In the middle of the journey of my life, I am--as always--a woman on a bike. Although I do not know where this road will lead, the way is not lost, for I have arrived here. And I am on my bicycle, again.
Yesterday I combined a daytime ride with “taking care of business.” That meant crossing into Harlem and pedaling—sailing, really, with the wind at my back—down the Hudson River Greenway to the World Trade Center, where I boarded a PATH train to Journal Square, Jersey City.
As I rode the streets of the Bronx, Manhattan and Jersey City,I was surprised at how little traffic I saw. Could it be that the NYC Metro Area is experiencing an “August absence “ like that of Paris and other European cities?
Traffic was so light, in fact, that when I resumed my trip in Jersey City, I rolled down JFK Boulevard—a “stroad” I would not take under other circumstances—all the way to the Bayonne Bridge, where I crossed into Staten Island.
Ironically, I saw the densest crowds on the Ferry’s observation decks. Most of the people were, of course, tourists. But the few who seemed to have ridden the Ferry before couldn’t’ve been blamed for standing in the cool breeze.
Tell me, where else can you go on a moonlight cruise for free?
And my “moonlight cruise” continued on La-Vande, my King of Mercia, up through Manhattan where, I believe, I could’ve navigated by the August blue moon even if all of the neon and street lights—and all of the headlamps on cars, trucks and buses—had gone dark.
I saw only one other cyclist and one runner as I wound my way up Central Park to Adam Clayton Boulevard *, where people seemed to enjoy the night as much as I did.
*—You can tell someone is native to the neighborhood if they call it “7th Avenue,” just as no New Yorker refers to 6th Avenue as “Avenue of the Americas,” its official name since 1945.
For me, the answer has varied throughout my life. I guess it had a lot to do with my over-arching mood at that time in my life. For example, I have loved Fall riding at different times for the colorful foliage, the sunset light that simmers into a chill, or just the melancholy (definition: aesthetically sad) feeling.
Right now, I might say the month of May because--ironically--because of its colors, which include many shades of purple. But one thing I truly love is that there is more daylight with each day: a trend that will continue until late in June, when Summer begins.
Those extra minutes and hours of daylight mean that even if I am busy during the morning and afternoon, I can take a ride late in the day. I have lights, but I prefer to ride in daylight whenever I can.
Which I did yesterday. After pedaling to the World Trade Center, I took the PATH train to Jersey City and rode down to Bayonne, where I crossed the bridge into Staten Island--and the Ferry.
I took these photos with my iPhone. Depending on which way I turned, each was recorded as a different locality. This one is recorded as "Bayonne"
and these are "Brooklyn"
Even this
which is every tourist's vision of the Manhattan skyline, is marked "Brooklyn." I took all of those photos within a couple of minutes, from the ferry deck, and did nothing more than turn at a slightly different angle with each shot.
Ironically, I would ride through Brooklyn on my way home.
Over the years, I have cycled through Jersey City many times. On other occasions, I've also ridden there for some purpose, like work or a show, concert or other event.
But I've never ridden to Jersey City "just because." I have long felt that it is one of the most bike-unfriendly places in the New York Metropolitan Area. For one thing, the few bike lanes are even less practical and safe than even the worst ones I've seen in New York City. One begins near Journal Square and winds up Bergen Avenue, one of the city's major north-south thoroughfares, before ending abruptly. Along the way, it goes from being a two-way to a one-way lane.
In most of New York City, if the bike lane is as useless or impractical as the one I've described, I'll just take regular streets. As I've ridden them for decades, I am familiar with traffic patterns and drivers' habits. Plus, even in the oldest and most remote sections of the city, the streets are usually wide enough to give me at least some room to maneuver through traffic or parked cars.
The option I've described is less available in Jersey City. The streets are narrower and, I believe, even more congested, as people depend more on motor vehicles, than in my hometown.
While I don't think the drivers are necessarily more hostile toward cyclists than they are anyplace else. Rather, I suspect that they are less bike-conscious as, for one thing, there are fewer cyclists and less of a bike culture than there is in some New York City neighborhoods or other locales in the Tri-State Area. Also, being a place where people drive more than they do in the Big Apple, drivers are still imbued with the old attitude that drivers have the primary right to the road: Pedestrians and cyclists are supposed to defer to them. If someone struck by a driver while walking or pedaling, someone is likely to ask what that cyclist or pedestrian was doing on that street.
But not even the least bike-conscious or bike-friendly person is ready to excuse what Amy De Gise did last Tuesday. Around 8 am, she was driving through an intersection of Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard--at first glance, over the speed limit--when she struck cyclist Andrew Black with her Nissan Rouge.
She had the green light. Black said he thought he had it. Whether he inadvertently or deliberately rode against the light, just about everyone agrees that what she did--or, more precisely, didn't do--next was inexcusable.
Nearly two years ago, a driver "doored" me near the Belmont race track. To her credit, the driver stayed with me as a passerby--an African American man who was probably around my age--ran to the nearby drugstore, picked up bandages and disinfectants--and treated me until the ambulance arrived. (I wish I could find out who that man was: I definitely owe him!) And she cooperated with law enforcement, which made it easy for me to deal with her insurer (Geico) in paying for the resulting costs.
Ms. De Gise did not extend similar courtesies to Mr. Black. She didn't slow down, let alone stop, to check up on him. Fortunately, he wasn't seriously injured: He got up and continued riding. Still, everyone who's commented on the situation agrees that even if he rode through a red light, there was no excuse for what Ms. De Gise what any interpretation of the law would describe as "leaving the scene of an accident."
Amy De Gise strikes Andrew Black at 1:01 of this video.
The cynic in me has two views of her. One is that she is a common-variety "Karen." The other, though, is that she was acting out of another kind of entitlement: She is a council member in a city and state long known for political corruption. Moreover, she is the daughter of a powerful local politician: longtime Hudson County Executive Tom De Gise.
Contrast her response to the situation to that of passerby. According to the Jersey Journal, after his shoes were knocked off his feet and his mangled bicycle skidded to the curb, he gathered himself enough to stand, put on one shoe and hobble to the sidewalk where,
One woman brought him his other shoe. People from a corner preschool set down a cooler so he could sit. Cellphones were whipped out and a small group of people gathered around him to see how he was. Several vehicles stopped, at least momentarily, and bystanders peered up the block to see what the SUV was doing.
Those folks should be, at the very least, commended. I am sure everyone agrees with that. I know that everyone, from public officials to everyday citizens, who have commented on the situation also agree with this: Amy De Gise must resign. Until she does, the driver who doored me will have taken more responsibility for what she did than Ms. De Gise has for her action and inaction.
Today I took a ride into New Jersey for the first time, I think, since the pandemic began. I know, that sounds odd, considering how often I’ve pedaled to Connecticut. But I finally got up the courage to board the ferry—which, much to my surprise, was nearly empty—to Jersey City.
I’d forgotten just how odd and interesting parts of the city are. In Journal Square stands this monument to one of the icons, not only of sports, but also of racial equality and human rights:
Jackie Robinson is one athlete I wish I could have seen in his prime. What I learned from looking at this sculpture, though, is the emotions he tried not to show, and the ones that he couldn’t help but to reveal.
Sporting events at their best are theater, or at least dramatic. So, perhaps, it’s not surprising to see this theatre across Kennedy Boulevard:
It’s long fascinated me that during the 1920s, when movies first reached mass audiences and studios built towering, cavernous shrines to them, Art Deco and a fascination for all things Egyptian defined the visual style of the time just as jazz was its soundtrack. Looking at buildings like the Loew’s Jersey, though, shows me how congruent those things were: the lines and shapes of Art Deco building details and Egyptian carvings mirror each other as much as they echo the tempo changes of the era’s best music.
So a theater stands across from a monument to a man who played out one of this country’s real-life dramas. To his right, across Pavonia Avenue, stands another former movie theater:
Like many other former cinematic cathedrals, it’s become a house of worship. That makes sense, as the interior dimensions of those old movie houses closely resemble theaters. And when you come down to it, a mass or service is a kind of theatrical performance—just like a ball game or bike race.
And I got to see the theater of the street from my bike.
In my youth (Yes, I once had that!), a couple of my poems were published in a small magazine. It was a big deal to me, and I thought it would lead to fame, if not fortune. Still, I was surprised when a stranger on the street recognized me as “the poet.” I blushed. “I’m not the only one,” I demurred. “But you’re going to be The One. You’re going to be famous—and rich.” He even said something about becoming a millionaire. “Well, not many people become millionaires from poetry. Or even thousandaires.” At that point in my life, I wasn’t even a hundredaire. These days, I am just as surprised as I was then when a total stranger recognizes me. If anything, I reassure myself that the statute of limitations has run out for anything I did—and I am a different person, literally, from the one I was—in my wayward, footloose days. Such concern, however, we’re unwarranted yesterday, as I was spinning along the Rockaway Boardwalk, when a young man pedaled up to me. “I read your blog!” Turns out, Luca was on the return leg of a ride to Point Lookout. So was I. He had a bit further to go, though: to Jersey City, where he manages Jersey Cycles. He’s an “alumnus,” if you will, of a few area bike shops I’ve frequented. Some of those shops have been taken over by Danny’s, a regional chain. We talked a bit about the business: It’s tougher than most people realize. And it’s changed in all sorts of ways. It occurred to me later that it might account for his, and my, tastes in bikes—and blogs. In particular, he mentioned “The Retrogrouch.” You might say that my encounter with Luca was a momentary brush with fame. Ironically, he revealed a way I might’ve attained fortune. One of the shops in which he worked was part of the Metro chain, which became part of Danny’s. The entrepreneur who started those shops, Luca said, “was all about real estate. He didn’t care about bikes.” Hmm...Had I understood that when I had opportunities to open up a bike or book store, I might have retired by now. Still, I’m glad I didn’t. Although I wouldn’t mind having more money, I’m not sure about having a fortune. As for fame—moments of it are fine, at least if the recognition comes from someone as cool as Luca.
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?
Today I took a ride I've taken many times before: up to the Bronx, across to Harlem and the George Washington Bridge, then down the Palisades to Jersey City, Bayonne and Staten Island.
Although high, puffy clouds floated across the sunny sky and breezes lightened the early summer warmth in the air, surprisingly turbulent waves chopped against the Jersey City shoreline:
The water is actually closer than it appears: It lapped up against my tires. If the Hudson River--really an estuary of the Atlantic at that point--could be so roiled on such a serene day, you can only imagine the storm surge that Sandy brought.
On the ferry from Staten Island, I got to talking with a young womanand a friend of hers who'd just arrived in New York from California. So, of course, he wanted to get a look at the Statue of Liberty. We exchanged e-mail addresses before embarking. As I crossed Battery Park from the ferry terminal, I chanced upon this:
Some rainy days are cheerful, with raindrops pattering against leaves and windows, and a soft hiss rising from the plume of a spinning wheel.
Today has not been such a day. It's just been dreary: The rain simply drones on, and even though houses are festooned with holiday decoration, somehow there seems to be scarcely a hint of light.
So, I though I might cheer you (and myself) up by offering some color. This can be seen just a few blocks from my apartment:
The owners of the house have put on an impressive display every year I've been in this neighborhood. Here's one side of the display:
Some things in it have been constant, like this lovely young lady:
And then there are the concessions to the times:
Tosca simply can't get enough:
After that, we did the ride I described yesterday and, from the Jersey City waterfront, watched daylight giving way to twilight and the lights of the New York Skyline:
I've long felt that one of the nicest ways to end a long bike ride is with a boat ride. That's one of the reasons I pedal across the George Washington Bridge, and down the Jersey Palisades, Jersey City and Bayonne to Staten Island, where I hop on the ferry.
When I first started to ride, I was cursing myself for not getting on my bike until well into the afternoon. But the weather had turned from briskly to pleasantly cool, and rays of sunshine were peeking through clouds that blanketed the sky but didn't really threaten rain. The last few miles of my bike ride, and the one on the ferry, turned into a light show:
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.
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.
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