Fall Contrasts

I'll admit that I've spent time looking at dying leaves, I mean, fall foliage.  This year it seems late in coming--or, at least, a little less colorful than usual.  I'm seeing fallen leaves in bike paths, on sidewalks and in other spots, but the leaves still on trees are green.

More noticeable signs of fall came, for me, on my ride to Point Lookout yesterday.

The reeds on the islands, and the plant life on the shore, never fail to reflect the season's colors.

Even more reliable, to my eyes,is the light surrounding them--especially on overcast days.  Clouds gather and seem to take on the depth of the sea; the sea and sky darken without actually becoming dark.  Yet the reeds and grasses stand, even as they age and turn sere.

Each of them stands alone.

I took a brief ride the day before, between bouts of torrential rain.  Ironically, I saw more color on one corner in Harlem than on my longer ride.

Looking at this building, you might guess that it's a studio or gallery. The latter assumption would be correct:  All of the work on the walls is done by local artists.  But this building serves another function.  Can you guess what it is?

Believe it or not, it's a pediatrics office.  Pediatrics 2000, to be exact.  Two doctors, as well as nurses and other professionals who help children, practice there.

Kids actually enjoy going there.  Their parents seem to like it, too.  The art is one reason.  Another is this:

There are no stairs anywhere in the building.  Only ramps connect the levels.  So, no kid (or adult) is stigmatized for being in a wheelchair.

The best thing is that everyone seems to think as highly of the doctors and other professionals in that building as they think of that building itself.

The kids get culture while doctors take their cultures. It sounds good to me!

The Heights Of Fall

Today is the first day of Fall.  And it feels like it, in a pleasant way:  Billowy but thin clouds waft over cool breezes.

A few hundred kilometers north of here, the leaves have begun to change color. Here, though, they're still green.  So if we want Fall colors, we must look elsewhere:

People who don't know the area don't associate these houses with Harlem.  But they line Convent Avenue, a street that bisects the City College campus in a part of Harlem known as Hamilton Heights.  

I was all smiles on my bike, and everyone and everything--including the stones of these houses--seemed to smile back.

The Day After: Flight

So far, so good. If yesterday's ride was smoother and faster than I anticipated, today's ride made me feel as if I had a smoother pedal stroke than Jacques Anquetil.

I had ridden Tosca, my fixed-gear Mercian, only twice since my accident, and each time for no more than a few kilometers.  So I wondered whether not being able to coast would allow me to ride pain-free for a second consecutive day.

Pain?  What pain?  I felt myself spinning faster and more fluidly with each kilometer I rode, up through Astoria and Harlem and Washington Heights and down the New Jersey Palisades to Jersey City and Bayonne, then along the North Shore of Staten Island to the ferry.

Once I got off the boat in Manhattan, I just flew, without effort.  Granted, a light wind blew at my back, but I was passing everything on two wheels that wasn't named Harley.  Really, I'm not exaggerating.  I even flew by those young guys in lycra on carbon bikes.  

What does that say about me--or Mercian bikes?

Even Strivers Have To Walk

About two weeks ago, I bemoaned (OK, complained about) a sign ordering cyclists to walk their wheels across a bridge.  After all, it's a long bridge and it leaves you off on Randall's Island, which is about as far as you can get from anything else (Well, OK, there's Staten Island) in the city.

But I guess I shouldn't complain. As cyclists, we aren't the only ones beset by irrational rules.  

Which is more difficult:  walking a horse or walking a bike?  Since I've never walked a horse, I don't know.  

At least this gate faces West 138th Street between Frederic Douglass and Adam Clayton Powell Boulevards in Harlem.  The block is part of a district known as Striver's Row, which boasts some of the most beautiful and distinctive residential architecture in this city, if not the whole country. I ride through it every chance I get.

Two Views Of Cycling In New York

Guess where I took this photo:

You'd probably guess (correctly) New York, even if you've never been here.  After all, I haven't announced any trips to exotic places or given you any other reason why I'd be anywhere else.

I took the photo today, with my cell phone.  Now that you know what city is the setting, can you tell me which neighborhood?

You probably know that it's not Williamsburg.  I'll tell you that it's not Park Slope, Carroll Gardens or the Upper West Side. 

Actually, it's Harlem:  West 137th Street, between Frederick Douglass and Adam Clayton Powell Boulevards.  It's next to a part of Harlem called Strivers' Row and, to me, one of the most beautiful blocks in New York.

Now I'm going to show you another famous New York locale I've cycled many, many times, though not with the guys in the photo:

    
This photo, I'm guessing, was shot in the early 1970's, given the style of the photo and clothing,  from the blue-on-orange St. Mark's Place street sign--and, of course, the bikes.   
 

Views of A Sunday Ride

Another ride through Harlem, the New Jersey Palisades, Staten Island and lower Manhattan.

As always, there were interesting sights on the Ferry:

New York is all about style, right?    I was going to ask her where she got that bag, but I kind of lost her in the shuffle as we disembarked.  However, I got another glimpse of her sack and realized I wouldn't be able to buy it:

You can't see the logo from her, but it's from a film festival in Germany.  

In addition to style, New York has always been known for attracting dreamers:

With all due respect to Frank Sinatra, you can't have a city of dreamers if it's a city that never sleeps. 

And, of course, everyone wants a home with a view.  Along the way, I stopped at an open house. I didn't even bother to feign interest in buying the house (which I probably couldn't do, anyway) because, it seemed, everyone else had the same look of disattachment.  

But wouldn't you just love a patio with a view like this?

Hey, it's even better as you get closer:

If you were to buy the house--in Bayonne, NJ--you wouldn't be able to access the water.  It's fenced off about fifty meters from the shoreline:  It's government land.  Oh, who wouldn't want to take a dip in Newark Bay on a hot day?  

The bike riding is pretty good, though, as long as you stay away from the main commercial strip.  It's even better along Richmond Terrace in Staten Island:  As you approach the Ferry, the sight of cranes and tank farms give way to harbor vistas of lower Manhattan. 

A Voyage After A Great Labour

This is the story of an excellent after-work adventure.  (Can you believe that twenty-two years have passed since that movie came out?  Can you believe that, just about every year, someone has managed to make a movie even dumber than that one?)

Anyway, about my excellent after-work adventure on an excellent and fair day:  It goes to show how English ladies, after getting a little bit of French culture, lead impressionable young women down all sorts of paths they never planned:

Well, OK, I'm not so young anymore.  As for impressionable....All right.  This lady certainly didn't protest when she whispered, "Let us abscond!"


And abscond we did, first through an exotic land:

West 139th Street, Harlem, NYC

From thence she transported me to a land where the language spoken was not mine:

Union City, NJ:  No es necesario para hablar ingles aqui.

Then, after our journey down a mighty river, we came upon a realm of ships and bridges: 

From the Staten Island Ferry

Thence we boarded a great vessel and countenanced many more bridges:

Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges, seen from the Staten Island Ferry

Finally, we encountered an aged but fine vessel:

And so ended our great voyage: 

(Somehow I get the feeling that this is the image many people have of American History--or of immigration, anyway!)

Yes, twas a sweet voyage.  This young maiden gaped in disbelief upon realizing she had pedaled over 45 miles in her after-work ride.   She was well contented, for I am that maiden.     

So ends this tale of an excellent after-work adventure.               

Being A Tourist On My Bike In My Hometown

Today I found the best kickstand I've ever used:

OK, so it's technically not a kickstand, as it's not necessary to kick it.  Kick it?  How would the world be different if that had been the lyric for a certain Devo song?  


My "stand" was found on this block:

And here is one an interesting specimen from the right side of the street:

Here's something from the left side:

Now, where is this street?  It's in Harlem.  Specifically, it's West 139th, beween Adam Clayton Powell and Malcolm X Boulevards.


From there I rode to this view:

Yes, I pedalled Tosca across the George Washington Bridge to Jersey.   The forecast called for "some" chance of rain, and the skies darkened, threatening rain that never came.  As clouds grew thicker, the air grew cooler, which I liked. 


I pedalled along the Palisades all the way down to Jersey City.

I've seen more than a few of these old movie theatres turned into halls of worship for evangelical or other equally fervent religious groups.  I guess they work for that purpose for the same reasons they made such good movie venues:  The acoustics are great, and having lots of people makes for some enthusiasm!  Hmm...Maybe I should hold my lectures there.  

Anyway, I rode down to Staten Island, where I got on the Ferry and shot the kind of  pictures a tourist would take:

OK, so the one with the shadowy figures isn't quite what a tourist might take:  The man and his son are, as you probably knew, tourists.  I guess I was, too.

Where Are The Women?

I don't know whether it's possible to be an urban cyclist without having or developing some sort of interest in architecture. One of the wonderful things about New York and some other cities is that you can find a gem where you weren't expecting it.

This beauty is right across the street from the new Yankee Stadium:

I hadn't been in that part of town in a long time, so I don't know whether or how recently the building was renovated.  I suspect that it was fixed up as the new stadium was built, but I also suspect that it hadn't deteriorated very much, as so much of the neighborhood around the old stadium (which was next to where the current stadium stands) had for so long.


If people couldn't tell that I hadn't spent much time in the neighborhood just by looking at me, they had to have known once I started taking photos.  Then again, maybe some architecture lovers have trekked up that way.


Wouldn't you love to live in a building with this over the entrance?:

Or this by your window?

                          
For a moment, I wondered whether someone might get upset with me for pointing my camera at his or her window. But building residents may be used to that sort of thing.


So, how did I end up there?  Well, I just hopped on Tosca (my Mercian fixie) and pedalled across the Queensboro (a.k.a. 59th Street) Bridge.  After descending the ramp on the Manhattan side, I found myself riding past Sloan Kettering, Rockefeller University and lots of dimpled blonde toddlers escorted by nannies or au pairs who are much darker than they are.  As I rode further uptown, the kids got darker and didn't have au pairs or nannies.   None of it was new to me, but something would be after I passed the building in the photos.


In Manhattan, almost everything above Columbia University is commonly referred to as "Harlem," and in the Bronx, almost everything below Fordham Road is called "The South Bronx".  As it happened, I pedalled through the places that are, technically, Harlem and the South Bronx.  But I also passed through a number of other neighborhoods that consist almost entirely of people of color, most of whom are poor, and whose neighborhoods are lumped in with Harlem and the South Bronx.


I ride in those places because there are some interesting sights and good cycling.  But today I noticed something in those neighborhoods that, I now realize, makes them not only different neighborhoods, but different worlds, from Astoria, where I now live and Park Slope, where I lived before moving here--not to mention neighborhoods like the Upper East Side and Yorkville, which I also rode through today.


In neighborhoods like Harlem and the ones I saw in the Bronx, one generally doesn't see as many adults, especially young ones, cycling.  And, as one might expect, the bikes one sees are likely to have been cobbled together.  I'm not talking about the kinds of bikes one can buy used from any number of bike shops or the ones available from Recycle-a-Bicycle and other places like it. Rather, I'm talking about bikes that look like the riders themselves spliced them together from bits and pieces that were tossed into the trash or found lying abandoned somewhere or another.  


As often as not, the bikes and parts don't go together.  I'm not talking only about aesthetics:  Sometimes parts that aren't made to fit each other are jammed together and held together by little more than the rider's lack of knowledge about the issue. 


It was usually poor men of a certain age who were riding the kinds of bikes I've described.  Younger men might ride them, too, but they are more likely to be found on cheap mountain bikes, some of which came from department stores.  A few are the lower-end or, more rarely, mid-range models of brands that are sold in bicycle shops.  Those bikes were probably acquired in one degree or another of having been used; none of them looked as if they were purchased new.


But the most striking thing I noticed is this:  I did not see a single female of any age on a bike in those neighborhoods.  It make me think back to other times I've been in those parts of town and I realized --if my memory was serving me well--that I never saw a woman, or even a girl, on a bike.  


I started to have those realizations after I stopped at an intersection a few blocks north of the stadium.  A very thin black man was crossing the street.  He approached me and, in a tone of consternation, said, "You're riding a bike?"  For a split-second--until I realized why he was asking the question--I thought it was strange and ignored him.  But he persisted: "You ride a lot?"

I nodded.  


"Be safe.  I don't want a nice lady like you to get hurt."


"I will.  Thank you.  Have a nice day."


I realized that I may well have been the first woman he, or many other people in that neighborhood, had seen on a bike.     


How would his life be different if he saw more women on bikes? And, even more to the point, how might the lives of some of those women be different if they rode bikes?  And, finally, I wondered, how might those neighborhoods be different?