Coming Home To Another Fall Ride

Last week, during my trip to Montreal, I wrote about (among other things) the autumn light and air.  Well, today had a particularly autumnal feel--at least in part because the weather was colder than it's been in six months or so. When I was talking to my mother a little while ago, I joked that I brought the cold, and the season, back with me because I knew I wouldn't have any trouble getting them through US Customs!

Anyway, on a day so typical of this season, thoughts turn to foliage and red barns and such.  Well, the leaves are starting to turn brightly in local parks and fallen leaves stream along the curbs.  But there aren't a whole lot of red barns in this city.  However, in some neighborhoods--including my own--there are houses that provide a rather nice backdrop for the blaze of colors.

But I also figured that if I went a little north of the city, the colors would be even brighter and there would be an even better stage for them.  And Arielle, my Mercian Audax, was just begging to be ridden.  And I wanted to ride her.   The bike I rented in Montreal was actually pretty nice, but it still makes me appreciate Arielle--and my other Mercians--even more than I had before.

So, after pumping her tires and filling a water bottle, we were off to--you guessed it--Connecticut.

It was just past noon when I started riding, and I knew that it's starting to get dark around 6pm now.  Still, I figured, it would give me enough time to ride there, take in some autumn light and air in the Nutmeg State, and get home before dark.  Although I have lights, there are a couple of parts of the route I prefer not to ride in the dark.

I was riding against of the wind most of the way back--which meant, of course, that I was riding with it most of the way back.  The funny thing was that I didn't feel I was pedaling particularly hard on the way up, in spite of the wind that, at times, gusted to 35 KPH.  And I didn't think I was pedaling particularly fast on the way back.  Yet I made it back before sunset.

Really, I can't ask for more of a Sunday afternoon ride in the middle of October.  

When I got home, I felt invigorated, as I do after a good ride, but not tired.  I often feel that way after long rides on my Mercians, but especially Arielle.  Tomorrow, or some other time in the near future, I'll write about a possible reason.

More Signs (Of The Season, And Other Things)

The weather during the ride I took to Connecticut on Monday was a sign of Fall's impending arrival.  Today, during--you guessed it--another ride to Connecticut, I saw yet another sign the season will soon be upon us:

This trail, part of the East Coast Greenway, connects Pelham Bay Park, City Island and Orchard Beach with Westchester County.  Along the way, it passes by a horse riding academy, golf course and the shores of Long Island Sound before twisting its way through woodland that straddles the line between the upper Bronx and Pelham Manor.

Although the temperature was slightly higher (rising to 25C by mid-ride), it really didn't feel that way, in spite of the bright sunshine.  As I mentioned in my post about Monday's ride, the days are growing shorter, so the ground and buildings aren't absorbing as much heat as they did even two or three weeks ago. But, perhaps more important, the wind was even more brisk:  At times, it reached 40 KPH.  And, yes, I was pedaling into it on my way up.

The wind didn't deter these folks who were enjoying the light and vistas of Mamaroneck Harbor:

Back to the subject of signs:  When you ride, you see the kind I've mentioned as well as the ones posted on buildings.  I hope this isn't a sign of things to come:

All right:  The name of the bowling alley has nothing to do with firearms or survivalists.  Rather, it's located near the intersection of Gun Hill (great name, huh?) and Boston Post Roads in northern Bronx.  What amazes me is that the sign looks so pristine while keeping to the look of the 1950's or early 60's.  I don't believe it's anyone's attempt at self-conscious irony:  There are no hipsters in the neighborhood around it. (Most of the residents are Caribbean immigrants or their children; not long ago it was a blue-collar-to-middle-class Italian-American neighborhood.)  I think life throws enough irony at those people.

Seeing such a sign on an absolutely beautiful and bright day, as Fall knocks at our door, is plenty or irony for me.  I love it!

Climbing Away From My Fear Of White Plains

Today I took another ride into Connecticut.  I figured--correctly--that I wouldn't encounter heavy traffic even along Boston Post Road, as Route 1 is known in Westchester County.  Most likely, folks from the Nutmeg State already took off for the weekend yesterday, or even the day before.  Also, riding to Connecticut means riding away from most of the beaches in this area, which is where most travelers are going or have gone this weekend, which includes the Monday holiday of Labor Day.

I thought about taking off for some place or another this weekend.  Now I'm glad I didn't:  The ride I took today is more emotionally relaxing and satisfying than just about any trip I could have taken on a crowded train, plane or bus.  Also, Greenwich, Mianus and Byram aren't full of tourists, and the people who stayed in town are relaxed and friendly.

This weekend, I also plan to ride again and meet a friend or two here in the city, which is strangely idyllic.  Perhaps we'll go to a museum or show, or just "do lunch."

But I digress.  I took slightly different routes through the Bronx and lower Westchester County than I had on previous rides.  I also wandered through an area of Greenwich--up a hill--I hadn't seen before.  There are houses built on stretches of land that could serve as game preserves.  ("Deer crossing" signs were everywhere.)  I stopped in a park where I was reminded that this is indeed the unofficial last weekend of summer, and the fall--the actual season as well as the autumn that includes the march of time across people's lives:

All right, I'm making more of this photo than is really there.  The park itself is a well-kept spread of lawn with a single picnic table.  I didn't want or need anything else.

Behind me, this tree stood authoritatively.  It seemed such an indignity for it to share the same ground, from which it's grown for decades (if not centuries) with a fence and a garbage can.

That tree seems like a New England tree:  It belongs where it is. Trees I see in the city, as lovely as they are, so often seem like they are where they are only at the pleasure of some land owner or agency that can evict or "retire" (I've heard the word used in that way) it to make way for something more profitable or convenient.

The ride back took me up and down more hills, past more palatial estates.  Nowhere did I find a sign one normally finds when leaving or entering a state.  I knew I had crossed back into New York State only because of a sign from the local police department--in Rye Brook--asking people to report drivers who text. 


A few miles up the road, I passed through a city I had always avoided: White Plains.  Somehow the name terrified me:  I always imagined folks even paler than I am chasing away....someone like me?  OK, maybe not me, but certainly most of the students I've had.

(For years, New Hampshire was one of two states that didn't observe Martin Luther King Day.  I actually wondered whether it had something to do with having the White Mountains.  Then I realized Arizona, the other state that didn't recognize MLK Day, had no such excuse!)




White Plains was a bit bland, though not terrible.  It has a road--Mamaroneck Road--that actually becomes rather quaint, in spite of the chain stores on it, after it passes under the highway and continues toward the town for which it's named.

The rest of the ride was as pleasant as the warm afternoon with few clouds and little humidity. Even though I pedaled about 140 kilometers, I barely broke a sweat.  But the relatively pleasant surprise of White Plains was balanced by a signal of The End of the World As We Know It:

The South Bronx is becoming SoBro?  Oh, no! 
 

During A Perfect Ride, I Drank More Than Usual

This morning, the weather forecasters said it would be a “perfect” beach day.  And it was:  The temperature reached 31C (88F) and there was scarcely a cloud in the sky.  The latter meant that humidity was low.

So, of course, I decided I didn’t want to ride to the beach.  I figured at least half of the world would be doing that, which meant that traffic along streets that lead to Coney Island, Rockaway or Jones Beaches, or just about any along the Jersey shore, would resemble downtown Manhattan on a business day.  I actually don’t mind riding in traffic—most of the time.  Today didn’t fit “most”.

I decided, therefore, to head north—to Westchester County and Connecticut.  That turned out to be a good decision:  the ride was delightful, even though—or, perhaps, because—I decided to try new routes in northeastern Bronx and in the part of Westchester County between Rye and the state line.  In each of those areas, I managed to ride in a complete circle (or square or oval—I’m not sure of which) that added distance to my ride.  That also wasn’t a bad thing:  I didn’t have a deadline and, because it’s early summer, lots of daylight to work with. 

Not that I was worried about getting back before dark:  I could have ridden even more than I did and made it home in time to light shabbos candles (not that I would have done such a thing).  I also could have spent even more time than I did at my “turnaround” point.  The only reason I didn’t is that, ironically, I encountered as much traffic as I’d anticipated in the beach areas as I crossed from the Empire State into the Nutmeg State.

The reason soon became clear:  Greenwich was having street fairs on, it seemed, all of its commercial thoroughfares.  What that meant is that people drove into the town—in particular, the strip with designer boutiques—to shop.  I actually had to walk my bike for a couple of blocks, as cycling even the sidewalks (which is probably illegal), let alone the streets, was all but impossible.  To their credit, many people actually stepped aside as I approached, even though I was ready to maneuver around them.

(I guess they still teach good manners in Swiss boarding schools!)

Anyway, having to walk those couple of blocks didn’t take any pleasure out of the ride.  I don’t think anything could have, really.  The weather was great, I was feeling good and Arielle, my Mercian Audax, performed flawlessly.

One thing I did notice, though, is that I drank quite a bit more than I normally do.  Other people with whom I ride have called me a “camel”, as I can pedal a good while before I reach for my water bottle.  But on today’s ride, I managed to consume two water bottles.  In addition, I stopped for an iced tea (at a service-station vending machine about halfway home) and a small Dunkin’ Donuts Coolata (mango-passion fruit)in Connecticut.  I think my consumption had to do with the low humidity and constant sun.  Plus, I added cheese—something I don’t normally consume before or during a ride—to the eggless Eggs Benedict I made myself for breakfast.  It was good cheese, but I think dairy products of any kind before and during a ride make me thirsty.

Even my thirst, though, didn’t detract from my ride.  I don’t think anything could have.

(In case you want to know about my eggless Eggs Benedict:  I chopped a garlic clove, a mushroom, a couple of sundried tomatoes and some kale and sautéed them.  Then I put them—and the cheese (Cabot’sVermont Sharp) on top of a Vermont Bread whole wheat English muffin.  Yummy, if I do say so myself!)

I PIcked The Bike And The Ride Followed

Mark Twain once said that if the world is coming to an end, go to Cincinnati.  Why?  Because, he explained, in the Queen City everything happens ten years later.

By that logic, if the apocalypse is supposed to happen this year, it will be delayed by a month.  Here we are at the beginning of May and the cherry blossoms have blossomed and tulips and other flowers are just starting to open.  Those spectacles usually delight us—at least in this part of the world—during the first week or two of April.

I’ll take them whenever they come.  So I was happy to see them today.  And the weather was delightful, almost exactly what it normally is at this time of year.  Scrims of high clouds floated like veils shed during a dance from a clear blue sky to reveal a sun just bright enough to waken all of the colors, all of the lives.  The wind, while brisk, didn’t bring a chill to the crisp spring air.

Can you ask for better riding conditions?  Well, all right, that depends on what you prefer.  But even those who like winter best of all seasons have said it—or, more specifically, this one—seemed as if it wouldn’t end.

So I knew I was going riding.  The funny thing is, I decided on which bike I would ride before I chose a route.  Somehow I simply could not keep myself away from Arielle, my Mercian Audax Special.  All right, I didn’t try.  The point is, I knew, practically from the moment I woke up, that I would ride Arielle today.

I found myself pedaling in the direction of—then crossing—the Queens spur of the RFK/Triboro Bridge.   That brought me to Randall’s Island, from which I could go to the Bronx or Harlem.  Either would offer me a number of possibilities.

The Bronx it was.  I pedaled to the north and east, along the Bronx and Hutchinson Rivers, toward Throgs Neck and City Island.  From there, I rode a path past horse stables, a golf course and the woods and marshlands that rim Long Island Sound.  It’s difficult to remember you’re in the Bronx, and if you follow the path, before long, you’re not.  

This house is in Pelham Bay Manor, just over the city line.  It’s not really unusual for that town.  However, I saw something interesting next to it:  a sign for the East Coast Greenway.  I followed parts of it through Westchester County.  Most of it is quiet pre-existing secondary roads, some in residential areas.  I don’t know how much of it is complete, as I followed it and seemed to lose it for a time, only to pick it up again unexpectedly.

I didn’t mind, really.  I didn’t encounter much traffic, even on the brief stretch of Route 1 where I wheeled beside the Mamaroneck Marina.  Everywhere I pedaled, the riding was great and people were lovely.  Even the drivers seemed more patient than usual.

Arielle took me to Connecticut—to the parks, the strip of high-end boutiques and harbor of Greenwich, to be specific.  I hadn’t ridden to the Constitution State since last year, at least.  The one difficult part of the ride came as soon as I crossed the state line, where a hill begins.  It’s not particularly long or steep, but it appears abruptly.  I managed it, but it showed me how little riding I’d done during the winter—and how flat my recent rides had been.

Then I pedaled home—into the wind.  I probably should have shifted into lower gears than I did, but I managed to keep on riding at a decent pace.  When I got home, I’d done my longest ride of the year, so far:  115km (72 miles).  It’s also my fourth 100km ride this year.  Hopefully, I’ll soon be doing more and even longer rides—or, at least, will be in something like the condition I was starting to get myself into last year.

A Ride To The Dancing Girl

Most of you will probably never see me dance.  Consider yourselves lucky.  Trust me.

Of the things I can't do, dancing is probably the thing I most wish I could.  An actual dancer may beg to differ, but I always had the impression that dancers come closest to creating a jeu d'esprit with the human body.  

Probably the closest I come to that is when I ride my bicycle, however gracelessly and (these days) slowly.   

Dancers. as we know, often perform solo.  However, at their best, they're always dancing with someone or something.  Often, I think, it's with the audience, at least figuratively.  Also, they're performing duets or in concert with their surroundings, their memories and the temper of their times. 

The other day, I danced with Arielle.  We traipsed across bridges, rolled through tenement valleys in the Bronx and waltzed, it seemed, across fields and woods that lined the roads just beyond the suburban sprawl of Westchester County.  It also felt as if we were leaping across brooks and streams and along the coastline of Long Island Sound.

I had no destination in particular, but about three hours later, we ended up In Stamford, CT.  Look at what welcomed us to the city:

 Stamford sculptor James Knowles created Dancing Girl in bronze.  In 1987, a local businessman and his wife donated it to the city,where it was displayed in front of the Old Town Hall for fourteen years. Fourteen years later, it was "temporarily" removed for a renovation to the plaza.  For the next nine years, the girl languished in captivity, I mean, storage.  Finally, three years ago, it was re-dedicated.

Who says art has no effect on anything?  I felt lighter as I started to pedal home, even though I was, within a few minutes, making a fairly long (though not particularly steep) climb.  Oh, yes, I had a breeze at my back.  But I think the girl was guiding me and Arielle, in spirit.

Crossing Another State Line From Memory

Is Arielle inspiring wanderlust in me?  Or does she have it all on her own, and does she merely take me along for the ride?

Today we crossed another state line.  So that makes two-- Pennsylvania two weeks ago, when I rode to the Delaware Water Gap, and Connecticut today—since my surgery.

Going to New Jersey doesn’t count.  Not really.  Or does it?  We New Yorkers sometimes say that Jersey is a foreign country.  I wonder whether the Brits say that about the eponymous island in the English Channel.  Although it’s a semi-independent part of Great Britain, it’s actually much closer to France and has a language--Jerriais-- that bears more resemblance to French than it does to English.

Then again, lots of people would like to think of anyplace where Snooki would live as a country different from their own. Otherwise, they’d start campaigns to deport her.

Anyway, I started my ride by crossing the RFK Memorial (nee Triboro) Bridge to Randall’s Island and the Bronx, through neighborhoods where women don’t ride bikes.  I made a wrong turn somewhere north of Fordham Road and ended up on a highway and riding a square around the perimeter of the Botanical Gardens.  From there, I managed to find my way to Westchester County.

For someone who lives in New York, I really don’t spend much time in Westchester County.  Occasionally a ride will take me to Yonkers or Mount Vernon, both of which are just over the city line from the Bronx.  But I never have felt much inclination to explore the rest of the county.

Part of the reason might be that my first experience of cycling in Westchester County came the year after I came back from living in France.  That in itself can make Westchester, and lots of places, seem like a comedown.  (I think now of the time I ate a particularly bad take-out dinner the day after returning from a cycling trip through the Pyrenees and the Loire Valley!) But I first entered Westchester County on a bike near the end of a cycling trip from Montreal to New Jersey, where I was living at the time.  I had cycled through some nice Quebec countryside, the Vermont shore of Lake Champlain and the Berkshires before entering New York State near the point where it borders on Massachusetts and Connecticut. 

That night, I slept in a cemetery that was in or near the town of Austerlitz, NY.  It was a clear, moonlit and pleasantly cool evening.  I had no idea (and wouldn’t find out until the next day) where I was, and I had almost no money left.  So I simply rolled out my sleeping bag.   I slept fine:  There was absolutely nothing to disturb me.  And I guess I was a good neighbor.

After all that, Westchester County seemed like just a place with lots of big houses and lawns and a bunch of golf courses.  It wasn’t bad; it was just a bit of a letdown, I guess.

Later, Westchester would become the place where friends of Eva, Elizabeth and Tammy lived.  And all of those friends didn’t like me, or so it seemed.  Going to their homes felt a bit like going to the in-laws’ or to a relative of one of your parents—and that relative didn’t like your other parent, and saw you as his/her child.

Fortunately, I didn’t think about any of those things today.  I didn’t see as many houses that seemed like ostentatious versions of houses the owners saw on their European trips as I recall seeing in previous treks through the county.  And, when I stopped in a gas station/convenience store for a bottle of iced tea, I saw the friendliest and most polite attendant I have seen in a long time.  He’s from Liberia.

I hadn’t started out with the intention of going to Connecticut.  But after stopping at the gas station/convenience store, I realized that I wasn’t far from the Mamaroneck harbor.  So I rode there, along a fairly meandering road where two drivers pulled over to ask me whether I knew how to get to the Westchester Mall.  It’s funny:  People assume that because you’re on a bike, you live nearby and are familiar with the area.

From Mamaroneck, I took another road that zigged and zagged toward and away from the shore of Long Island Sound to Rye.  There, I knew that I wasn’t far from Connecticut, so I continued along the road to Port Chester, the last town before the border.

I only took a few photos, and none of them came out well.  But that part of the ride was pleasant, even charming at times.  Then, after crossing the state line, I ventured up the road into downtown Greenwich.  I’d have gone further, but I started later than I intended to and didn’t particularly want to ride the last few miles of my trip in the dark.  I’m not adverse to night riding; I just didn’t feel like doing it tonight.

In Greenwich, about half a mile from the state line, there’s an Acura dealer.  Just up the road from it is an Aston Martin/Bentley dealer, and a bit further up the road are a BMW, then a Mercedes, dealership.  So, I’m guessing that the annual per-capita income of that town is probably not much less than I’ve made in my entire life.

On my way back, I rode down Huguenot Avenue.  It’s in Little Rock.  Actually, it’s in  New Rochelle, a town founded by the people for whom the avenue is named. (The town is named for La Rochelle, the French port from which most of them sailed.  “Rochelle” means “little rock.”)  If any of you recall The Dick Van Dyke show, which featured a young Mary Tyler Moore, you’re old.  Seriously, you might remember that the show took place in New Rochelle.  The town has changed a bit since then, as you can see from new structures like this:

It connects the local Trump Tower (How many of those things are there?) with another building on the other side of the Avenue.  I wonder whether cyclists are allowed to ride in it.