From Solitude To Celebrants: A Ride From Yesterday To Today

 Yesterday was even milder than Thursday.  I had a few things to do in the morning and early afternoon, so I didn't get out for a ride until mid-afternoon.  By that time, the weather was spring-like, with a temperature around 10C (50F) and bright sunshine.

Since I knew my ride would be shorter than the one I did on Thursday, I took Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear, out for the spin.  I did the sort of ride I often do in such times:  along the waterfront of "Hipster Hook"--the Brooklyn neighborhoods of Williamsburg and Greenpoint and the Queens environs of Long Island City and Astoria, where I live.  

On the way back, I took a side-trip into Roosevelt Island.  I enjoyed pedaling along the waterfront paths and around the lighthouse, but in one way that part of the ride could hardly have been more different from my trek to Point Lookout and back.  

During yesterday's ride, the Rockaway Boardwalk and Atlantic Beach Bridge were deserted, and I saw fewer people on the Long Beach boardwalk, along with less traffic on the roadways, than one normally encounters on a weekday.  On the other hand, all of the waterfront areas, especially on Roosevelt Island, were as full of visitors as a beach on a summer day.  Many of those who were walking and taking selfies were, I imagine, tourists in town for tonight's celebrations.  I wonder how many of them are paying hundreds of dollars a night in hotel fees for the privilege of arriving in Times Square twelve hours--with no backpacks or items-- before the ball drop and being forced to stand in the same spot for all of that time.

How do I plan to "ring out" the old year?  I feel as if I have been, during the past few days, in rides that end in sunsets.  Later, I'm going to hang out with a couple of friends who might or might not pay attention to the ball drop. Perhaps it's a sign of, ahem, midlife, that changing calendars seems less momentous than it did.  The constants, whatever they are, seem more important.  For me, they include, as they have for most of my life, cycling.

A Ride At Day’s, And Year’s, End

 Perhaps it’s fitting that, as this year is ending, I have been taking rides that end in twilight.

When the sun descends at this time of year, the red and orange hues feel like glimmerings of hope, or at least wishes.  The night that follows will be long, but not as long as the one that came before it. The horizon may not stay lit until I reach my destination—whether it’s home or some other place—but at least there is a view, a vision ahead.

Whoever decided to paint the bridge from Roosevelt Island to Queens in that burgundy-rust shade must have had an artist’s sensibility.  Perhaps that person, or committee (Can a committee actually make such an inspired choice?) took a bike ride like the one I did yesterday—at the end of a day, at the end of a year.

On A Cloud, Even If I'm Not Riding Through It

The other day, rain fell in starts and stops, stopping late in the day.  I took Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear, for a spin through neighborhood streets and a couple of times around Roosevelt Island.

Some parts of the island, especially the area around the lighthouse and "Girl Puzzle," feel rather bucolic, in and of themselves and in contrast to the skyline and bridge views less than a mile across the water.  

Those views also highlight certain weather conditions.  Low clouds seem even closer to the streets when they enshroud the spires and upper floors of skyscrapers.

I've pedaled up and downmountains similarly cocooned, through  clouds thick enough that I couldn't see more than a few feet in front of me.  It may have been the most Zen-like riding I've ever done:  When all of the normal cues, including color and sound, are gone, I could only ride, in that space, in that moment.  For a time, I couldn't even see my bike under me: I felt only my rear on the saddle, my hands gripping the handlebars so my arms could prop me up and my feet spinning the pedals.  I didn't even know which gear I was riding. 

Of course, no ride on Roosevelt Island, or anyplace in the city, will take me into the clouds.  But I can feel, if for a moment, that I am on a cloud!

The Girl Puzzle

Yesterday I managed to sneak in a ride before sunset.  It wasn't long, but it took me to familiar haunts I hadn't ridden in a while:  a few loops around Roosevelt Island.

It's probably been a couple, maybe a few, months since I last took a spin on the island.  However long it was, enough time had passed to see something new:

 

Actually, it's been under wraps for a while.  It was supposed to be unveiled last year, but the COVID pandemic delayed that, and other things.  

The "Girl Puzzle" installation is an homage to Nellie Bly, a pioneering journalist.  Next year will mark the centennial of her death:  two years after she, and other American women, won the right to vote. 

In a way, it's appropriate that the installation stands before the lighthouse, as she shed light on all sorts of terrible, scandalous and interesting situations.  One of them prevailed at the other end of the island, in its now-closed sanitorium.  As flimsy as this country's mental health care system is, it was much worse in her day.

She was able to write an expose of it--which morphed from a series of articles into a book (Ten Days In A Mad House)--and much of her other work by going under cover.  That, of course, makes it ironic that the installation is by the lighthouse.  Perhaps equally ironic is that she was able to go undercover at a time when she was conspicuous simply by being a woman doing paid work, let alone journalism.  Then again, her first published work, in the Pittsburgh Dispatch, was a response to a previously-published misogynistic complaint about female wage-earners.

The title of that piece was..."The Girl Puzzle." While it garnered complaints and other negative reactions, the editor realized her potential and had her write more pieces.  Soon after, he hired her as a full-time reporter.

Although women in professions like journalism have become the norm, we still have to solve "The Girl Puzzle":  How do we--whatever our gender identities, however we express them--realize our potential and our dreams while remaining true to ourselves and dealing with those who try to enforce their notions of what men or women, boys or girls, should be?  

As I looked at "The Girl Puzzle," I couldn't help but to think about Simone Biles and the other female gymnasts who, yesterday, reached a settlement against their sport's governing bodies in their case against their coach--and abuser.  It sounds like a story Nellie Bly would have covered--and been appalled that she had to at this late date.

Late In The Day, Late In The Season

I'm still limited to short rides.  But my time in the saddle has given me no end of visual delight:

Saturday I rode to Roosevelt Island again and, from there, down the waterfront. November sunsets are so vivid--and bike rides so fulfilling--because of the darkness, the cold, that is ready to descend, just as trees are their most colorful at the moment before the wind strips them bare to the long, dark nights ahead.

 

Yesterday I took another, slightly longer ride.  I didn't take any photos, but I'll have something to say about it tomorrow.

Two Hours of Light Rides

Yesterday I made a confession to my doctor.

Well, all right, he's not my primary care physician or gynecologist (yes, I have one of those), so my revelation wasn't as life-changing as you might expect.  I was, you see, a little bit naughty.

I told the orthopedist about this:

The other day was one of those utterly glorious fall days that seems to exist in postcards and catalogues that peddle someone's idea of New England country life. (You know, flannel shirts, apple-picking and the like!)  Even though I only had to wait one more day (actually, less) for my appointment, I went for a ride.

I pedaled only for an hour, along one of the easiest routes I could take:  down the new Crescent Street bike lane to 36th Avenue and the bridge to Roosevelt Island, which I looped twice.  I ended the hour with a ramble along a few side streets back to my apartment.

It was only an hour, but it was enough to lift my spirits. Maybe it had something to do with the softly smoldering late-day sunlight where the East River (misnamed, by the way) splits into Long Island Sound and the Harlem River (also misnamed) and separates Queens (where I live) and Manhattan from the North American mainland.

I did not feel separated from anything.  Maybe that's why I felt comfortable in "confessing" it.  The orthopedic doctor said it was fine; I am recovering well but I should "proceed slowly." Which I will, of course.

In fact, that's what I did today:  another late-day, one-hour ride, this time along streets that wind along the shoreline between my neighborhood and LaGuardia Airport.

The Hell Gate Bridge is always a nice frame for the sunset at Astoria Park--especially with fallen leaves in the autumn light.  But who knew a side street--26th, to be exact--in Astoria could seem like a gate of heaven?

Of course I want to go on the longer rides. But if one-hour rides can fill me with such light and color, I guess I can be a little bit patient.

An Island After The Storm: Following Virginia

The past couple of days have been insane.  I must say, though, that apart from a computer malfunction, it's been good.

Along the way, I took a detour onto Roosevelt Island, a place where I hadn't been since Superstorm Sandy.

At least it's still there. However, I was disappointed--though  not surprised--to see this:

The park at the northern end of the island has been closed off.  That means you can't go to the lighthouse (I'm sorry, Virginia!) at the point where the East River opens into Long Island Sound.  

You can't see it in this photo, but some of the promenade on the other side of the light house broke up like a window struck by a brick.

About half a kilometer south of the lighthouse, on the Manhattan-facing shore, an observation deck shaped like the bow of a ship was also closed off:

I stopped there anyway because, when I looked to my left, I saw visual proof that renaming the Queensborough (59th Street) Bridge after Ed Koch was a terrible idea:

I don't think he had the emotional complexity to appreciate, much less reflect, the light and color of this vista.  Besides, he only went to Roosevelt Island--over which the bridge passes--and Queens under great duress. 

Here, I believe, is a more fitting monument to him:

It's called "The Marriage of Real Estate and Money". Tom Otterness made it, I'm sure, with his tongue at least somewhat in his cheek.  Still, it is an apt expression of Koch's real legacy.

On the island's southern end--just below the shadow of the bridge--a monument to Franklin D. Roosevelt, for whom the island was named  (Previously, it was known as Welfare Island) has been built.  It opened just a few days before Sandy struck.  It fared a bit better than the park around the lighthouse.

You can't bring your bike into it:  You can leave it at the gate and a Parks employee will watch it for you.  However, it's a rewarding dismount:

Once you pass the obelisk, you can descend steps that are like the rows of an ampitheatre and share a view with the birds perched on the rock:

After taking that in, I turned around and walked back to my bike.  As I have a lousy sense of direction, I needed something to light the way out:

If I didn't know any better, I'd think that the leaves left their color when the fell off those branches.  However, I know those trees are newly-planted.  I almost wish that they won't bud and bloom this spring.

I don't think the season makes much difference to this denizen of the island:

If that photo were the frame of a comic strip, this avian creature's though-bubble would probably read, "Silly Humans!"

The Lighthouse Guides Another Ride

There may not be many lighthouses that still guide ships into and through harbours--at least not here in the US.  However, many are all but irrestistible as destinations, or at least landmarks for bike rides.

This one is only a few minutes' ride from my apartment.

It's at the northern end of Roosevelt Island, that sliver of rock between Manhattan and Queens.   It's what I usually envision when I'm pedaling over the bridge to the island, and it's the point at which I feel an escape from the city becomes a meandering, however brief, along the coast.

Ironically, following the lighthouse yesterday may have been one of my last opportunities for an after-work ride in daylight. 

To The Lighthouse

Today, Millie had her annual Labor Day barbecue.

That meant, of course, that I had to pre-emptively burn off some calories.  What better way than an early ride?

The bike lanes along the East River seemed utterly bucolic in the absence of about half of this city's population.  Best of all, I found myself cycling across the bridge to Roosevelt Island with other cyclists--and no motor vehicles--for company.  

If the lanes on the Queens side of the river seemed peaceful, the island felt like a sleepy fishing village.  I even used a lighthouse as a landmark for my ride!

Of course, one needs a lamp like the one in the photo to as a reminder that, after all, it's still an urban setting.  Plus, I suppose that a spot like that can be lonely sometimes.  

Somehow the light of the partly-cloudy late-summer sky seemed to guide me to them.