It's funny how a bit of travel can make you see a familiar bike ride in a new way.
So, for that matter, can doing the ride with new partners--or with partners if you'd previously done it solo.
That's how I found myself seeing the roads and trails of the Palisades when I pedaled them with Bill and Cindy the other day.
It's also the first time I've ridden with either of them in a while: They've been spending their weekends in a secret hideaway they told me about.
Seeing this plant--a giant fern, a small tree or something else--made me visualize, if for a moment, some of the flora and fauna I saw while riding in Cambodia.
And this sheer rock face made me forget--even though I've seen it before--that it's just across the river from the Cloisters--which, in turn, can make you forget that you're in Upper Manhattan.
The further you ride into the trails, and the closer you get to the river, the easier it is to feel you're not within a few kilometers of the George Washington Bridge.
But something one of them said really made me see this old familiar ride in a new way: "You can almost imagine what it was like when the native people lived here."
Yes, sheer rock faces and colorful plants seem like eons as well as worlds away from the West Side Highway. It almost seems possible to remember that whatever structures were in the area weren't made of steel or glass--or even brick.
As we were imagining people who are long gone and vistas changed, I found myself thinking back to Cambodia, where most of the population are Khmers, the people who have lived on that land for milennia. Much of their landscape hasn't changed in centuries, whether in jungles that haven't been touched or the Angkor Wat and other temples, which were standing for centuries before the land we rode yesterday was called "New Jersey" and the other side of the river was named "New York", or even "New Amsterdam."
Those temples still stand today, seemingly as much a part of the land as the rock face we saw.
Note: The penultimate photo was not, of course, taken on the New Jersey Palisades. The others, however, were.
The Angkor Wat photo, as well as the first two in this post and the "blueberry" photo near the end, were taken by me. Bill took the others.
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?
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.
On a hot day, one of the best ways to end a bike ride is with a boat ride. That I did today on the Staten Island Ferry, after a ride on Helene that took me up the Bronx cliffs, across Manhattan, down the New Jersey Palisades into Hoboken, Jersey City and Bayonne, then, finally, over the bridge into Staten Island.
One of the nice things about riding on a hot day with low humidity, as I did today, is that the weather isn't nearly as oppressive as it is with high humidity. On the other hand, if you're like me, you drink anything and everything in sight. Still, I think I got to the Ferry less fatigued than these guys:
Helene is in front; the bikes behind her were ridden by the two recliners. At least nobody can be accused of reading over this guy's shoulder!:
As befitting a high-class English lady with some French culture, Helene was her usual modest self:
With her, the ride was definitely smooth sailing:
Today's ride took me through, among other places, Randall's Island.
There I saw two guys and two bikes by the East River:
Behind them was the Gate of Hell--or, more precisely, the Hell Gate Bridge:
Underneath Hell Gate was a "Native Plant Garden." Somehow it seemed a bit of an oxymoron. Still, it was lovely.
I especially liked this particular flower:
After the reverie of seeing it, I pedaled across the newly-reopened 106th Street Bridge onto a newly-reopened (but not entirely repaired) path/greenway along the river in Manhattan--East Harlem, to be exact. After climbing the shallow but steady climb through Harlem, Hamilton Heights and Washington Heights, I crossed the George Washington Bridge to the New Jersey Palisades.
After more riding through New Jersey and Staten Island, I thought I'd gotten away from the Gate of Hell. Well, maybe I got away from the fire of it--but I couldn't escape the mist.
And then, finally, I got some advice upon re-entering Manhattan.
Back to the guys and their bike--and Tosca, the bike that took me through these adventures:
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:
Today, on my way to meet Lakythia for a ride, my rear tire blew out. I cursed my own stupidity: I tried to milk a battered tire for whatever miles I could get from it, instead of replacing it as an older, wiser cyclist (which I'm supposed to be, hence the title of this blog) would.
Lakythia was a sweetheart about it: She met me at B's Bicycle Shop on Driggs Avenue. There, I bought one of the cheaper tires they had (a wire-bead Vittoria Randonneur). As I installed it, Lakythia test-rode a Fuji single-speed/fixed gear bike. (See what a bad influence I am on her?) Then, we were on our way.
Well, not quite. As we were about to set off for a ride along the New Jersey Palisades, someone who doesn't look like any other bike-shop customer you've ever seen rode in. Well, actually, she walked her bike in because she had a flat. Either way, getting to the shop was a respectable feat, in part because of what she had on her feet.
You know you've spent too much time in bike shops when you ask whether a pair of stiletto heels is SPD or Look compatible. Sheryl (a.k.a. "Bitch Cakes), as you can see, doesn't ride either kind of pedal. Her Hello Kitty-mobile has classic cruiser pedals, which makes sense when you look at the bike.
Although I usually ride in skirts, and sometimes in heels, to work, I am a slouch compared to her. Last week, she rode 120 miles in the dress and shoes, and on the bike, you see in the photo. The Transportation Alternatives-sponsored ride took "all day," she said, and included "all kinds" of people. I did a few of their rides back in the day and I don't doubt what she says.
I must say: Back then, my fantasies included looking something like her, or at least exuding style and being a memorable presence in a similar sort of way. To tell you the truth, I still wouldn't mind it, although I'm not sure I could pull of her look. And, frankly, I'm too much of a scaredy-cat to get all of those tatoos, even if they would go with her Hello Kitty purse--which, of course, went with her bike.
We only got to talk briefly because, after her flat was fixed, she had to go to a photo shoot. But I enjoyed talking with her, as I found her to be friendly and articulate.
So, of course, is Lakythia, which is one of the reasons I enjoy riding to her. Plus, anyone who can put up with my scatter-brainedness and complete lack of navigational ability is exactly the sort of person I want and need as a riding buddy, and friend!
Actually, she's checking her GPS just in case! Me, I prefer riding off into the sunset, even if it's seen through a gate!
Hopefully, you have all had an experience of not "getting the guy (or girl)" but ending up with The One.
I'm not going to describe anything quite as momentous as that. But I am going to relate a tale of things not going according to plan and turning out better than I'd planned.
I didn't work on any of my bikes yesterday. The rain didn't materialize. However, I did other things that took more time than I expected. So I got to spend only half an hour on my bike.
On the other hand, today I didn't have classes due to a scheduling quirk. And the afternoon turned into the nicest one we've had in months. The morning fog and clouds burned away in the afternoon sun; within a couple of hours, the temperature rose from the mid-50's to near 80. After sending off my state tax return and a birthday card for my father, I gulped down some green tea and yogurt with almonds and raisins and took Tosca out for a spin.
The route I followed today was the same as the one I took last year, when I did my first post-surgery ride of more than an hour. It's also the route that I took for one of my last rides before surgery. From my place, I took the RFK Bridge to Randall's Island and Manhattan, where I pedaled through upper Manhattan to the George Washington Bridge. On the New Jersey side of the bridge, I rode atop the Palisades, along the Hudson River, to the edge of Jersey City, where I descended to the Exchange Place waterfront. Then it was a matter of following, glancing away from, then following again, the waterfront through Jersey City and Bayonne (the hometown of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons) to the bridge bearing the latter city's name to Staten Island, where I took the Ferry.
It's an interesting combination of urban neighborhoods, cookie-cutter suburbs, blue-collar and yuppie havens, and views of the river, skyline, bridges that reflect the color of the morning mist and trestles that put the rust in Rust Belt.
Just before the GW Bridge, there's an interesting or hideous (depending on your point of view) theatre that was probably built during the 1920's. It now serves as a pulpit for the ex of a famous singer/performer who has done some of her best-known work since splitting up with him.
Said preacher is Reverend Ike. Yes, that Rev. Ike: the one who was Mr. Tina Turner. Of course, he never saw the relationship that way, though sometimes I think that, deep down, he must have known it would come to that. Quite possibly the worst thing for the long-term prospects of a marriage is a wife who is obviously more talented than the husband. (Somehow marriages stay together when the man is more talented. That's a story for another post, or more precisely, another blog, or some sort of study by the NIH.) At least Sonny Bono admitted as much about Cher; from what I understand, Rev. Ike was very abusive toward Tina.
Hmm...Are politics and preaching the last refuges of husbands who can't make it on their own and whose wives get sick of them riding on their coattails?
I digress, again. About half a mile south (downtown, to New Yorkers) of Rev. Ike's temple, I saw something I hadn't seen since I last rode up that way:
It's the shortest bike lane in New York. Well, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit. But it does serve a purpose: It guides cyclists through one of the trickiest intersections in upper Manhattan, if not all of the city. When St. Nicholas Avenue (on which the lane is located) crosses West 163rd Street, it also intersects with Audubon Avenue which, like St. Nicholas, is one of the main thoroughfares of that part of town.
If the intersection were a clock and you were riding on St. Nicholas from the six o'clock position, the traffic from Audubon would be coming at you from the two and eight o'clock position, while the 163rd Street traffic would be coming from somewhere between the two and three o'clock position, and somewhere between the eight and nine o'clock positions. So, from St. Nick, you would cross 163rd and Audubon as if they were an eight-lane highway.
The new path leads to a couple of concrete islands where there are signs, and from which the path continues to 165th Street.
After that and Rev. Ike, the rest of the ride was a piece of cake!
