Urban Range

 

West 59th Street, Manhattan, from the saddle of Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bike.

A Ride With A Real Cyclist

 So…What’s it like to ride with the guy next door?

I found out, sort of this past Sunday: I took a spin with a man who lives a few floors below my “penthouse.”

That I have been riding nearly every day hasn’t gone unnoticed by other residents of my senior (don’t tell anybody!) residence. One, whom I’ll call Sam* asked whether we could “just go out and ride, to no place in particular.” Not knowing him, I wasn’t sure of what to make of his proposal. Not knowing any other cyclists—or anyone else—very well, I thought “Why not?”

So, our journey—me, on Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear bike and him, on a Roadmaster ATB he bought on Amazon, began around 9 am. I took him up to Mosholu Parkway, where a bike-pedestrian lane splits the shoestring park that splits the north from the south side of the road. Riding west takes you to Van Cortlandt Park. We went east—not very far—to Southern Boulevard and the Botanical Garden gate. It allowed us to bypass two very busy intersections where traffic enters and exits a highway, and enter the Bronx Park path to Pelham Parkway. 

I took him along what has become one of my early morning rides to City Island. He’d been there before, he said, but not on a bike.

From there, we pedaled back over  the bridge to Pelham Bay Park,which is three times the size of Manhattan’s Central Park. From there, I took him through neighborhoods that line the Hutchinson and Bronx Rivers and Long Island Sound. (One of those neighborhoods is, believe it or not, called “Country Club.”) 

The day grew hotter and the sun bore down on us. He seemed to take the weather better than I did, but he said he was impressed with my riding “on a bike you can’t coast.” 

I must say that I had all the more reason to be impressed:  He simply wanted to keep on riding. Whatever his bike or strength, that told me he is certainly a cyclist at heart.

When we reached SUNY Maritime College, he confessed that he, a lifelong Bronx resident, had never seen it—or, more important, the rather scenic waterfront—before. He also had never been in Country Club, with its huge houses, some of which wouldn’t look out of place in “The Great Gatsby.” After our ride, I realized that while he is a Bronx “lifer,” he rarely, if ever, had seen anything east of the Bruckner Expressway. That made me think of my experience of living in Brooklyn until I was 13: I really didn’t know anything beyond my immediate neighborhood until I returned as an adult. As I once told somebody, I’d crossed the ocean before I’d crossed Ocean Parkway.

A journey takes you to some place where you’ve never been, where it’s on the other side of the world or a part of your home—or yourself—you’ve never seen before. For me, that—and not the number of miles or kilometers or how much time —is cycling. And, I feel that is what I experienced on a ride with a new neighbor.

*—I have given him a pseudonym because I’m not sure of how much he would want me to reveal about him.

Flowers For A Photo-Op

Springtime:Sashaying down the street to show off new shoes, outfits or hairdos.

For cyclists, it can mean pedaling down the path on a new set of wheels or in a new jersey (in New Jersey?).

For Tosca, my Mercian fixie, a Spring afternoon included a photo op to show off her tuneup. She always seems to find the right flowers for a photo-op!

Riding With The Flow

 Today I rode to, and along, a river.

It wasn’t the Hudson or East River—the latter of which isn’t a river.

And I didn’t leave the city.  In fact, I didn’t have to go far from my new neighborhood.

The Bronx River cuts through the New York Botanical Garden, my building’s next door neighbor. Cycling isn’t allowed in the Garden. There are, however, trails along other parts of the only freshwater river in New York City and near its source in Westchester County.

I remember seeing the river decades ago, probably during a trip to the Bronx Zoo. Then, the water was barely visible because of the cars, tires and other refuse that had been tossed into it. Ironically, the building that once housed Lorillard’s snuff factory—one of the river’s first polluters—sits in the Garden, one of the organizations that helped to spur the River’s cleanup about 20 years ago.

I doubt that the water is potable. At least, I wouldn’t drink it. But people enjoy picnics and, I hear, fishing along its banks. And it’s become popular for canoes and kayaks.

Still, there are reminders that it is, after all, in the Bronx.  

I continued to ride for another two hours through unfamiliar streets in somewhat familiar areas. Soon, I hope, I will feel more at home, if for no other reasons that places become a part of me when I pedal them.

Four Hundred Kilometers From Totality

 

I didn’t create this Instagram reel.  But I was in the vicinity—near the World Trade Center—on Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear bike.

Someone confirmed what I suspected: Many of the people were students or teachers at a nearby high school and college. What could be more educational than seeing a solar eclipse, even if we were about four hundred kilometers away from the path of totality.

A Quick Break: A Ride

Yesterday I rode—on Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear— for the first time since my move.  It was a short trip, past the Garden and Zoo, but it felt good to do something not move- or work-related.

Although I’d previously done some cycling in this area, as Anniebikes says in her comment, there’s more to explore.  Even after 21 years of living in Astoria, I found new rides and variations on familiar ones.

My new apartment has nice views and is much lighter and airier than my old place.  I wonder:  Will the sun steaming in my window energize me to ride more?Will the fog creeping by lure me into winding down the bike lane by the gardens?

What I Woke For

 People in Miami are as unaccustomed to snow as Harpo Marx was to public speaking.

Likewise, most New Yorkers aren’t used to earthquakes.  In a way, ground-shakes are even stranger for us: When white flakes fluttered down to the sands and palm trees of the Sunshine State, folks knew what they were looking at.  On the other hand, most people here in the Big Apple thought the rumbles came from a truck or subway train. Or, like me, they slept through it—even though the epicenter was just a few blocks from my apartment.

I am sure that countless Californians have slept through much stronger shocks. Still, it’s hard not to wonder whether an earthquake—in a city that experiences them about as often as the Jets or the Knicks win championships—on the second morning of the new year is a harbinger of what awaits us.

What finally woke me up? The helicopters that circled over the neighborhood.  Marlee ducked behind the couch. I knew I wouldn’t get back to sleep. So I got dressed, hopped on Tosca—my Mercian fixie—and pedaled into this:

I hope that’s more of a foretelling of the year to come.

After pedaling out to Flushing Meadow-Corona Park, I stopped at Lots ‘O’ Bagels for two whole wheat bagels. In my apartment, I enjoyed them with some English Blue Stilton cheese. Some might say that no true New Yorker would eat a bagel that way but I like the way EBC’s creamy texture complements both the cheese’s pungency and the bagel’s chewiness. I can, however, still claim to be a true New Yorker because I’m not accustomed to earthquakes but got through one, however minor it was. And I started my day with a bike ride. 

A Short Ride On The Longest Night—And The Day After

Last night, I took my Winter Solstice ride.  Although I didn’t plan anything about it—except for one thing, which I’ll mention—I more or less knew I wouldn’t ride a lot of miles or climb. So I rode Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear bike.

The one planned part of my ride took me to a house about a kilometer from my apartment:

The residents of that house, on 23rd Street near the RFK Bridge, turn their porch into a kind of miniature Christmas village every year. The electric trains actually run on their tracks; the Ferris wheel turns and some of the figures walk, dance and even sing.

A few minutes later, I came upon another display that, while not as dynamic, filled the street with its lights and colors. 

I continued to ride. I’m not sure of which motivated me more: those lights and colors, the crisp cold air or the complete absence of traffic. 

About the latter: It was a proverbial “calm before the storm.” Not surprisingly, the holiday rush began this morning: A seemingly endless stream of cars crawled and honked down my street and, it seemed, everywhere: When I took a ride out to the Malcolm X Promenade today, it seemed like everyone in the world was entering or exiting LaGuardia Airport, the Grand Central Parkway or any street leading to them.

As I rode today, I couldn’t help but to think about last night’s ride—and a man who sold fruits and vegetables from a stand in Jackson Heights. I stopped and bought a bunch of red Swiss chard, a string of tomatoes and a small bag of cherries because they looked good—and out of respect to that man who, like me, was outside on the longest night of the year.

The End—Or Just Change?

 

The past few days have been hectic.  It’s “crunch time” at work and I’ve had to attend to a few things that might lead to a change in my life. Whether that will be good or bad, or just change, I don’t know.

I did manage to squeeze in a late-afternoon ride to and from Fort Totten the other day.  I rode Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear, as I often do on short rides. On my way home, I stopped to enjoy the end-of-day light from the Malcolm X Promenade, which rims mFlushing Bay from LaGuardia Airport.

As much as I enjoyed the spectacle, upon looking at a photo I took, I can’t help but to wonder whether it portends what will come from the change, should it come to pass.

Idyll By The Airport

 Ah, the joys of an early morning ride.

You can almost hear the overture from Sprach Zarathustra in the background 

or, perhaps one of those early Infiniti TV ads.

Believe it or not, I chanced upon this scene along the Malcolm X Promenade—about half a kilometer from LaGuardia Airport,

From there, I pedaled out to Fort Totten and back—40 kilometers on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear.  I’d say it’s a respectable “beat the heat” early morning ride.

Fixed Gear eBike: An Oxymoronic Contradiction?

An a capella heavy metal band?

When I first heard about it, a dozen years ago, I thought it was a joke.  Then I heard Van Canto and the combination seemed no more incongruous than, say, Saint Andre cheese on a bagel from Lots O' Bagels. (That's what I ate the other day, on Christmas morning.) And, hey, those guys were doing something I did when I was part of a punk band you've never heard of, and never will:  making a lot of noise with musical instruments and screaming.  

So why am I mentioning an a capella heavy metal band?  Well, knowing about them made what I am about to describe seem less implausible than it might otherwise have seen.  

In case you're new to this blog, or if your cycling is experience is limited, I'll explain a couple of things.  

First, this:  a fixed-gear bike. One of my Mercians--Tosca--is of this type. A single cog screws directly onto the rear hub.  When you ride this type of bike, if the wheels turn, so do your pedals--or vice versa.  In other words, you can't coast, which turns your ride into more of a workout. That is why I often take Tosca on short rides.  It's also the reason why all bikes raced on velodromes--enclosed tracks--have fixed gears: They are more efficient, and therefore capable of greater speeds.

I have to admit that when I ride Tosca, with my legs in continuous motion, it's difficult for me to imagine riding an electric bike, a.k.a., eBike,  which not only allows coasting, but also "assists" the rider.  In other words, a fixed-gear bike seems to be the antithesis of an eBike. 

Indeed it is, in spite of claims to the contrary.  "Fixed gear eBike" is, if you ask me, "click-bait."  If you actually click onto the websites where claims for such a bike are made, you'll find that the "fixed gear" is actually a single-speed freewheel or other drivetrain without a derailleur.

If they're not being deceptive, they simply don't understand the difference between "single speed" and "fixed gear."  It's not difficult for me to imagine an eBike with a single speed freewheel.  For one thing, the two systems would work well together.  For another, folks who'd want an electric, or any other kind of, assist, are also likely to coast for significant parts of their rides.  If they could pedal nonstop, even if only for a few minutes, why would they want an assist--unless, of course, it kept them pedaling?

So...while I can't say with certainty that a fixed-gear eBike is impossible, implausible or even impractical, I don't know how it's possible, necessary or desirable?

A Ride Ahead Of A Storm

 The "once in a generation" weather events are happening, well, more than once in a generation.  

Such an event was predicted for last night and today.  The weather, according to forecasters, would take twists and turns that would cause a script to be rejected as too unbelievable. The day started with temperatures just above freezing.  Then the rain came:  a few drops falling as I returned to my apartment turned into downpours accompanied by high winds.  The temperature rose to springlike levels, but are expected to fall enough to give us the coldest Christmas Eve and Christmas in, well, a generation.

Now, I don't mind riding in rain or wind, or in changing temperatures.  But the predicted combination is not my idea of a backdrop for a good ride.  I think the only one in my orbit who likes this weather is Marlee because it keeps me home with her!

Anyway, I spent about two and a half hours on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear.  Most of our ride rimmed the East River shorelines of Queens and Brooklyn.  As familiar as it all was, I enjoyed it and, more important, noticed something that I missed because I took a turn I wouldn't normally take.

Along the Greenpoint waterfront is the WNYC Transmitter Park, from which our local public radio stations (on AM and FM) sends out the programs that are often the soundtrack when I'm home.  I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to see a mural dedicated to Black Americans who've been killed by police officers.  I think I pay a bit more attention to such things than most White Americans.  Still, I was astounded and, later, ashamed that I didn't recognize many of the names.  What was more disturbing was the knowledge that, as the creators of the murals acknowledge, the "list" is far from complete.

About twenty meters to the right of the BLM mural (or to the mural's left) is another that couldn't be more different.  

Perhaps that is the point:  The woman in the mural looks as White as the paint in her face.   She is as languid as the Sandra Bland, Eric Garner and others in the BLM mural were tense and fearful when they were confronted by constables.  

Oh, and she is lounging on what appears to be a Spring day. I was looking at her, and the BLM mural, on the second day of Winter, as a "once in a generation" storm was approaching.

From Indian Summer To Climate Change

 When I was less enlightened, I called it “Indian Summer.”  That’s how most people in America referred to a series of unseasonably warm days in the Fall. I don’t know what to call it now. “Another sign of climate change,” as accurate as it may be, isn’t quite as catchy as “Indian Summer.”

Whatever one calls it, we had a dose of it on Friday, Saturday and Sunday morning.  The temperature reached 26C (79F).  But we also caught the tail end of Hurricane Nicole. She strafed us with wind and dumped a lot of rain.  One downpour woke up Marlee, who woke me to a view of…a cascade of rain.  It was so thick I couldn’t see beyond my window!

But, a couple of hours after eating my bagel with Saint Andre cheese, the rain stopped.  I took Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear bike for a spin with no particular destination in mind.

After wandering along the North Shore of Queens and Nassau County, I stopped in Fort Totten.  Although I brought my lights, I didn’t want to ride in the dark.  So I knew I’d be headed home when I saw this:

The days definitely are getting shorter.  The season is changing.  So is the climate.

Taste In Destinations

Yesterday morning I kept with my riding plan for this heat wave, which is expected to continue at least until Sunday.  Once again, I set out after quick breakfast--coffee and two English muffins pan-toasted with olive oil, fresh-ground black pepper and rosemary--early.  

(I like butter as much as anyone does.  But I feel that olive oil is more elegant.  Maybe it has to do with my Italian heritage.)

My trip took me to Fort Totten and back, via the Malcolm X Promenade and some zigging and zagging through northeastern Queens residential streets.  All told, I did about 40 km (25 miles) round-trip before 10 am.  And, yes, I did get my fresh Greek yogurt from Kesso's:  Their hours coincided with mine.

At Fort Totten, I could see how hot an humid the day would be--and, in spite of the clear skies at that moment, I could tell, from the haze on Long Island Sound,  that the storm forecast for the afternoon would indeed drop lots of water very quickly and hard:  the thunder almost seemed to be an echo of the rain pounding against the sidewalks.

I felt confident, though, that I would get to my place before the storm.  Maybe it had something to do with riding Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear: I couldn't coast; I had no choice but to pedal.  It felt really good.

 

Somehow I think she knew that house was officer's quarters when Fort Totten was still an active military base. (A small section, fenced off, is still used for Army Reserve exercises, and the Fire Department trains in another part.)  My bikes have such good taste in their destinations!

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!