Sometimes I start a ride with no particular
destination or itinerary in mind.
Believe it or not, every multiday tour I have ever taken was such a
ride. I would buy a plane ticket to
Paris or San Francisco or Rome or some other place and bring my bike, bike
luggage and whatever I planned on carrying in the bike luggage with me. Then, upon arriving at Charles de Gaulle or
Fiumicino or SFO, I would decide to ride in one direction or another and decide
on destinations—or, more precisely, a series of destinations—some time after
checking into a hostel and looking at a Lonely Planet guide or a Michelin map.
It’s easier to do such things when you’re
young—and male. Although I never stopped
riding altogether, save for a few months after my surgery, I don’t have nearly
as much strength or endurance as I did when I was still living as a man. Also, because of the circumstances of my
life, I don’t have as much disposable income as I did as a male in my thirties.
(It must also be said that I was in my thirties during the ‘90’s, when the
dollar went so much further abroad as well as in its own country!) But I sometimes go on day rides when without
a set route, or even destination in mind.
It gives me, however briefly, the same sense of freedom I used to feel
when embarking upon those multiday tours.
More often, though, I find that I start a ride
with a destination or route in mind and find myself changing my mind when on
the road. Call me fickle if you will,
but sometimes external factors—or a simple turn—can cause me to change my
ride. The latter is what happened to me
today.
I intended to ride to Somerville so I could see
the races. And I had a vision of riding
home as the late-afternoon early summer sun descended the Watchung hills on my
way back to the city. That last vision
came to pass, but for reasons I hadn’t planned.
For one thing, I started riding a few hours later
than I intended. I still could have made
it to Somerville in time to see some of the later criteriums. And, although I was pedaling into a wind
blowing out of the west, from the hills I was ascending, I was still making
fairly good time. I was riding up more
hills than I did on previous rides to Somerville because I took—part of me says
unintentionally, but another part of me would claim or credit my subconscious—a
slightly different, and unfamiliar, route.
In spite of my relative unfamiliarity with the route, I knew I was going
in the right general direction.
Neighborhoods that haven’t quite recovered from
riots nearly half a century ago gave way to suburbs and, finally, rather
charming little towns with real old-time shopping strips and, in one town, an
“opera house”.
Late in the 19th, and early in the 20th,
centuries, nearly any town of any significance had an “opera house”. Now, those places weren’t staging productions
of Tosca or The Marriage of Figaro.
Rather, they showed musical plays or vaudeville acts. When “moving pictures” came out, they were
often shown in such halls.
Some of those “opera houses” were merely
workmanlike or had a kind of sentimental charm.
But others were, if not masterpieces, at least interesting works of
architecture. Sadly, some were lost
during “urban renewal” or other “development” schemes. But others, like the one I’m showing in this
post, were converted to everything from art galleries to concert spaces to
restaurants.
My ride included that opera house as well as hills
and meandering river valley. Somehow I
lost my incentive to see the races; it became very, very satisfying for me to
ride through moments, light and the warmth of the sun on my skin. I didn’t see
any place exotic. Perhaps that will come
again another day. But for today, I was
happy. I didn’t take the ride I’d
planned, but perhaps I took the one I needed.
