Celebration Rides

Yesterday's post was rather depressing, if necessary.  So today I'll be a bit more cheerful.  Or, at least, I'll follow Walt Whitman and celebrate myself.

Last Thursday, on the Fourth, I said I'd "sneak in" a ride before going to a barbecue with friends.  Well, that barbecue started a bit later than planned and, of course, there was no rule about being there when it started.  

When does a barbecue "start" anyway?  When the first burger or chicken wing is placed on the grill?  Or when the first one is eaten?  Even if you can fix a "start" time, when is someone "late" for a barbecue?  When the food runs out?  

Cyclists Resting at the Top of Pendle Hill by Gosha Gibek

Anyway, the ride I "snuck" in took me to Connecticut and back:  137 kilometers, or about 85 miles.  

A ride and a barbecue:  Really, what more could I want on my birthday--which just happens to be US Independence Day!


The other day, I celebrated another "birthday".  On Sunday, the 7th, I took another ride to Connecticut. I took a longer route, though, from Rye to the Nutmeg State, over a series of roads that climbed ridges and looped around farms north of Greenwich.  Then I descended one of those ridges into the town of Greenwich.  In all, I rode 169 kilometers, or 105 miles.

When I set out on my ride, though, I didn't realize I was celebrating another "birthday":  It's something that occurred to me while I was climbing one of the ridges.  On that day, exactly ten years ago (7 July 2009), I had my gender reassignment surgery.  It kept me off my bike for a few months and I started this blog not long after I started riding again.

Oh, and while I was riding/celebrating, the US Women's Soccer/Football team won the World Cup.  If I were just a little more self-centered, I'd say they did it for me, or there was some sort of cosmic convergence.  But I have just enough humility to believe in coincidences that I can't explain.

Then again, when you can celebrate, do you really need to explain?

Celebrating Myself And The Soul Clapping Its Hands And SInging

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,

Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,

I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,

Hoping to cease not till death.

 I am, ahem, a bit older than thirty-seven.  And this blog is a good bit younger than that.

So you can be forgiven for wondering why I'm starting this post with the first part of Walt Whitman's Song of Myself.

Well, you know, writers and English instructors are supposed to use pithy quotes from their favorite writers.  But seriously...I feel that Whitman's verses encapsulate much of the spirit of this blog--and this day.

You see, this blog turns four years old today.  So, it's lasted as long as a US Presidential term (and a gubernatorial term in most states).  It's also lasted as long as the average American stays on any particular job. (My friend Lakythia, with whom I rode yesterday, works in workforce development and mentioned that particular fact.)  And, ahem (What does it tell you when you see two "ahem"s in one post), it's as long as I was married.  When I look back, I'm amazed it lasted that long.


But back to Whitman and this blog:  I guess one might say that this blog is a celebration of myself.  Perhaps a blog about one's personal experiences, feelings and such is, by definition, just that.  Some might say it's self-indulgent.  Perhaps it is.   But even the most self-effacing person, let alone an entire culture, does not survive without celebrating him/her/itself, even if in small ways.

Seen while loafing and inviting my soul during a stop in St. Luke's garden in Greenwich Village

We also survive, at least in part, by loafing and inviting our souls.  Scientists have emphasized the importance of daydreaming, imagining as well as various other kinds of playing and "down" time in everything from the development of a child to the creative processes of everyone from poets to physicists, artists to entrepreneurs.  Perhaps my accomplishments are small compared to those of others and the footprint I've made--and will leave behind--will be minimal.  But it's hard for me to imagine my accomplishments and triumphs, such as they are, without cycling. 

Sooner or later I'm going to update the masthead photos: People tell me I look a bit different now and, of course, the bikes do, too, with the bags Ely of Ruth Works made for me.  Since it's loafing, if you will, I'm not going to rush any of it.  I tried soliciting donations and advertising, to no avail. Really, I am not disappointed with that:  This is a labor of love.  And cycling has made so many other things possible in my life that I simply can't begrudge whatever I didn't make from this blog.

Anyway..,It makes a certain amount of sense to do what I'm going to do next:  close with a quote from William Butler Yeats. For one thing, I often find myself looking at Yeats after I look at Whitman.  But, for another,in his Sailing To Byzantium, he gave the best advice one can get after loafing and inviting his or her soul.  It's a pretty fair summation of what I feel when I'm cycling:  Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing/ For every tatter in its mortal dress.

Sleepless As What's Under Them

The other day I got out for a bit of a ride.  On my way home, I passed through the Brooklyn Heights and Cobble Hill neighborhoods of Brooklyn.  

The Heights abuts the waterfront and the Hill is next door.  Both neighborhoods have been the home of a number of writers, especially poets--including the ones everyone's heard of like Walt Whitman, Hart Crane and Marianne Moore and ones only readers of this blog have heard of, like yours truly.

Anyway, much of the Heights gentrified decades ago--in fact, one of the first landmarked districts in the United States lies within the neighborhood.  Cobble Hill is also turning into an enclave of young professionals and families.  

One result of those demographic changes--and shifts in the city's, nation's and world's economy--is that much of the city's maritime history is disappearing.  I know about those developments firsthand:  Two of my uncles were maritime workers and their union headquarters once occupied an entire square block, and a good part of another, in South Brooklyn.  One of my early birthdays was celebrated in its reception hall; so were milestones in the lives of other family members of longshoremen and other workers.  Now that square-block sized building is occupied by the largest Muslim elementary school in America and the maritime workers are relegated only to a couple of offices in the other building.

One of the last remaining vestiges of the work those men (almost all of them were male) did is seen on this building I passed on Atlantic Avenue, near Clinton Street:

The former headquarters and workshop of John Curtin's sail-making operation is now condominums, with a restaurant and Urban Outfitters store in its street-level studios. 

Riding through the neighborhood made me think of this passage from Hart Crane's masterwork The Bridge:

 Sleepless as the river under thee,
Vaulting the sea, the prairies’ dreaming sod,
Unto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend
And of the curveship lend a myth to God.

Celebrating Everyday Rides

I actually studied poetry with Allen Ginsberg.  In addition to what I learned about my own writing, the experience furthered my appreciation for the poetry of Walt Whitman and--although he never mentioned his work--Pablo Neruda.  They, and Allen, are poets who celebrated common things and people.  So did Vachel Lindsay, but I never caught Allen's enthusiasm for his work.

Although Allen himself was never a cyclist, I feel that in some way, it was appropriate for me, as a cyclist, to have worked with him.  After all, cycling brings us closer to the common things (and people) those poets celebrated.  That is probably the reason why my bike tours of the French countryside are among my most treasured experiences.

However, even on a normal commute--or a wide to "unwind" after work, we can see beauty in the quotidian:

Last night, I managed to take a spin down to Sheepshead Bay after work.  I arrived to find these regal and mysterious-looking swans.

And, just a little while ago, I was treated to this sight at the end of the day:

 

If cycling didn't help me to appreciate everyday sights, I don't know what could have!

Another Song At Sunset

Every year, there are two or three days that I would love to continue for about eight or ten weeks.  In other words, I'd like to turn days like those into seasons.  Today was one of those days.  


The day started rather brisk, but still nice for cycling.  So, by the time I got to my regular job, I was in a good, almost giddy, mood.  Along the way, I passed and was passed by all different kinds of cyclists, and they were all friendly.  Even the drivers seemed patient.  The same thing happened as I cycled from my main to my part-time job.

And, at sunset, everything just seemed positively radiant.  I couldn't help but to think of these lines from Whitman's Song At Sunset:

Splendor of ended day, floating and filling me! 
Hour prophetic—hour resuming the past! 
Inflating my throat—you, divine average! 
You, Earth and Life, till the last ray gleams, I sing.