Enjoying A Ride Isn’t Such A Mist-ery

 My brother and I are experiencing different kinds of heat waves.

He, in California, is dealing with temperatures over 100F (37.8C). Our high temperatures in New York have been a few degrees cooler. My brother, however, said that as much as he doesn’t like the heat, “I don’t miss East Coast humidity.”

He has a point. Even though we in New York rarely have to cope with 100F, almost every year includes a few days when the mercury rises above 90F (32.2C). But that heat is almost always accompanied by relative humidity of at least 7O percent.

The good news, for me anyway, is that I have been waking up early enough to get a decent number of kilometers/miles—and, more importantly, quality time—on my bikes.  Those jaunts have taken me to and along bodies of water, where I have witnessed something associated more with chilly London.

Seeing mist ride along the Verrazzano Narrows Bridge, by itself, made yesterday’s ride (which brought me down to Coney Island) worthwhile. 

Likewise, I felt rewarded in seeing “fog” at the end of the Rockaway boardwalk this morning.

Some of the best things in life are shrouded in mist-ery.

Winter Dream

 Today is the second full day of winter—and the day before Christmas Eve. The temperature reached about 5C (40F) under clouds holding rain that could drop late tonight but will definitely fall tomorrow, according to the weather forecasts.

It seemed like the perfect day for a ride—to the ocean. The wind blew out of the southeast, so I was pedaling into it down the Beach Channel isthmus to Rockaway Beach and past sand and tides to Point Lookout.  

My reward was exactly what I’d hoped for: early winter light, gray yet intimate like one of those old friends with whom you don’t have to pretend—and couldn’t, even if you wanted to. Or, perhaps, it is a reflection the few people I saw walking—themselves, their dogs, their lovers or spouses. Maybe they—and I—are reflections of that light, which doesn’t force extroversion.

Perhaps the strangest and most wonderful thing about that light, and the winter seascape, is that it allows a glimpse of the sunset hundreds of kilometers away, in the middle of the afternoon—and renders that sunset as a brushstroke that accents ripples of gray mirroring each other in the sea and sky.

Oh, and on my way home, the wind blew at my back—after I munched on the slice of Kossar’s babka I’d brought with me. I made good time in every sense of the word!

Cycling In The Mist

Was I in London?

Or San Francisco?

Actually, I rode along the south shore of Queens and Brooklyn yesterday.  From Rockaway Beach to Fort Tilden, the fog was so thick that in some places I could see only three or four bicycle lengths ahead of me.

Still, more people strolled, cycled and scootered (Is that a verb?) along the boardwalks than I'd expected.  It was Sunday, after all, and fairly warm, with a brisk breeze from the southeast.

Perhaps even hardened cycnics were taken by the hazy romantic atmosphere.  You could be alone and feel it.  The odd thing is that I felt as if the dreaminess was making me pedal faster.  Perhaps there was less resistance--to feelings internal as well as things external.  Of course, I had to make myself slow down in a few places.  Nothing like running someone down, or being run down, to ruin the mood, right?

 

The fog started to clear, at least on land, after I started pedaling from Breezy Point to the bridge to Brooklyn.  But it lingered in the horizon, out to sea, which made for some oddly serene light.

There are some folks who will do whatever they do, whatever the weather.  I rather admire them.

The day will be lost to the mists of time.  But not what I, or anyone else, felt or remember.

 

What Did Dee-Lilah See When She Woke?

 Yesterday I roused Dee-Lilah, my custom Mercian Vincitore Special, from her long winter’s nap. 

For a few weeks, the season hasn’t been able to make up its mind: The weather has gone from February to May and back, and from clear skies to downpours faster than you can say “spin.”  As a result, streets and roads have been sprinkled or coated with the remnants of change-of-season storms:  sand, road salt, fallen branches and other kinds of debris. That’s why I let my “queen” extend her rest.

She experienced some of the changes I’ve described during our ride to Point Lookout.  When we began, the sky was as blue as, well, the sea, depending on where you are.  And the air was warm enough that a few minutes into our ride, I thought I might’ve over-dressed.

About half an hour later, though, I felt the temperature about 10 degrees (Celsius) as I pedaled into a seaborne wind on the Cross-Bay Bridge.  That is typical at this time of year because, even if the air is 10 or 20 degrees Celsius (50 or 68 F), the ocean is still only about 5C (40F).

Those differences, playing off or fighting (depending on your point of view) each other made for this view from the bridge.

The water in the foreground is Jamaica Bay.  The gray haze behind the buildings on Rockaway Beach could have been fog—or the ocean.  Just as the day could have been late winter or early spring.

Echoes Of Fire

 I have just ridden to Point Lookout, again.  Here, and in other coastal locales, one can ride under overcast skies, or into a misty horizon with no threat of rain.

But today’s haze is something else: smoke from the massive fires that have burned in much of western North America.  

The haze has been the backdrop of my ride, from my apartment 

to the Jamaica Bay Refuge

Rockaway Beach

and here, drawing a curtain just beyond Point Lookout.

A Ride Through Time Before Christmas Eve

 Yesterday, after finishing everything I needed to--and could--get done before the holidays, I went for a much-needed ride.

Why do I need a ride?  Well, for one thing, I'm a lifelong bike rider.  The only other things besides basic bodily functions that I feel I "need" are reading, writing and occasional travel.

Also, even though I know I've done the things that needed to be done, I felt a tinge of guilt that I probably won't get much, if anything, done betwee now and the fourth day of the new year. (New Year's Day, like Christmas, will fall on a Friday.)  But I reminded myself of Congress*, so I don't feel so slothful.

Anyway, I pedaled down to Rockaway Beach, Riis Park and Coney Island.  I saw the sun preparing for its descent in Rockaway:

and exiting in a blaze of glory at Riis Park:

Just as captivating, to me, as the refulgent spectacle were the shifting cloud formations.  I felt as if time were a scrim drifting across the sky and tracing its face on waves of the sea.

By the time I reached Coney Island, the sky and sea were dark.  I didn't take photos because--silly me--I forgot to charge my phone before I went for a ride and it was all but depleted by the time I got to what might be the world's most famous boardwalk.  More people than I'd anticipated were taking walks and rides, men were fishing off the pier and some Puerto Ricans played some traditional music from the islands on their guitars and drums.

There weren't, however, many people on the Verrazano-Narrows promenade, which passes underneath the bridge.  Most of them were fishing.  I think that most of the fishermen I saw were Latinos and their catch might make up their families' Christmas Eve dinners--which, for Catholics includes fish. 

My family ate whatever fish my uncles caught--or, in later years, what looked good to my mother at the market-- and scungilli: deep-fried rings of squid. That memory, sparked by those fishermen, loped through my mind as I continued through Brooklyn on my way home. 

Those memories, like time, drift through my mind like that scrim of time between the sea and sky.

*--Congress took--how long?--to pass a second coronavirus relief bill.  They didn't accomplish much. The President and his buddies, on the other hand, did a lot--none of it to mitigate the COVID crisis and all of it malignant! (That' not an editorial comment:  It's a fact!)

A Perfect Storm For A Ride

Yesterday I took a late ride out to Point Lookout.

It was a CBC day: clear, breezy and cool--with the emphasis on all three.  The sky was as bright as the day was brisk.  When I crossed the Veterans' Memorial Bridge from Broad Channel to the Rockaways, the temperature, already chilly for the time of year, seemed to drop by about ten degrees.

The season's first hurricane tacked east just when it was forecast to brush across the mid-Atlantic coast.  So we were spared a deluge, but gifted the wind, which blew from exactly the right part of southeast so that I pedaled into it all the way from my apartment to the rocks.

And I was pedaling into the wind, which at times gusted to 60 KPH (37-38 MPH), blew from exactly the right part of the southeast so that I was pedaling into it all the way from my apartment to the rocks.

In a way though, it was a "perfect storm":  The ride home was a breeze (pun intended).  But along the way, in both directions, the tides washed over the sand in the Rockaways and the rocks at Point Lookout.

The shower was invigorating, but I might've liked it more had the day just been a bit warmer.

Still, it was a perfect storm for a ride.

Empty Spaces, Everywhere

Over the weekend, I took two rides.   On Saturday, I pedaled up to Greenwich, Connecticut.  Yesterday, I took a spin out to Point Lookout, on the South Shore of Long Island.

What did those rides have in common, besides pleasure?  Well, both were seasonably cool (high temperatures around 14-15C or 58-60 F) and sunny.  Oh, and there was plenty of wind.  Fortunately for me, I pedaled into it much of the way to Connecticut and on my way down to Rockaway Beach, where the wind blew at my side on my way to Point Lookout. That meant, of course, I had the wind at my back most of the way from Connecticut, and for a long flat stretch from Rockaway Beach to Woodside.

It also meant that I saw very little motorized traffic.  I think that in 252 kilometers (157 miles) of riding, I probably saw fewer cars and trucks than I see in my 8 kilometer (5 mile) commute on weekday mornings.

That might be why the expanse of water, as happy as I was to see it, wasn't as much of a contrast with the road behind me as it usually is.

When The Tide Was Out

The other day I took a ride to Point Lookout. Despite the warmth and humidity, I didn’t see many people along the Rockway beach and boardwalk, or on the Nassau County south shore.  I felt as if I had the seaside to myself.  Well, almost....

...and until I got to Point Lookout.

The tide was out.   But I behaved myself.  I’m not proud of myself:  What else could I do?

I enjoyed the ride nonetheless.

When You Can't Look Out

The past couple of mornings began with mist that turned to fog at the ocean.

I don't know whether this is what the Ramones had in mind when they sang about Rockaway Beach.  I like it, actually:  The shadowy figures on the jetty were as clear to me as a dream, and I felt myself opening like a leaf on a bush that would soon flower.

The weather and traffic reports warned of poor visibility.  But I had no trouble seeing.

Well, I could see clearly enough to know that Point Lookout would not live up to its name:  It wasn't possible to look out very far from there.

But I could still see clearly, the way we can on an invigorating ride. 

Sheltered In Memory

On Sunday, Bill, Cindy and I took the ferry from the Brooklyn Army Terminal, about a mile from Bill's apartment, to Rockaway Beach.   Perhaps I "read" the choppiness of the water into everything I experienced on the ride, from the wind skittering over sand and marsh grasses to the clouds scattered through the sky.

Don't get me wrong:  I enjoyed the ride.  It wasn't long, but the company and the vistas were pleasant, and sometimes interesting.

Saying that someone lives in "a house by the water" probably conjures, for most people, an image of its inhabitants gazing over expanses of sea and sky from an open-air balcony or glass-enclosed solarium.  But, really, it can mean much else, such as this

or this

The first photo probably is a better reflections of most people (at least those who've never lived in such places) have of living "in a beach house" or "by the ocean".   There is one difference, of course:  more color.  If anything, it might look more like South Beach, Miami than the South Shore of Long Island.

The other photo is probably closer to the reality of most waterside residents.  If you think you've seen it before, you probably have:  A couple of weeks ago, we rode by it when the tide was out and mud and other detritus oozed (where murky water would lap around when the tide is in) between those islands of marsh grass and houses.

We are still trying to figure out what the geared wheel is.  My theory is that there was a boat dock there at some point--perhaps as recently as in the days just before Sandy--and that wheel was part of some mechanism that towed boats in.  Now that I think of it, I recall seeing boats in the area before Sandy.

Anyway, on the way back to Bill's place, we rode through Sunset Park.  Many, many years ago, my grandparents took me to the top of this hill

in the park.  The view doesn't seem to change much.  Or maybe there is more change than I realize, and I just don't see it because I always look out, toward the harbor and Statue, from that hill.  It's as if some law of physics applies only in that spot:  My eyes cannot turn in any other direction. 

But at least that view is different from any other maritime or littoral vista I have encountered.  It has to be, even if someone  builds houses of the blue and green and terra cotta tiles--or gnarled bark-- between me and the expanse of harbor:  the one I saw with my grandparents more than half a century ago, and with Bill and Cindy the other day.

From A Fallen Tree To Burning Towers And The Sunset

Friday's weather was practically the definition of "dreary":  at any given moment, we had any given combination of snow, rain and sleet combined with winds that gusted, at time, to 90 KPH.

While the stuff stopped falling out of the sky Saturday morning, a ceiling of thick clouds obscured the sun--at least, for most of the day.  And it was still pretty windy.  No matter:  Bill and I went for  a ride.

We were exulting in our good fortune when we encountered a "souvenir" of the previous day's weather:

I'd heard that trees fell and power lines snapped.  Still, it's a surprise when you find them right in the middle of your route.

It wasn't really a surprise that the tree fell:  We could see the decay near its base.  Also, it was pretty easy to see that the tree needed more room for its roots to spread and deepen.  I guess that when that tree was planted--100 years ago?--no one expected it to grow so tall--or for concrete to be poured over its base.

One car looked totaled.  The others struck by the trees looked repairable.  Fortunately, neither Bill nor I had bikes in the path of its fall!

I rode my Trek because I expected to encounter more debris, mud and other detritus of the storm than I did.  Bill rode the rattiest of the three (!) early '70's Schwinn Sports Tourers he owns.

We stared riding just after noon and made a longer-than-expected lunch stop.  So, by the time we got to the bridge from Far Rockaway to Atlantic Beach, on the south shore of Nassau County, it was already late in the day.

The South Shore of Long Island is one of the few places on the East Coast where you can look west and see the sun set on the ocean, the way you would in, say, Laguna Beach.  And we spent much of the rest of our ride headed into the sunset, from Atlantic Beach to Sheepshead Bay on Brooklyn's South Shore.

From the path between Jacob Riis Park and Fort Tilden, we saw the Manhattan skyline--about 30 kilometers away, as the crow flies--ablaze.  Of course, in New York it's hard not to associate blazing buildings with 9/11--especially since a number of firefighters who died that day lived in Rockaway Beach and Belle Harbor, two South Shore communities we traversed on our ride.  But I had to remind myself that those skyscrapers were glowing in the reflection of the sunset, not burning in the aftermath of a disaster.

The sun, hidden most of the day, ended the day by playing peek-a-boo with the clouds before disappearing into the sea.

As our ride ended, it had one thing in common with The French Connection:  a ride under the New Utrecht Avenue elevated subway.  Well, all right, our time under it wasn't nearly as long or dramatic.  

I certainly hope the household is "stationary."  I wouldn't want to live in something that didn't stay in place, at least while I'm inside it.  And I certainly wouldn't allow whoever painted that awning the use of my stationery until he or she learned how to spell.

Or maybe I wouldn't be so picky.  After all, I was still basking in the glow of that sunset we prolonged by riding into it.

N.B.:  Bill took all of the photos in this post.