Boulevard into their personal race track.

Finding a useful, safe bike lane during a blissful ride on a perfect day: Could a Sunday spin from Queens to Connecticut and back have been any better?

Turning Into Noir In The Bronx

I made a wrong turn in the Bronx...


It sounds like the title of noir film, doesn't it?  If such a movie were made today--in Hollywood, anyway--someone would tack a "happy" ending on it and the critics would call it "life-affirming" or some such thing.


Anyway, after teaching a class, I took a spin along the East River and into the Bronx.  (Sounds so idyllic, doesn't it?)  Because of construction (Why do they call it that when they're tearing something apart?), I had to take a detour.  I found myself under the ramp for the Willis Avenue Bridge.  If you've ridden the Five Boro Bike Tour, you've rolled across that bridge.


Underneath that overpass are some interesting old industrial brick buildings. It's sort of like DUMBO.  From one of those buildings hung one of the more interesing--and, unless you know the area, incongruous--signs I've seen:

When I first saw that sign, I thought perhaps someone was making a film.  Turns out, the place tunes, repairs and stores pianos.  In fact, they've probably tuned at least some of the Steinway pianos that are made in Queens, not far from where I live. 

 

That's all the more reason for me to be surprised if someone hasn't made a film (or part of one) there.  It's hard to find a locale that looks more Victorian, in a shadowy sort of way, than that spot where Bruckner Boulevard begins.