A Gap At The End Of The Day, The Beginning Of The Year

How did you begin your New Year?

How did I begin mine?  Not by asking annoying rhetorical questions.  Seriously, I stayed awake for the Times Square ball drop and the fireworks that followed. I didn't drink, sing or dance or do anything scandalous. (Trust me, my singing and dancing are scandalous!)  Still, I slept late, talked to friends and family on the phone and went for a late day ride.

On the Long Island City waterfront, a few meters from the iconic Pepsi-Cola sign, people walked alone, with each other and their dogs.  I stopped for one utterly adorable three-year-old spaniel-poodle mix who caught my glance.  That led to a conversation with their humans.  Actually, one of said humans was taking care of the pooch for her parents.  She and her partner looked like they were taking good care of each other. 

We watched the sunset over Manhattan.  What I captured in the photos isn't exactly "Manhattan-henge."  The light I saw caught my attention, however, because it struck me, and the two women I met, how unusual it is to see a gap in the Manhattan skyline--or, for that matter, in the Long Island City colony of towers behind us.  I recalled, for them, when LIC was an industrial area (part of it still is) and blue-collar workers lived with their families in the small row houses that are disappearing from the neighborhood.

Now, I know that nobody comes to New York to see a gap: If that's what you want, you go to the Grand Canyon.  I wonder whether we will be the last people to see the sun descend into an urban canyon, as it seems that developers are filling every vacant space they find. I know this city is "always changing," but I don't recall any other time like the one I'm witnessing.

Then again, according to Heraclitus, the only constant is change.  Perhaps it is the only certainty for the coming year, or any other.  

 

Riding In The Parks

For someone who's lived as long as I've lived in New York, I really haven't done much cycling in Central Park.  Even during the eight years I lived in Manhattan, I seldom ventured into Frederick Law Olmstead's masterpiece of urban landscaping.

I guess part of the reason why I didn't do many laps around Strawberry Fields and the lake is that, well, riding or running in the park seemed like such a New York cliche.  Being a reel Noo Yawkuh (and being young and full of testosterone and alcohol, among other things), I thought I was just too cool for that.

Actually, I came up with some pretty good reasons not to ride in the park:  Most of the times when I could ride there, the lanes were choked with other cyclists, runners, joggers, women (and, occasionally, men) pushing strollers and, ahem,  the bane of every New Yorker's existence:  those dreaded, dratted tourists!  Later, inline skaters would be added to the mix.  And, it seemed, nobody watched where he or she was going, especially the skaters. 

The funny thing was that everything I just said could also be said about Prospect Park in Brooklyn.  But I rode there far more often than I rode in Central Park. Part of the reason for that was that I lived very close to Prospect during my eleven years in Park Slope.  Also, when I was living there, I had begun to do a lot of fixed-gear riding, and Prospect was nearly perfect for that.  Plus, being a bit older, I think I'd  become a bit more tolerant of tourists and such.

Anyway, what got me to thinking about Central Park was a photo I came across:

Photo by Faungg on Flickr

Solitary In The Snow

For the past couple of weeks, the only people I've seen on bicycles were making deliveries for the local restaurants and diner.   Whenever I see a delivery man (Yes, they're all men.), he likely to be the only cyclist on the road at that moment.


I think now of my days as a messenger.  There were days when I was not only the only cyclist on the streets (at least for a few blocks around), I was sometimes the only person to be seen on the streets.  It didn't matter whether I was on or around Wall Street, or in one of the industrial areas that still existed, though as shadows of their former selves, in Manhattan.  


In those days, I was watching quite a few post-apocalypse movies, most of which I've forgotten.  (Frankly, I watched most of them high or drunk.)  That may have been the reason why the landscape seemed almost lunar, and I felt like some sort of pioneer or homesteader.  


Somehow the snow and ice made me, and the few other people who were outside, seem even more solitary, as if the scene were a photograph negative of a chiaroscuro portrait.

This photo was taken in Kalamazoo, Michigan yesterday.  But it could have been shot in just about any community of any size in the Northeast or Midwest during the past couple of weeks.  It feels as if these storms are making every cyclist seem solitary.


In a sense, we are.  

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?