Mama Mechanic

This afternoon I took a ride out to the Rockaways on Tosca, my Mercian fixie.

The weather was lovely, as it was yesterday:  warm, but not overly so, with high puffy clouds floating across expanses of blue sky.  And, as luck would have it, I rode into the wind on my way out to Rockaway Beach and Far Rockaway.  That meant, of course, that on my way home, I could pedal about 20 RPM faster without trying.

Anyway, I was coasting through an area of Gateway National Recreation area frequented by bird-watchers and wildlife photographers--in plain view of JFK International Airport!  My external reverie seemed to embody the one that was playing out within me at that moment:  I am still in the afterglow of my trip to Paris and of the wonderful late-day ride to Connecticut I enjoyed yesterday.  I have been doing some writing away from this blog (I don't want to give too much away!) and I'm feeling optimistic about the semester that's about to begin. Now all I need is to hit the Lotto jackpot and meet the love of my life.  Hmm...I'm not so sure about the latter.  Being single isn't so bad after you've been in an abusive relationship or two.


Wouldn't you know...a cute young guy approaches me from behind.  "Sir!"  "Sir!"  He sounded distressed, so I turned to look at him.  (His distress was the only reason I looked at him, I swear! ;-))  "Do you...Oh, I'm sorry, Ma'am."

"Don't worry."

"You don't see a lot of women riding here.  And, from behind, you were pedaling like a dude."

I said nothing. (I didn't want to give too much away!)

"Do you have an allen key?"

"Yes, I do."

Just then I saw the reason why he asked:  His handlebar slipped and rolled inside the stem.

"We can't let you ride like that," I said.

"I swapped this handlebar today.  I guess I didn't tighten it enough."

"Well, let's hope it's the right diameter."

"I thought they were all the same size."

I shook my head and, from the corner of my eye, saw the source of the problem.  He had a stem with a faceplate that bolt in the four corners. He'd tightened the top two bolts much more than the lower ones.  So, in addition to the usual hazards of a loose handlebar, he ran the risk of shearing off the faceplate and, possibly, taking an even nastier spill than he might have had he only leaned on loose bars. 

Before I tightened the stem bolts, I asked him to move the bar to a position he likes.  Good thing: I noticed that his grips slipped on the bars.

He said he'd used water to slide the rubber grips onto the bars.   I grabbed the edge of the right grip and rolled it up to the end of the bar.  Then I unrolled it, and the grip--an Oury--stayed as if it had been epoxied to the bar.  I did the same for his left grip.

Then I told him to grab the grip and try to roll it, and to try to move the bar in the stem.  Everything was as firmly in place as the pyramids.

"Lady, I don't know how to thank you enough."

"Just be careful," I said in my most maternal tone.  Really, he's a nice kid--he's been working as a lifeguard--and want him to live and ride long.
 

A Summer Afternoon After The Storm, Fire And Crash

People fantasize about the sort of summer afternoon we had today.  There was lots of sunshine, very little humidity and practically no clouds as the temperature rose to 30C (86F).

So, of course, I went for a ride.  After crossing the bridge into Rockaway Beach, I turned right and rode along rows of serene-looking homes that masked the tragedies the Queens coastal communities of Rockaway Park and  Belle Harbor have experienced.  Of course, they bore the brunt of Superstorm Sandy, but perhaps survived it a bit better than some other areas.  

Eleven years earlier, Flight 587--which had taken off from JFK Airport only two and a half minutes earlier, bound for the Dominican Republic--crashed into the ocean and sent its debris flying into those homes.  Although it is the second-deadliest air crash in US history, it has been forgotten, probably because it happened only a few weeks after 11 September.

To see the neighborhood today, one would hardly know--save for a monument on 116th Street--that it had experienced something so horrific. I could say the same for Breezy Point, about four miles to the west on the Rockaway Peninsula.  Few areas were more devastated by the storm:  In addition to the destruction wrought by the wind, rain and tides, 100 houses burned to the ground in a fire sparked when a storm surge inundated power lines.

Homes, stores and other buildings have been restored and rebuilt.  Still , it all looked rather forlorn. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that  almost nobody was out and about in spite of the weather.

 
At least it was all there and I could ride it.  And I did--over the bridge to Brooklyn, to Floyd Bennett and Brighton Beach and Coney Island.  At least it looked like a summer day at Coney Island, with people swimming and fishing the water, walking, riding and lounging on the boardwalk and eating all of those unhealthy foods sold in boardwalk stands. 

Then I rode home, along the promenade that passes along the Verrazano Bridge and up Hipster Hook to my place.  I was grateful for another good ride, even if it wasn't long or challenging. 

Another Misty Morning Starts Off, And Turns, Sunny

Got out nice and early today.  How early?  Well, it was so early that…

I didn’t know what the weather was, or would be during the first hour of my ride.

Usually, weather reports on the radio tell you what the current temperature and conditions are at some central stations.  And they tell you what will be at that station, and in a generalized area around it, for the rest of the day, and possibly for the next three days. 

 

When I left my place, it was a bit cooler and breezier than I expected.  I didn’t mind that, but I had to remind myself that even in the four or five kilometers between the Central Park weather station and my apartment, conditions can change.  

What that means, of course, is that the weather could be even more different as you go further away—especially if the terrain is different, there is greater or lesser density of buildings, or some other factor affects the speed and direction of the wind.

Although it was about 15C (60F) when I left my apartment—vs 17C (65F) at Central Park—it was as sunny here as the weather report said. However, when I pedaled over the Veterans Memorial Bridge, 27km (about 15 miles) from my place, this is what Rockaway Beach looked like from the Jamaica Bay side:

 The weather report didn’t mention the low-lying fog.  I wasn’t upset to see it; instead, I was looking forward to riding through it as droplets of the cool sea mist clung to my skin.  Best of all, that fog had spread itself all through the Rockaways, as far as I could see in either direction—left to Atlantic Beach, Long Beach and Point Lookout, right to Fort Tilden, Breezy Point and Brooklyn.

I turned right only because I rode to Point Lookout yesterday.   The ride did not disappoint:

Light like that makes me wish I were a painter!  As a cyclist, I let and fill and lift me.  At least, that’s how I feel when I allow it to direct my ride.  Arielle was game:

I Wasn't Expecting A "Beach Day"

This weekend began quite lovely, if rather chilly.  Now, if that sentence sounds impossibly Victorian, or at least British, so be it.  There is something languorous, in a pre-war sort of way, about Memorial Day weekend, which many in the US regard as the beginning of summer.

The sky has been almost preternaturally bright, as if breezes were brushing away every trace of clouds.  It also pushed away heat, which I don’t mind in the least.  Temperatures of 15 to 20 C (60 to 68 F) are, to me, all but ideal for cycling.  But it’s not exactly beach weather—at least to most people—and the water temperatures are around 13C (55F).  

So, I figured that people wouldn’t go to the beach—which meant it would be a good day to ride to Point Lookout.  Or so I thought.

The ride itself was pleasant enough.  I encountered a bit more traffic than I anticipated, and on summer days—in fact or in name only—it’s never too early in the day for drunks to spill out of the Long Beach bars.  If anything, I saw a few more inebriates than usual, for the college students had just come home.  A group of them played “chicken” with me, thrusting their faces into my path to see how close they could come to getting smacked by my helmet.

The beaches and boardwalks were full of people.  A few dipped themselves in the water; a few donned wetsuits and surfed.  At Point Lookout, as you see in the photo, people propped themselves on the cinderblocks or on beach chairs to watch airplanes make squiggles and bows with their vapor trails.  

Shows like that aren’t my kind of thing.  My father loved them, so I saw lots of them when I was growing up.  So, while I respect the skills the pilots of those planes have, I’m not enraptured by frivolous displays of bravado.  More important, though, I don’t like the message behind those shows.  Most people—at least, the ones I saw at the show-- seem to believe it’s “Support Our Troops”.  Having a brother in the Armed Forces, I’m all for “supporting” them.  However, I don’t want to throw them in harm’s way for no good reason—or, worse, for them to be used to celebrate our ability to make war.

After two of the planes made a heart or something with the vapor trails, I hopped back on my bike.  The wind blew off the ocean and at my left side until I got to Rockaway Beach, where I turned right.  From there, the wind carried me home under blue skies, away from the vapor trails.

The Lives The Wind Gave Us

In previous posts, I've mentioned the Navajo creation song that begins, "It was the wind that gave them life."

It was running through my mind, again, as I pedaled into 30-35KPH gusts to the Rockaways and let the same winds blow me home.  And that chant grew even stronger, for me, when I saw the people who'd ventured outside on a chilly, windy but almost hauntingly clear day.

It didn't matter whether those people were families who lived there or were visiting--or whether they were the gnarled old men who seemed to have been deposited there by the tides and abandoned by the currents of time.  They all looked as if the wind had somehow shaped them, had somehow given them life:  the fact that they were alive and the lives they were living, whether in one of the clapboard houses or amongst the remnants of the boardwalk.   

 

The wind brushed the long fine strands and curls of childrens' hair around their faces, which made them seem even younger and dewier than they were.  That same wind turned those children's expressions and words from moments to memories for the parents and grandparents of those children.  And the wind stuttered the echo of old men shuffling through sand, across boards and concrete and asphalt broken by the very tides that returned to that very same wind.

And the wind defined my trip, my journey.  That is the life it gave me, gave them.

A Tale Of Two Beaches--And Rides

Compare and contrast Rockaway and Flagler Beaches.

Comparison #1:  I rode to both of them within the past few days.  Rockaway is a bit further from my apartment than Flagler is from my parents’ house.  But while neither are particularly long rides, I feel a sense of satisfaction, if not accomplishment, from either.

Contrast #1:  This one is obvious:  Flagler is in Florida, Rockaway is in New York—the borough and county of Queens, to be exact.  Flagler, on the other hand, shares its name with that of the county.

Comparison #2:  You have to cross a bridge to get into either one.  The SR 100 Bridge arches over the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway, while the Veterans Memorial Bridge spans Jamaica Bay.  After crossing either bridge, you find yourself on an isthmus that separates the body of water spanned by the bridge from the Atlantic Ocean.

Contrast#2:  Almost everyone who crosses the bridge to the Rockaways lives in Queens or one of the other boroughs of New York City.  You are as likely to encounter someone from just about any state in the US—or Quebec or Ontario—as a Floridian on the bridge as well as Route A1A, the road on the other side of the bridge.

Comparison #3:  You’re likely to encounter cyclists while crossing either bridge or riding along the roads that parallel the beaches.  Said cyclists could be riding anything from an old beach cruiser rescued from someone’s basement to the latest and most exclusive road and mountain bikes.

Contrast #3:  People riding high-quality bikes to or in Rockaway Beach are almost invariably residents of Queens—though not of Rockaway Beach or any other part of the Rockaway Peninsula—or Brooklyn or Manhattan.  If someone’s riding a really good bike to or in Flagler Beach, he or she is most likely from someplace else,  or lives in the area part-time.  Also, a high-end bike in Flagler is usually a Specialized, Cannondale or Trek and has a carbon-fiber or aluminum frame, while one in Rockaway could be one of those or could just as easily be a classic steel road or mountain bike.

Comparison #4:  You’re likely to pedal into or with the wind while riding to or from either place.  If you’re  lucky, you ride into the wind while going and with it while coming back.

Contrast #4:  The temperature might drop a degree or two when you cross the bridge into Flagler Beach.  The temperature could drop a bit more while crossing into the Rockaways, especially early in Spring, when the water temperature in Jamaica Bay and the Atlantic is around 5 to 8 degrees Celsius (40 to 45 F).   On the other hand, the temperature of the Atlantic where it meets Flagler Beach is around 15 C (60 F) at this time of year.

Why is there so much more rust on the right side of this handlebar than on the left?

Comparison #5:  Both beaches have their wizened, grizzled characters who live on the streets or beach, or who “couch surf”.  

Contrast #5:  Surprisingly, Rockaway has more such characters.  I say “surprisingly” because they are usually more common in larger beach communities where the weather is warm, or at least mild, all year round.  What that means, of course, is that more of those characters are living such a lifestyle by choice in Flagler (or Daytona Beach) .  In the Rockaways, there are now more of those characters than there were three years ago.  Many of them are living as they are as a result of Superstorm Sandy, where much of the devastation still hasn’t been repaired.  Seeing such people in the Rockaways makes me think of the film Atlantic City, in which the "busted valises", as Ring Lardner used to call them, were abandoned by another kind of tide that ravaged, then turned away from, them.

One final contrast:  Whenever I‘ve ridden to Flagler, it’s been on someone else’s bike.  I’ve never ridden to or through Rockaway Beach on any bike that’s not my own.  That includes today, when I took Tosca, my fixed-gear Mercian, out for the first time since the snowstorms buried and iced us in January.  She’s looking—and feeling—better than ever, if I do say so myself. 

Seeing Old And New Friends

For the first time since the beginning of the year, I rode to Rockaway Beach.  Although the temperature flirted with 5C (40F), there was still a lot of snow and ice, particularly in the areas between the parked cars and traffic--i.e., where you end up riding on a lot of streets.

I was pretty whupped when I got to the beach. I was chiding myself for being out-of-shape when one of the locals assured me that it's OK, she's tired, too.

Then I remembered that I'd been pedaling into 25-35KPH winds just about all the way there.  My snowy friend assured me that flapping her wings in such conditions is work and she gets tired, too.

I got to Rockaway Beach in time for their St. Patrick's parade.  It seems that all through March, there are parades (here in New York, anyway) for that Englishman who was kidnapped by Irish raiders and sold into slavery.  According to legend, a vision of an angel inspired him to escape and go to the continent to become a monk.  Then he returned to the Emerald Isle and, during the next thirty years of his life, covered it with churches and monasteries.  

So they're celebrating an Englishman who colonized their island?  Of course, the difference between Patrick and the later British conquerors is that he accomplished his dominion through ecclesiastical means, in contrast to the military and economic stranglehold the Crown would later have.

Rockaway Beach has long been a predominantly Irish-American community, and it seemed as if every single resident was on the streets.  A few even sauntered and shuffled on the sand by the ocean.  Most of them were too drunk--or, at least, had imbibed enough Guinness Stout not to care about history, the weather or much of anything else.

Heck, this guy didn't even care that he was riding an orange bike:

Don't get me wrong:  I love orange bikes.  I've had a few in my time.  But I have to wonder whether orange is the right color for St. Paddy's Day.