The Bikes Stop Here--And There

A series of neighborhoods dangles along the banks of the East River like a cedille from Astoria Park to the Williamsburg Bridge.  They include Astoria and Long Island City in Queens and Greenpoint and Williamsburg in Brooklyn.  There may be more cyclists, per capita, in this corridor--in which I happen to live--than in any other part of New York City. In fact, I doubt many American urban neighborhoods outside of Portland (and, perhaps, Seattle) can rival the concentratration of bicycles and cyclists found here.

So I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to see this near the Long Island City (Queens) side of the Pulaski Bridge.

The first time I saw it, I wondered what all of those bicycles were doing in a bus kiosk.  Then I saw the sign.


On the block before it, there is a row of bike racks that's almost always full.

The bike at the front makes me wonder just how good an idea unsecured open-air bike parking facilities actually are.  On one hand, I'm glad to have dedicated bike-parking spaces. On the other, I can't help but to think that maybe they're targets for bike thieves and cannibals.


Maybe I'm just too accustomed to locking to parking meters and such--or not parking my bike and not doing business with stores that don't allow me to bring my bike in.  


Anyway, I got in a quick ride after work the other day. At times like that, I'm thankful for Daylight Savings time, and Tosca likes rhe photo ops available on the Greenpoint (Brooklyn) side of the bridge:

Girls, Bikes And The City

On my way home from my "Hasidim and Hipster Fixies" ride, I met and chatted with another woman on a bike.   She's been living in Brooklyn for a while and wants to find some new rides.  And Bruce has told me that I make a good tourguide. So, we exchanged e-mail addresses and today we went for a ride along the Brooklyn and Queens waterfronts, across the RFK Bridge into Randall's Island and alongside the East River in Manhattan. 


Helene was definitely "up" for this one.  She's wanted to have a girl's night, or day, out in the city!

One of the wonderful things about introducing someone to places you know well is that you discover new things in and about them.  We ventured into a part of Greenpoint I hadn't visited in a while, where we found a workshop of some kind:

Look at her, and look at the second statue from the left.  Of course, I had to get into the act:

I guess I'm not quite the performer she is.  Then again, I may not have had the right role.  Last week, in the midst of the sleep deprivation nearly all instructors experience at during the last days of a semester, one of my colleagues said I was looking a bit like Pierre de Wissant as he appeared in Rodin's Les Bourgeois de Calais.  

Anyway, I enjoyed the ride and the company of my new riding companion.  After we parted, Helene insisted that we stop here:

I mean, she has a point:  I have three Mercians (including her) with paint finish number 57:  a purple that turns green when you look at it from certain angles.  So now I need a house to go with them.  Hmm...If my book sells....

It Looks Like A Lane Now

It looks like a real bike lane now.


Last week, I mentioned the construction I saw on the Queens side of the Edward Koch/Queensborough/59th Street Bridge.  (At the rate it's going, the bridge'll have more names than God has in the Old Testament!)  Well, I don't know whether they've finished it.  But at least now the path is useful, and takes you to a practical destination.


More important, it doesn't force cyclists into this:

This is where the lane from the bridge used to end.  Just beyond the orange barrels, 27th Street dead-ends under the elevated tracks of the #7 and N lines of the New York subways.  Most of the traffic on 27th (which is one-way in the direction of the truck in the rear of the photo) merges onto the bridge ramp; a few vehicles turn right onto Queens Plaza North, where you see the black sedan.  Sometimes those streets are completely full of vehicles, and their drivers aren't known for patience.


So, when a cyclist coming off the bridge can turn left onto the lane, which intersects with 23rd, 22nd and 21st Streets. All of them continue underneath the tracks.  Or one can take 23rd in the other direction to go to Astoria.  That street passes through an industrial area and the traffic on it is usually light.   Twenty-Second is one-way in the opposite direction from 23rd, and 21st is a major artery that serves as part of the route for several bus lines.  


I would love it if the path were extended to Vernon Boulevard, which skirts the Queens bank of the East River.   That would offer cyclists relatively easy and safe access to PS 1, Socrates Sculpture Park and the Noguchi Museum, among other things. 


One can always hope.  For now, I'll suspend my cynicism and be grateful for something that's better than what we had.

Cycling Through The Gates of Autumn

I got up late today.  So my ride took me to a sunset:

The sun has just set behind Jamaica Bay, near the place it meets the Atlantic at Breezy Point.  I stumbled over this view on the Queens side of the Gil Hodges-Marine Park Bridge.  That view led to another bridge:

To get to these views, we crossed another bridge:

The day was chilly and windy, and became more of both after we crossed this bridge from Beach Channel to the Rockaways.  But somehow I didn't feel the cold.  Maybe I was channeling the sky:  Clouds spread like a shawl across a graying sea and houses that still have some of the warmth and light the sun within them.

And the way to these views was a bike ride through the gates of autumn:

Some of us have to carry a lot to get there:

Sometimes the journey is long, or seems that way:

And where does it lead?  Hopefully, to some place like this:

And it continues.  There is no escaping it, though some will try:

b

That's a washed-out stretch of the Greenway, where it parallels Belt Parkway along Brooklyn's South Shore.  I asked someone to take a photo of me, but I didn't like it.  So I took this photo of a couple I saw cycling.  

Where else could they have been riding but through a sunset in the gates of autumn.

A Crossing

After work today I flew to  San Francisco and have been taking in the Bay Area hills and wind from my bike.  And, yes, I rode by Stanford:

All right.  So I wasn't in the Bay Area.  I was really in Hollywood.  Well, kinda sorta.  I was actually in a neighborhood called Holliswood, which isn't far from where I work.  But I had never been in it before.    At the intersection of Palo Alto and Palo Alto, a car pulled up to me.  A woman whom I would have guessed to be a few years older than me leaned out of her window and asked whether I knew where the Holliswood Hospital is.  


"Sorry, I don't.  Have a good day."


Well, I took a right at that intersection, and two blocks later, there was the hospital!  I felt bad for that woman:  For all I knew, she drove miles in the opposite direction.


Anyway, as it was an utterly gorgeous, if somewhat windy, afternoon, I just rode wherever Arielle took me.  Much of the time, I didn't know where I was.   I didn't mind, really:  Along the way, I stopped at a drive-in convenience store for a drink and snack.  Two men worked there:  I got the impression they were the proprietor and his son, and they had lived in the town--Lynbrook--all of their lives.  And they seemed especially eager to help me--even more so than the other customers, for some reason.


Then I took my Diet Coke with lime and Edy's dixie cup to a schoolyard/playground a block away. I went there because I saw benches in the shade:  I'd been in the sun for a couple of hours and wanted to get out of it for a few minutes, even though the weather wasn't hot at all. There, another black woman a few years older than me started a conversation with me upon seeing Arielle.  She started riding again "a few years ago," after having both of her hips replaced and back surgery.  She says that even though her rides aren't as long as those of some of the cyclists she sees, it's "what I enjoy most in my life, apart from my grandchildren."  I'll think about her the next time I'm whining (even if only to myself) about feeling subpar.


 When I got on my bike again, I finally  knew where I was when I had to stop at a grade crossing for a passing Long Island Rail Road (Yes, they still spell "Rail Road" as two words.)  commuter train.  


I had stopped at that same crossing, which was on Franklin Road, the last time I cycled there.  That was eight years ago, at this time of year.  Then, as now, I didn't get there intentionally, but I didn't mind being there.


I took that ride eight years ago at about this time in September, if I recall correctly.  I probably do, because I also recall it as being around the time I started teaching at La Guardia Community College, which begins its Fall semester around this time of the month.  And it was also about three weeks after I moved out of the apartment Tammy and I shared, and into a neighborhood where I knew no one.


Even though it was less than an hours' ride from where Tammy and I had been living (in Park Slope, Brooklyn), the block to which I moved--which is only seven blocks from where I now live--seemed even more foreign to me than Paris did when I first saw it.  So, for that matter, did most of the rest of Queens, not to mention the Nassau County towns through which I pedaled then and today.


I think that day at the railroad crossing, I knew--or, perhaps, simply accepted the fact--that I was entering a new and very uncertain stage of my life.  I knew what I wanted and needed to do:  In fact, a year earlier I had the experience that taught me I really had no choice but to do it.  And I also realized something I didn't quite understand at the time:  that I wasn't going to be riding "as" Nick for much longer, and that also meant that I probably wouldn't be riding with the racers and wannabes.  


Why didn't I know what all of that meant?  Well, I did know one thing:  that the difference between cycling as Nick and cycling as Justine would not be just a matter of wearing different clothes, having longer hair and possibly riding a different bike.  But how else, I wondered, would they differ? I even asked myself whether I would continue cycling.  After all, I didn't know any other cyclists who were transitioning, and I didn't know (or didn't know that I knew) any who were post-op. Would I even be able to continue?


Well, of course, I found some of the answers through my own research (This is one time I was thankful for the Internet.) and from women cyclists I know.  And, since my operation, Velouria and others have given me some very helpful advice. 


One thing hasn't changed:  I often end up by the ocean even when it isn't my intent.  

I was happy to go to there, though:  Only a few people strolled the boardwalks, and even fewer were on the beaches. I didn't see anyone swimming.


And then there were the couples that remained after the summer romances ended:

Actually, I know nothing about them.  I took the photo because I liked her skirt.


And, once again, I ended up in Coney Island, where I rode down the pier to take a couple of photos.

The young man who was just hanging out was the only other person there.  He asked me what I was doing tonight.  Now that's something I wouldn't have anticipated at that crossing eight years ago!

The Freedom to Find Order

Today I didn't ride my bike.  Hopefully, I'll get to ride tomorrow.  But I had a good, if not long, ride yesterday.


It was  something I used to do in the old days:  I started with no plan or destination.   I just got on Arielle--my Mercian road bike-- and I could practically hear her asking me, "Where have you been?"


I found myself zigging and zagging between Queens and Brooklyn, mainly on side streets.  Most people wouldn't know whether they were in one or the other, but having lived for so many years in them (I can't believe I've been in Queens for almost eight years already!), I can see and feel the differences when I'm riding.


Back when I was writing for the Ridgewood Times, I routinely rode the five miles or so along Gates Avenue from Vanderbilt Avenue in Brooklyn to Fresh Pond Road in Queens.  From Vanderbilt, the first few blocks of Gates are lined with some lovely brownstones and other graceful old buildings.  But, after one crosses Nostrand Avenue, the condition of the houses begins to deteriorate somewhat.  Then, by the time Gates crosses under the tracks of the "J" train, the street is lined with cheerless tenement buildings on one side and auto body shops on the other.  Then Gates crosses under another set of tracks, for the "M" train.  A couple of blocks later, the small portals of those houses and apartment grow, as if they've been filled with light, and become  tall glass doorways framed in dark wood and etched with gold-gilt numbers.   These are not brownstones, but they are attractive and sturdy in a similar sort of way--and more orderly, as if those houses themselves were arranged by a grid pattern like the one that guides the streets themselves.  


When I saw those houses, I knew I was in Queens. And I was happier to be there than I wanted to admit. All right, I'll admit it:  I really liked seeing those pretty, well-kept houses.  They don't have the cookie-cutter sort of architecture one finds in too many developments today.  They have character; they are interesting and unique.  But they are also very precise and orderly, and--to me, anyway--it's no surprise they were built by German immigrants who settled the neighborhood a century ago.


How is it that whenever I look for freedom, or simply run away from something, I end up finding order and embracing it?  It occurs to me that I experienced exactly that when I took my first bike trip to Europe.  Five days after I graduated from Rutgers, I got on a Laker Skytrain flight to London.  I brought my bike, a pair of panniers, a handlebar bag, a couple of changes of clothes, a sleeping bag, a camera and a bunch of rolls of film, two blank notebooks and a few packets of condoms.  I had no set itinerary, save that I expected to be in France and possibly another European country at some point.  


But I gave my parents, and anyone else who asked, a more detailed itinerary than I actually planned to follow.  The truth was that I was taking that trip because none of them wanted me to take it and, frankly, I didn't know where else to go or what else to do with myself--and I didn't want to find out.  If I wanted to do anything, I wanted to show them that I didn't need a plan and that I would survive in spite of everything everyone tried to scare or warn me about.  I wasn't going to follow the rules and schedules that bound them:  I would have nothing more than myself, my bike, the road and the surprises of the world unfolding before me.


And what did I embrace?  The friendliness and politeness of people I met.  I actually liked that French people addressed each other as "Monsieur," "Madame" or "Mademoiselle" and appended their requests and sentences with "s'il vous plait."  I liked the order of London and Paris streets:  Even the plane trees that lined them seemed to have an erect, dignified bearing to them.  


That trip was not the first or last time I would get on my bike in search of freedom and would find order--and embrace it. That's what I did, again,  late this afternoon, when I steered my bike onto a street lined with neat brick houses trimmed with deep red, violet and yellow flowers.  I opened the door to one of those houses and  wheeled my bike in.  Charlie and Max were waiting for me.