An Egg-Strodinary Ride!

Back in the day, I rode with the Central Jersey Bicycle Club.  During the winter, one of CJBC's Sunday rides involved pedaling about 20 miles to a rural fire station and joining the firefighters, as well as what seemed to be everybody in the village, for an "all you can eat" breakfast.

A popular platter was the "Fireman's Special", which included a couple of pancakes; a couple of pieces of bacon, sausage or some other unhealthy meat; a couple of eggs in whatever style you prefer; and, it seemed, whatever else would fit on that plate.

The food wasn't the greatest, but when you're riding on a cold morning, you tend not to be picky. (Also, it was dirt-cheap:  no small consideration when you're a poor college student, as I was!) Besides, the point of the ride seemed to be, more than anything, camaraderie, with CJBC riders, the people of that village, the firefighters and anyone else who got up early on a cold Sunday morning.

Since then, I've gone on other rides that have included breakfasts, weekend brunches, lunches or other meals.  Sometimes, I'm sure, the food actually was good; other times, I was hungry or simply enjoying my time riding and the company of others.  I can guarantee you, though, that no ride of mine ever included food like this:

Waking Up And Finding A Bull's Head In Your Box

Today's weather was just like yesterday's, just a couple of degrees warmer.  Still, I did a shorter ride:  I got off to a late start.

But I enjoyed it nonetheless.  I rambled through some Brooklyn and Queens streets.  It's funny how I can roll through neighborhoods I know well, yet as I pedal down a particular street, I might think, "Hmm...haven't been here in a while.

So it was as I cycled down one of the major streets in a pocket of Brooklyn that no one seems to agree on whether it's in Williamsburg, East Williamsburg, Bushwick or Wyckoff Heights. 

("East Williamsburg" is an actual part of Brooklyn.  It's not just something you say when you're trying to impress someone--a potential date, perhaps--but you don't want to say you live deep in the heart of Bushwick.  For that matter, "Wyckoff Heights" actually exists, but about the only people who've heard the name are the ones who use it in reference to the area I rode through today!)

The street is bounded by the Broadway elevated train line and a cemetery.  On one side of the avenue I rode are projects and a senior center; the other side is lined with old factories, warehouses and storefronts.  If that doesn't sound like the sort of place in which artists live for about a decade before the neighborhood gentrifies--or becomes Hipster Hell--well, it is.

Not surprisingly, there are "vintage" and "antique" stores that charge more than most of those artists can afford for things other people threw away.  I stopped in one because it  had a couple of interesting-looking bikes and trombones (How often do you see them together?) outside the door, tended to by a rugged-looking woman in a long black skirt whom I took for one of the Orthodox Jews who live nearby but who, in fact, is the wife of, and co-owner with, a who looks like he could be one of the artists.

The woman was actually nice to me:  She invited me to bring my bike in.  The man was dealing with a haggler--actually, someone who was trying to shame him into giving her something at the price she wanted.  "I just bought property in this neighborhood.  I have a stake in it," she said, stridently.  Yeah, you're going to price all of the artists out of this neighborhood, I said to myself.

Anyway, there was some rather interesting stuff in the store.  This caught my eye:

I wish I could have better captured what I saw:  The curves of the handlebars and trombones.  It wasn't so surprising to see the latter.  But a box full of handlebars?  Even though a few bikes were for sale, that was a surprise.  I asked the female co-owner.  She didn't know how he came upon them.  "Probably they were getting tossed out," she speculated.  Perhaps, I thought, by some bike shop.  Most of the bars were cheap steel and alloy dropped bars, so I'm guessing the shop had them from old ten- and twelve-speeds that were "hybrdized".

Given all of the artists in the area, I wouldn't be surprised if at least one of those handlebars ended up in a sculpture or installation.  Could the next Picasso's Bull's Head be sitting, embryonic, in that box?

I Should Feel Guilty About This, But...

I know I should be worried about climate change. After all, so much of the world's economy, agricultural and otherwise, as well as much in our cultures, depends on the weather patterns we've had during the past few milennia.  If we in Western countries think we're having a "refugee crisis" now, to paraphrase Al Jolson, "We ain't seen nothin' yet."  We're just another drought or monsoon away from a veritable tidal wave of people with nothing. And, to quote the immortal Bob Dylan, "When you ain't got nothing, you've got nothing to lose".

But it's hard not to enjoy some things about climate change.  As an example, this fall has been warmer than normal in this part of the world. It seems that, for the past couple of decades or so, just about every season has been significantly warmer or colder or wetter or drier than normal.  This fall, so far, has been warmer and, I think, drier.  If I didn't see the wreaths and lights and decorations people have hung in their windows and doors and from lampposts during the past week or so, I would have a hard time telling that we're less than three weeks from Christmas.

Maybe it has to do with the way the leaves, which cover everything but the trees they fell from, flicker in the sun. Or with the fact that even the coldest night we've had so far didn't even give a hint of impending winter storms.  

It was another nice day to ride.  And I did. How could I not?  I tried to worry more about climate change.  Really, I did.

A Sunday Without A Ride

The doctor was right when she said that my eye infection was viral rather than bacterial.  That's the reason why it's cleared up on its own, albeit slowly.  So my eyes aren't burning.  But the virus seems to have moved to other parts of my body:  I've been congested and my Eustachian tube (what connects the inner ear with the throat) feels as inflamed as my eyes felt.  


I think it's the reason why I felt so tired after riding home from work on Thursday night, and have felt tired ever since.  It figures I would feel this way when we were having a Perfect Fall Weekend.  


It's Sunday.  Perhaps a bit of worship(!) might be in order:

Is there a Church of the Long Island Rail Road?  (Yes, they spell it as two words.)  Near the foot of this "shrine" is one of God's creatures:

Her name is Kiki.  She patrols a tiny snack shop in Woodside, where I've stopped on my rides to or from work.  She claims to be Charlie's long-lost sister.  


Anyway...If I'm posting about railroad power lines and cats in delis, I really need to get back on my bike.  I will.  I'd argue that it beats other ways of transportation:

Is this the real reason why they're the only US automaker that hasn't gone bankrupt?

Sunday Worship, I Mean, Bike Ride

After seeing Saving Private Ryan, someone suggested that I'd make a good chaplain.  I said that it was one of the most ludicrous suggestions anyone ever made to me.  After all, I explained, I'm not religious and don't know how I could be.

"Oh, but you are.   You have more beliefs than you realize.  And you have your rituals, and your form of worship."


"But I haven't been to church in..."


"That's not important.  You have your religion, and your bike rides are your form of worship."

Today--so many years, and almost as many life-changes, later-- I realize she may have been on to something:

Until I take my next trip to Rome, this is probably as close as I'll come to the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. And, quite frankly, even though Michelangelo is one of the best (and one of my favorite) artists who ever lived, the light I saw in this scene means more to me than the stories that are depicted in that ceiling.  Plus, I didn't have to deal with the crowds in the Chapel.


Here is one stop on the route of my "pilgrimage": 

And then, I try to re-orient myself through signs, er, landmarks:

As the journey continues, there is only light to follow:

Sometimes the journey involves a crossing:

In the end, there is the revelation, in the form of light piercing the darkness:

It leadeth me to the still waters.  Well, all right, maybe they're not so still.  But even if hope and belief are eternal, rituals and liturgy are not. And I will "worship" again next Sunday.