Walnut Avenue, Cherry Blossoms and Hyacinths

After doing the work I needed to do, I took a ride.  Since I wanted to head out of the city, even if for a little bit, I cycled north and followed, coincidentally or not, part of my normal commute.

Well, more or less.  I pedaled up Walnut Avenue, which parallels Willow Avenue, the street with the bike lane I normally ride up to 138th Street.  I chose Walnut because it goes all the way to 141st, where I can make the turn underneath the Bruckner Expressway and pick up Southern Boulevard.  

Both Avenues lace the heart of the Port Morris industrial district in the Bronx.  Normally, when I ride along Willow--even as early as 6 am--I see trucks and vans pulling in and out of the factories, warehouses and luncheonettes.  Walnut also teems with activity--on a normal day, that is.

No day during the past two weeks or so has been "normal."  Of course, that's nice for cyclists:   The scene I rolled through looked more an early hour of Sunday morning than just after noon on a weekday.  

I must say, though, that the few people I saw were friendly:  They waved and smiled.  More important, I detected a kind of recognition--like what I sense from people I see by the ocean in the middle of winter.  Just behind me, on Randall's Island, cherry blossoms were pulsing their pink flowers and purple, blue and white hyacinths colored plots fenced in the fields and perfumed the air.  

All of that color, and those scents, felt like beautiful acts of defiance in a world forced into silence.  My bike ride felt something like that, though I did it for my own pleasure--and health, mental as well as physical.

A Morning After

First of all, I want to thank all of you who sent your condolences and other thoughts over my mother's passing.

While pedaling to school this morning, I couldn't help but to think of her.  She was an early riser and often ambled by the canal behind her house.

The Bronx Kill, which ebbs and swells under the Randall's Island Connector, is not nearly as bucolic as the waterway in her backyard.  I guess it was the calm, and the softness of the early morning light, that made me think of her, again.

Or perhaps it was another early riser: 

Little Ricky Wasn't Afraid Of Me

No matter how well you know your route, you never really know whom or  what you'll encounter along the way.

During yesterday's commute, I encountered this:

"Ricky" (It sounds more gender-neutral than "Rocky") crossed my path, literally, under the Hell Gate trestle. If you've taken an Amtrak train between New York and Boston, you've ridden on that trestle.  The path leads to the Randall's Island Connector, which I take to the Bronx.

Since that path bisects fields and the connector crosses over the Bronx Kill, which connects the Harlem River with the East River, near the point where it meets Long Island Sound, it's not unusual to see animals, including the Randall's Island Salamander.  

What surprised me, though, is that when I stopped, little Ricky approached me.  Usually, when I see a raccoon, they dart away.  Perhaps nobody had taught Ricky to be afraid of humans--or to defend territory against them.

It took me too long to get my phone out of my bag, so I only captured an image of Ricky in retreat.  He/she was sooo cute (OK, how many baby animals aren't?) but I knew enough not to pick him/her up.  As the Parks Department reminds us, they're never too small to have rabies.

But, really, how can you associate someone so little and cute with something so terrible?  If I ever see little Ricky again, though, he won't be so little--and probably will've learned to be afraid.

Another Path For The Island

My daily commute takes me through Randall's Island.  It's a bit like riding through a large park, as much of the island consists of athletic fields and gardens.  

One thing about it is frustrating, though.  There are pedestrian/bike paths on the island, but they are not connected.   That means, for example, that when you descend from the RFK Bridge ramp, you could find yourself hurtling straight into the path of a bus or Parks Department maintenance truck because the path at the end of the ramp runs for a couple hundred meters before ending abruptly on the island's street.  And it's easy to miss the turn to get onto the path that leads to the Randall's Island Connector, the bike/pedestrian bridge that links the island to the Bronx.

Also, cycling is not allowed on the fields or, understandably, in the gardens.  So it's difficult, if not impossible, to go from, say, the 103rd Street pedestrian bridge to the Connector.

Well, it looks like at least one step is being taken to make the island more navigable for cyclists and pedestrians.  The Randall's Park Alliance has announced that it's received a grant for a new pathway to connect Sunken Garden Fields with the waterfront pathway by the 103rd Street Bridge.

While this will be a boon mainly to people living in (or cycling from) Manhattan, it is at least one link in what could become a system of paths that will allow more traffic-free access to more of the island.  

What is needed, along with that path, is one that transverses the island and allows cyclists and pedestrians exiting the Queens or Manhattan spurs of the RFK Bridge to access the Connector, and the eastern part of the island, without having to contend with buses and trucks barreling down, or traffic exiting the bridge.

One can hope...

Heading For The Kill

Most days, my commute takes me over the Randall's Island Connector, a car-free bridge that runs underneath the Amtrak trestle--and over the Bronx Kill.

Even though crime is at an all-time low in New York City, the Bronx Kill isn't the only "kill" in the Big Apple--or the Empire State. Before the English came in, the Dutch colonized this area, along with nearby parts of New Jersey and Pennsylvania, in the early 17th Century.  "Kill" comes from the Middle Dutch "kille", which means "riverbed" or "water channel".

So New York had lots of kills even before the Mafia started dumping their bodies in them.

Well, the organization J.Edgar Hoover didn't believe in probably wouldn't have left corpses in something so shallow as the Bronx Kill--even when it's full.  Sometimes the waters cover all those pebbly areas on the shore, and beyond.  One morning, the Kill actually flowed just a couple of feet (or so it seemed) below the bridge.

The Bronx Kill's flow has nothing to do with rain.  Rather, it's affected by the ocean currents, as are the other Kills in New York City.  The Bronx Kill connects the East and Harlem Rivers, both of which are misnamed because they are  tidal estuaries.   Like the Bronx Kill, they have no current of their own:  The direction of their flow is dictated by the tides.

Even with the water so low, I am glad the Connector exists.  My younger self might have ignored the junk revealed by the receding tide and hopped across while hoisting my bike. Or I might have gone looking for the Randall's Island Salamander.

Doing Unto Others

Some good deeds can be performed only while you're riding your bicycle. 

You might be thinking of the time you gave directions to a pedestrian or motorist.  Or the time you retrieved something someone dropped.  And, of course, there are those times you've helped another cyclist on the side of the road.

I am thinking of those, too.  But then there are other problems or emergencies we can deal with but motorists or even pedestrians can't.  I'm thinking now, in pre-cell phone days, of times I summoned police or made a call from a pay phone when a motorist or someone else was stranded far from either. ( I've done this in France--when I was cycling the Pyrenees en route to Spain--as well as locally.)  Then there was the day I saw an elderly woman take a fall while crossing a street (in Florida) and, more recently, the time I saw a homeless man passed out on a sidewalk in the Bronx, on my way to work.  

My favorite, though, was the time a woman called, "You, on the bike!"  I turned.  "Can you help me?"  Of course, I pulled over.  She explained, between sobs, that she'd left her purse on a bus making its run along the Union Turnpike in Queens.  "Do you remember the number on the side of the bus?"  She did.  "Give me a few minutes."

It actually didn't take that long:  I found that bus a couple of lights away.  I knocked on the door and explained the situation to the driver.  He actually walked the down the aisle and--voila!--found a red leather clutch on a seat.  

When I brought it back to the woman, she, of course, thanked me profusely and wanted to give me the money in that purse--which I, of course, refused--while laughing out of sheer giddiness.  "Then I'll pray for good things to happen for you." I'm not religious, but I hope she didn't think I was laughing at her offer of blessings!

I laughed in that same giddy way yesterday.  As I approached the stairs on the Randall's Island side of the RFK Memorial Bridge, I saw a young man who looked ready to faint.  "Are you OK?" He stammered something.  I offered him my water bottle; he sipped from it.  But I knew he wasn't suffering from heat exhaustion, even though the day was warm and humid.  "Are you diabetic?"  He nodded. "L-low blood sugar!"   

I searched my bag:  no bananas, energy bars, chocolate or any of the other sweet things I might bring on a ride!  The only available food was on the island--or back on the Queens side.  "I'll get you something!  I'll be back in a minute."

So I pedaled at a pace that might've won me a race or two back in the day to the concession stand near one of the ballfields.  Much to my surprise--and, at that moment, horror--it was closed.  There was a "roach coach" (a food truck) nearby, a long line of customers snaked from its windows.  And it wasn't going to move quickly:  people were ordering hot sandwiches, plates and french fries.

Sighing, I caught sight of a nearby tennis club.  I'm not a member, but I figured there would be a cafe--or at least a snack bar--where I could buy something.  That hunch proved correct, and I bought two fresh-baked cookies--one chocolate chip, the other fudge with s'mores.  

When I got back to the stairway on the bridge, the young man was still there, and another young man was talking to him.  That other young man didn't have any food or water, but at least he encouraged the young man with diabetes. Both thank me profusely; the fellow with diabetes hugged me. 

Anyway, I mention these stories, not to boast of my magnanimity, but to point out that they never would have happened if I hadn't been on my bicycle.  That young man who was  about to faint, or worse, from his low blood sugar never would have been seen by the motorists streaming across the bridge.  And the pedestrians wouldn't have been able to get him a snack as quickly as I did.

What are some of the good deeds you performed while riding your bike--and that you could have performed only while riding your bike?

What Kind Of Clouds?

Is it fog?  Or is it smoke?

When it swirls around the arches of a bridge, I think most people would say it's fog.

But when it's at the Gate of Hell--or Hell Gate--it seems more like smoke.

But what about when it drifts over the city

or clouds the view of the prison?

Whatever you call it, I have pedaled through fog and smoke on my way to work.

When You Can't See The Gates Of Hell (Or Hell Gate, Anyway).

My students are reading Dante's Inferno.  

As the narrator descends deeper into Hell, it gets darker. It's hard not to wonder how he doesn't stumble more often than he does.  I imagine it was more difficult for him to see when he passed through the Gates of Hell than it was when I rode by Hell Gate:

Yes, that is what I saw from the RFK Memorial Bridge while I rode into and out of showers on my way to work.  Somewhere in that mist are the Hell Gate Bridge as well as the Bronx and Westchester County.

When we started on Canto III--where the narrator and Virgil come to the Gate of Hell--I made a joke with my students.  "I'll tell you how to get to the Gate of Hell".

Then I advised them to go down the Grand Concourse, make a left at 138th Street (where the GC ends).  Then, they should go four blocks, take a right on St. Ann's Avenue, follow it to the end and take another left.  Pass under the RFK Bridge entrance and , underneath the railroad trestle (the Hell Gate Bridge), take a right to the Randall's Island Connector.  On the island, I told them, go left all the way to the water:  That stretch of the East River is known as Hell Gate.  

Most of my students don't live very far from the route.  Yet none realized that stretch is called Hell Gate.  And one student didn't even realize the post office in her neighborhood--the easternmost part of El Barrio, or East Harlem--is called Hell Gate Station (Zip Code 10035).

They think I'm dragging them through Hell in my class.  They are going to experience it only twice a week for a couple more weeks.  Me, I ride by it every day, on my way to meet them!

A Menage A Trois Of Wolves?

Every culture has its odd and interesting ways of describing natural phenomena.  One of my favorites is the "mariage du loup".  The first time I heard it, I wondered what a wolf's wedding had to do with the weather I'd just experienced.  For that matter, I wondered whether wolves indeed had weddings:  Was there something I missed?

I was cycling near Chenonceau, which alone made me a very privileged individual at that moment. (Really, there are very few better places to ride!)  The weather that day created the sort of picture that every agence du tourisme likes to post on its websites or brochures:  a sea of sunflowers softly undulating a reflection of the sunlight that filled the clear blue sky.  

At least, that's what I saw until the early afternoon.  Then, I felt a couple of drops plip onto my arms.  For a moment, I thought it was sweat, as the air had warmed up.  But then I felt a few more drops on my legs, and on top of my head.  Those drops were falling from the sky--but the sun shone as brightly as it had earlier in the day!

That night, I described my ride to a hostel-keeper.  "Une mariage du loup," he said.  

Most of you,  I am sure, have experienced a "sunshower", perhaps during a ride.  Although I've experienced them here in New York, I think they're more common in more open areas, like the countryside I was touring when I experienced the "mariage du loup".

I encountered it again, sort of, yesterday afternoon:

My first ride since last week's snow took me to Randall's Island, where rain fell on me as the sun shone.  Well, actually, it wasn't rain:  The snow was melting from the railroad viaduct over my head.  

Now, if a train had rumbled overhead, I would have had a sun-thunder shower.  Would that be a menage a trois des loups?

As I Was Saying...

If you've been reading this blog, you know that I am, in general, not a big fan of bike lanes.  At least, I don't like bike lanes as they're (mis)conceived, designed, constructed, regulated and maintained here in New York, and in too many other US locales.

And I have another peeve about bike lanes--again, mainly about the ones here in the Big Apple.  One of my posts from a few days ago began with it:

One of the reasons I don't like to use bike lanes, at least here in New York, is that motor vehicles frequently pull in and out, and sometimes park, in them.

Well, wouldn't you know it...This is what I encountered while riding to work this morning:

A few weeks ago, a new bike lane opened on the north side of Hoyt Avenue, the wide boulevard that straddles the entrance to the RFK Memorial Bridge.  Traffic is westbound, one-way on the north side, above which the bridge's pedestrian-bike lane arcs.  (Traffic is eastbound one-way on the south side.)  The lane runs eastbound--in the direction opposite the traffic.  There are two rationales for that, I guess:  1.) The lane is intended, at least in part, to provide access to the bridge's pedestrian/bike lane; and 2.) The lane is "protected", meaning that there are pylons separating it from the motorized traffic.

Although the lane hasn't been open for very long, this wasn't the first time I've seen a vehicle parked in it.  Worse, I've seen a truck or van in the lane, and another motorized vehicle on the sidewalk: There are maintenance and storage facilities in the real estate around the bridge pillars. 

Woe betide the cyclist who unwittingly turns on to the lane: If both the lane and the sidewalk are blocked, there is no choice but to ride in the traffic lane--against traffic--or to make a U-turn back on to 26th Street, which is one-way. If the sidewalk is free, a cyclist can use it as long as some highway cop with too much time on his hands isn't looking to meet his ticket quota for the month.

For the time being, I think I will take the route I had been taking most days before the lane opened:  I will ride up 23rd Street to the south side of Hoyt Avenue, turn at 27th Street, cross under the bridge overpass and access the bridge's pedestrian/bike lane from there.

I must say, though, that in spite of the obstacle, I had a pleasant commute.  As you can see in the photo--which I hastily took with my cell phone--it was a beautiful morning.  And, when I stopped to take the photo a nice young lady named Rachel--who probably thought I was looking at a GPS or some other app-- asked whether I was trying to find something.  I explained what I was doing and told her about this blog.  And she told me about some rides that might start soon on Randall's Island, where she works--and through which I ride during my commute!

From A Late Night, Into The Mists

Last night, I stayed at work a bit later than I expected.  What that meant was, among other things, encountering less traffic than I usually see.

It also meant dealing with a change in the weather.  In the morning, I rode to work in a drizzle that occasionally turned into rain.  But, by the time night rolled around, a dense fog blanketed the city.

Normally, I can see the towers on the Queens spur of the RFK Memorial Bridge as soon as I make the turn from 132nd Street onto the Randall's Island Connector.  At that point, the entrance to the RFK Bridge lane is about 1 3/4 miles, or about 3 kilometers, away.  

Last night, though, I could not see the towers or cables until they were right in front of me--when I was in the lane.

When I reached the middle of the bridge, over the waters of Hell Gate (which I couldn't see), I looked back at the soccer field on the Randall's Island shore:

and ahead to the Queens side

My apartment is in there, somewhere!

Early Morning On The Island

If you are looking to transcend the place and time in which you live, you can move out and away from them.  Or you can go inside them.

This morning, I did the latter, without even trying.  

Randall's Island sits in the East River, between Manhattan and Queens.  If you know that, but you've never been there, you might expect it to have a skyline like Manhattan's, if on a smaller scale--or, perhaps, dense residential neighborhoods, as you would find in much of Queens.

Instead, you would find fields--some of them open, others designated for baseball and other sports--as well as wetlands, clumps of woods and gardens ringed by a rocky shoreline.  The relatively bucolic landscape is shadowed only by the Hell Gate Viaduct, used by the Metro North commuter rail line and Amtrak, and the overpasses for the RFK Memorial Bridge. (The conjoined Wards Island, once separated by a channel that was filled in about 100 years ago, contains a water treatment plant, mental hospital and state police barracks in addition to ballfields and picnic grounds.)  Even when you look toward the tall buildings of Manhattan, the houses and apartment buildings of Queens and the factories and warehouses in the Bronx, it's easy not to feel as if you are in New York City.

Especially if you're cycling the island early in the morning:

The smokestacks you see in the background are on Rikers Island.  Even they don't look so menacing just after dawn.  (Still, I'm in no hurry to go there!)   Behind the trees to the right, and a few kilometers back, is LaGuardia Airport.  I'd much rather go there.  But riding on Randalls Island this morning was just fine!

A Season In The Boogie Down?

My academic year begins on Thursday.  Today I rode to the college for a meeting and workshops.  

Through the Spring semester (which began a couple of days after a blizzard struck this city), I saw gradually-increasing numbers of cyclists on the RFK Memorial Bridge lane and on Randall's Island on my way to the college.  I saw a similar slow but steady increase in the number of bikes parked in the racks on the college campus, and along the streets surrounding it.  Those increases, of course, could be attributed to the warming weather.  

So, perhaps, it was no surprise to see more cyclists crossing the bridge than I've ever seen on a weekday.  Some looked like they were riding for fun or fitness, but others seemed to be on their way to work or some other obligation.  More than a few, I'm sure, were motivated by the the clear skies and mild temperature, and not deterred by the brisk wind.  Then again, that wind some of them across the island and bridge as I pedaled into it.  

It also wasn't a surprise to see only two other bikes in the racks.  No doubt there will be more once classes begin.  I wonder how many students, faculty and staff will continue to ride as the season grows colder, and possibly wetter.   Three subway lines stop right in front of the entrances of the campus's two main buildings, and four bus lines stop within a block.  So, I'm guessing that some of the bike commuters are "seasonal", if you will:  They use mass transit when the weather becomes less favorable for cycling. 



Perhaps the most interesting development I noticed is that on the South Bronx streets between the bridge (and Randall's Island Connector) and the college, I've seen more cyclists than I've ever seen before.   Some were riding the old ten- and three-speeds (Nobody calls them "vintage" in such a neighborhood!) in various states of disrepair--or with seats, handlebars and other parts that clearly are not original equipment.  You see people riding bikes like those all the time in low-income communities:  They have become basic transportation vehicles and, in some cases, beasts of burden that tow shopping carts or baby strollers piled with that day's shopping, or cans, bottles and other items that are being hauled to the recycling center.

I did notice, however, more than a few bikes that were clearly not being used for such purposes--and riders who almost certainly have never ridden their bikes in the ways I've described.  As we say in the old country, "They sure don't look like they're from around here."  I even noticed two people riding Citibikes, even though the nearest docking station is about 5 kilometers--and a world--away.

Will I see those non-utility cyclists in the South Bronx come November or December?  For that matter, I wonder how many of the riders I saw on the bridge or the island today will still be on their bikes as the season turns in "the Boogie Down". 

The Arc Of My Commute

Yesterday, I wrote about seeing the cherry blossoms budding on my way in to work.

Well, my ride home included a different sort of visual spectacle.  Because I was carrying a lot (and was being a bit lazy), I took the new connector bridge, which is flat, to Randall's Island, rather than the steep, zig-zaggy ramp up to the Bronx spur of the RFK Bridge.

The connector passes underneath the Hell Gate viaduct--where the Amtrak trains run--and over the Bronx Kill, which separates the rusty but still running industrial areas of the Bronx from the parklike expanses of Randall's Island.

My commute may be only ten kilometers in each direction.  But I felt as if I'd experienced a whole spectrum of color, a wide panaroma of light and forms, on my way to work and back.

It's Here: The Randall's Island Connector!

OK, I won't be sarcastic. Or snarky. I'll even try to dispense with irony. (Actually, if you're trying, it isn't irony anyway.)  I'll be appreciative, maybe even polite and respectful, too. 

But, I must admit, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You see, something I never thought would happen in my lifetime came to pass.  No, I'm not talking about $200-a-month apartments on the Upper East Side.  Or a sale at Sotheby's.  Or that Congress will pass legislation banning the production of any new movie with "Ocean's" in the title--or any sequel or remake. Or that gender theorists will stop using any form of the word "performative".

So what is this epochal event to which I'm referring?

 

 

The bicycle/pedestrian bridge from Randall's Island, a.k.a the Randall's Island Connector (catchy, isn't it?) to the Bronx has just opened.   I used to joke that it's been under construction ever since the island (and the rest of North America) split off from Pangaea.  All right, that's an exaggeration.  But it did seem to take longer to build than Stonehenge or the Great Wall of China. 

 

So, of course, I just had to cross it, just to be sure that I wasn't having a flashback from something I don't remember taking.

It spans the Bronx Kill between the island and 132nd Street, just a couple of blocks east of where the RFK Bridge bike/pedestrian lane enters the Bronx.  What makes this new bridge better is that it's flat, lets pedestrians and cyclists off in a less-trafficked area than the RFK Bridge does and has much better sight lines.

 

 

Interestingly, it has a grade-level railroad crossing on the Bronx side. If the bridge is ever shut down for a passing train, it could take a while to open:  The bridge enters, and the train tracks cut through, an industrial area and trains can be more than a 100 cars long.  Just as interestingly, the bridge runs underneath an Amtrak trestle.  The effect is enigmatic:  like being in an open-air (at the sides) tunnel.

I wonder whether the RFK Bridge lane will be kept open.  Even though it has a rather steep ramp with sharp turns and is rather squalid, it's better to have it as an option if, indeed, one has to wait an hour for a train to pass through the Bronx side of the new bridge.  Plus, this is one bike lane that purely and simply makes sense, a trait not shared by many other bike and pedestrian lanes.

I know, I said I wouldn't be sarcastic. Or snarky.  Oh, well.  I tried.

Saturday Sillies: What If Charlton Heston Had Ridden A Bicycle In "The Ten Commandments"?

I have always known that we, as cyclists, can change the world around us. 

We all know about the ecological effects:  If we get to work or school, or take joyrides, on our bikes, we don’t use the gasoline and other resources used by, or cause the pollution made by, automobiles.  We also know about the health benefits:  The exercise of pedaling makes our bodies stronger and the emotional release of being on a bike makes us saner. (Notice that I used the comparative rather than the absolute form of the word “sane”.) 

I believe many of you also know that we can also be agents of peace.  Although we can be competitive with each other and get angry with motorists who cut us off or pedestrians who step into our paths while they’re texting someone, for the most part, we’re calmer than most other people.  That, I believe, has to influence the people around us in one way or another.

That got me to thinking about how my riding, or cycling generally, might have influenced the drivers of these vehicles I encountered on my ride today:

Did I have the kind of influence Charlton Hestonhad in The Ten Commandments?  Am I such a powerful cyclist that I can cause two cars to part and let me pass?

Or, could it be that the police officer and taxi driver were so in awe of a woman in late middle age riding her bike—and passing a guy half her age—that they stopped dead?

Perhaps my riding so roiled their competitive juices or stimulated their production of testosterone (Wouldn’t that be ironic?) that they stopped each other in each other’s tracks?  On the other hand, something about me might have caused each of them to recognize something about each other and meet each other in the wilderness of Randall’s Island? 

Hmm…Maybe they, in the tedium and stress of their jobs, they were simply seeing so struck by seeing someone happy—positively giddy, like a lovestruck teenaged girl—that they simply had to stop?

And, dear reader, I’m still feeling giddy.  I’m not sure of why:  The ride, while pleasant and invigorating, was not exceptional.  I did nothing exceptional before or after the ride and I ate foods that, while both healthy and tasty, had no mind-altering chemicals of which I’m aware.

If you’re giddy, how can you not change the world around you—or, at least, some part or some people in it?

Giddyup!  I’m going to keep on riding.  Maybe I’ll stop some more traffic.

(As I type this, the Beatles’ Hey Jude is playing on the radio. Somehow that seems exactly right.)

Pathway To The Gate of Hell

We've all heard expressions like "Highway to Hell" and "The road to Hell is paved with good intentions".

I couldn't help but to think about them as I rode through Randall's Island yesterday.  A bike lane recently opened, connecting the Fire Academy with the Bronx spur of the RFK/Triborough Bridge--and the foot/bike bridge that seems to have been under construction since a time before Randall's Island or the Bronx even existed!

The bike lane has one of my favorite names:

"Hell Gate Pathway?"  Can you beat it?  I mean, haven't you always wanted to ride my bike to the Gate of Hell?


Actually, I have ridden to the Gates of Hell--during at least two of my trips to Paris.  Of course, you can't wheel your velocipede right up to Rodin's masterpiece.  But you can ride to the museum and walk up to his gates.

I'm dying (pun intended) to do that again, soon.  But for now, the path I rode yesterday and my imagination will have to keep me content.

 

The Day Begins; It Is Dawn--For Whom?

This semester, I've been teaching early morning classes.  When the term began, I was pedaling in bright, often shadowless, pre-dawn light.  But as the season deepened into fall, I was seeing sunset and, after Daylight Savings Time ended, I was getting to work just as the sun was rising.  

All of that has meant seeing what people don't.  You've seen some examples in some of my earlier posts.  Some of the sights were just lovely; others had their own grittier kinds of poetry.  This morning I saw an example of both:

Speaking of gritty poetry:  As I took this photo--with my cell phone, on Randall's Island near the Bronx spur of the RFK/Triboro Bridge--some verses streamed through my mind:

La aurora de Nueva York gime
por las inmensas escaleras 
buscando entre las aristas
nardos de anguista dibujada.

It's the second stanza of Federico Garcia Lorca's "La Aurora" ("The Dawn") and can be translated something like this:

The dawn in New York grieves
along immense stairways
seeking among the groins
spikenards of fine-drawn anguish.

Perhaps recalling those verses was a harbinger of what I would see as I descended the ramps on the Bronx side of the spur:

I've seen him before.  Actually, I've never seen him:  I've only seen the blanket and recognize the way he swaddles himself in it.  Once, I got a glimpse of his face poking out of his bundle.  I don't think he knows:  He was still sleeping, as he was today.


Usually, he's in the corner, curled up as if he were in the womb, his first--and, perhaps, only--home.  I had never seen him unfurled until this morning.  And, even though he was less than a meter from his usual spot, it was startling to see him there.  I can't blame him for moving there:  It rained heavily a couple of hours after midnight, and spot is probably the driest place he could find outside of a building that wouldn't allow him in.  

At least it wasn't difficult to see him.  So, I was able to stop, dismount, lift my bike and tiptoe around him.  I did not want to wake him, let alone rend one of the few shreds of dignity he has left.

Unfortunately, he's far from the only homeless person I see during my commutes.  He's just the one I've seen most often, I think.

Are They Finally Getting Somewhere With This Bridge?

In an earlier post, I alluded to a bike/pedestrian bridge under construction--for aeons, it seems--between Randall's Island and the Bronx.


Actually, saying it's been "under construction" isn't quite accurate.  Perhaps it was at one time--say, around 2009--but for the past few years it's been frame surrounded by a chicken wire fence that serves mainly as platform for signs claiming that it's undergoing an environmental review.


The problem is that the land on the Bronx side is part of the Harlem River Yards.  The State Transportation Department owns the Yards, but leases them to developer Harlem River Yards Ventures, which in turn leases parts of it to other companies. (Where else but in New York, right?)

Well, now it seems that some of those companies gave easements to the state and, when I rode by the site this morning, construction of some sort was going on.





I hope...I hope...I hope.


Even though the project is still behind schedule, it's still being done in a more timely fashion--and with much smaller cost overruns--than the Second Avenue Subway.  Nothing like a little perspective, right?