Approaching Weather, Seen Clearly

In Florida--at least the part where my parents live--you can ride under a cloudless, sunny blue sky and see a downpour on the horizon.  That storm might soak you in an hour, or even less.

The reason why oncoming weather (or the weather you're about to ride or drive into) is so visible is that the landscape is flatter than any of my jokes fell the one time I went to an open mike and there are no tall buildings.  That means, of course, that you would never see approaching weather so clearly here in New York, especially in Manhattan.

Or would you?

This morning I took a spin up the Hudson River Greenway up to 125th Street.  The chill in the air turned to outright cold as I approached the river, but I did not mind:  It was invigorating and the surroundings are stimulating.  However, I think I was able to see the rain that local meteorologists are predicting for tonight.  Interestingly, it is supposed to come from the north--the direction in which I was riding when I took the photo (The George Washington Bridge is behind that veil of clouds)--rather than the west, as weather usually does.

August in Florida comes to November in New York. Who'd'a thunk?

The Last Sunday

Americans regard Labor Day as the unofficial end of summer.   If it is, perhaps today--Thanksgiving Sunday, or the last Sunday of November--is the unofficial end of fall or the  beginning of the Christmas season.

Today felt like the end of a season of some sort.  The ride I took today was more than pleasant; the skies cleared of yesterday's rain and the crispness one could feel in the air a couple of days ago has given way to a bracing nip.

I rode to Point Lookout, in part because I hadn't ridden there in a while, but also because I figured that, since my route wouldn't take me anywhere near the malls or any other retail "magnet", I wouldn't encounter much traffic.  

Turns out, I was right.  In fact, the streets of Atlantic and Long Beaches--the first two Nassau County towns I encounter after crossing the bridge from Queens--were deserted.  I sometimes encounter that on Saturdays or High Holy Days, as a large number of observant Jews live in the area.  But to encounter hardly a car, cyclist or pedestrian on a Sunday, even when it isn't beach season, is unusual, to say the least.  

I did, however, notice that the bars were full, and it didn't look like the patrons were "doing" brunch.  When I glanced into one of the windows, I saw the reason why:  Most of the patrons, it seemed, were gazing at football (American-style) matches on wide-screen TVs as they munched on chicken wings and quaffed brews.

In fact, the largest congregation of people I saw outdoors were standing on line at an ice cream stand, open for the last time until, probably, March. (A handlettered sign read, "See you in the Spring!:)  Even the sorts of people one encounters along the beaches and Point Lookout in the Fall and Winter--bird watchers, philosophers and poets manques, fisher-men and -women--were gone, with a few exceptions:

It almost seemed as if the tide would have stayed out as long as that man and his dog trotted on the sandbar.  I wonder if these souls felt the same way:

Today I rode alone, by choice.  In other years, I have ridden on the last Sunday in November with people with whom I never rode--or even never saw--again.  Whether or not I continued to ride during the winter (I did in most years, though usually not as much as I rode during the other seasons), I wouldn't see them.   By the time the next cycling season began--in February or March or April, depending on that year's weather--they were gone, to new schools, new jobs, new towns (or even states or countries), new lives.

The mild weather we've enjoyed in this part of the world this fall may well continue through the next few months, and I may not cycle much less than I have ridden during the past few weeks.  Or we may be snow- and ice-bound, as we were for several weeks last winter, and ride very little.  Or there might be some other change in my life, for better or worse, that affects or doesn't affect how much I ride between now and the time lilacs and cherry blossoms start opening themselves to the furtive early-spring sun.

Whatever happens, today, like every last Sunday in November I recall, feels like the unofficial end of cycling season.  Any ride I take after today, and before the beginning of Spring or the new cycling season, will seem like an interlude rather than a normal part of the cycle. 

Somehow it seems fitting that I rode Arielle, my Mercian Audax.  Out of all of my bikes, she seems to most embody the spirit of my riding.  If I could only take one more ride, I'd choose her.  I doubt that today's trek will be my last before Spring.  Still, Arielle seems to be the right bike to ride at the end of the season.

(There isn't much to lean a bike against at Point Lookout!)

After The Foliage: November Cycling

Went out after the rain yesterday.  I know I could have ridden one of my fendered (Is there such a word?) bikes, but getting wet or dirty wasn't my concern.  The rain was a cold, rather dreary, one, and I simply didn't feel like starting a ride in it.

The rest of the day was overcast, mostly.  But the cloud cover, and the air generally, were most definitely those of November.  Gone are most of the leaves; most of the trees (except, of course, for the evergreens, of which we don't have many in this area) are bare.  Thus, the colors of the day do not blaze from foliage; rather, they are suffused with light that is growing dimmer.

October, with its fall foliage, which I love as much as anyone does, dazzles the senses.  Somehow I feel November, with its more austere shapes and hues, sharpens those senses.  At least, that's how  I feel when I ride during this month.

And Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear, sharpens me as a rider, I believe.  Her responsiveness makes me more responsive to my conditions--and rewards me with an exhilarating but still comfortable ride.

There was another reward, as I looked to the west from the Gil Hodges Memorial Bridge:

 

The Comfort of a November Sky

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed that I was feeling sad.  One reason is that a few people who have mattered to me died around that time of year--including a family member who was a couple of years younger than I am now and a female friend who committed suicide.  But another cause of my tristesse is the days growing shorter.

Interestingly, I don't notice the lack of light as much when I'm riding my bike.  In fact, the graying November sky becomes rather comforting, like a shawl spread across bare, wizening limbs and rocks:

 
And the November dusk has its own sort of lumination, like a sort of wisdom revealed:

A little bit of that light crossed my path--or so it seemed:

When I stopped, he rubbed against my ankles.  When I dismounted and squatted next to my bike, he rubbed his face against my hand.

He brought me joy tinged with a note of sadness:  A cat so friendly could only have been abandoned by someone.   

In that sense--as well as in his physical appearance--he's like Max.  My friend Mildred, who rescued him, told a similar story:  He, who had never before met her, approached her as she walked down the street.

I didn't have a bag or basket, but I was tempted to find a way to bring my new-found friend home.  I gave myself all of the reasons why I couldn't.  A woman sitting on a nearby bench told me not to worry:  He's been living on that stretch of the Rockaway boardwalk for "about three years" and she and other people feed him.  

I guess he manages to sleep and survive with that sky as his blanket and the sand as his mattress.

To Ride or Not To Ride To Work In The Cold Rain

I woke up very early this morning, as I have been on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  Although it was warm in my apartment, I could feel the chill in the air outside my window as I heard the rain thumping against the awning next door.  


Riding in the rain is one thing.  Riding in rain and cold is another.  Starting to ride in the rain and cold is less appealing still.  I realized there is yet another category for the kind of rain we had today:  grayness, almost pure grayness, dropping through the chilled air and bringing down brightly colored leaves that are turning have turned into shades of rust, and soon will return to ashes and dust.


If I'd been on my bike as the day broke, I suppose it all could have been pretty, if in a rather melancholy way.  I could have worn my raingear and changed clothes at work.  But I decided not to.  For one thing, with the health problems I've had recently, I didn't want to take any unnecessary risks.  For another, it simply wouldn't have been a whole lot of fun, especially in a couple of places where the drivers can be pretty whacky.  Why do agressive risk-takers become even more aggressive and live even more dangerously when the rain slicks the roads.  At least, they seem to.  

In the end, though, I simply don't care to start riding under the conditions I saw this morning, and throughout the day.  It's one thing if I get on the bike when I know that there's a risk that I'll encounter bad weather.  Sometimes I'll take that chance.  But to start riding in the kind of weather we had today is simply not too enjoyable and, frankly, isn't going to make a big difference in my conditioning, such as it is right now.

November Cycling

Today's the first of November.


This is the month that separates the committed cyclists from the rest.  People who pedal once or twice around the park every other weekend usually call it a season about now.  At least, that's what they seem to do in Northern Hemisphere locales that have four discernible seasons.


Yesterday I noticed there were fewer cyclists on the roads and Greenway than there've been on most Sundays during the past few months.  That isn't too surprising:  It was a chilly, windy day, though it was lovely, if in a rather austere way.


Although it was Halloween--the last day of October--in cycling terms, it was more of a November day.  That, for me was part of what I enjoyed about cycling yesterday.


Of course, no month is more beautiful than October.  Perhaps May or June could be said to be as lovely, if in entirely different ways from the month that just passed.  Cycling--or doing nearly anything else outdoors--in  October is a feast for the senses.


On the other hand, November grows grayer and more wizened as it proceeds.  Colors fade into shades of ashes and as trees are stripped of their leaves, their branches grow darker and splinter.  Somehow, though, they endure like the coats the old and the poor wear through another season.


Someone who continues cycling this week, this month, will probably continue to some time just before Christmas.  And anyone who continues cycling after that will probably still be on his or her bike in February.


By then, even they--we-- will be ready for another season, having cycled forward from the light of the gray November tableau.