Climbing Away From My Fear Of White Plains

Today I took another ride into Connecticut.  I figured--correctly--that I wouldn't encounter heavy traffic even along Boston Post Road, as Route 1 is known in Westchester County.  Most likely, folks from the Nutmeg State already took off for the weekend yesterday, or even the day before.  Also, riding to Connecticut means riding away from most of the beaches in this area, which is where most travelers are going or have gone this weekend, which includes the Monday holiday of Labor Day.

I thought about taking off for some place or another this weekend.  Now I'm glad I didn't:  The ride I took today is more emotionally relaxing and satisfying than just about any trip I could have taken on a crowded train, plane or bus.  Also, Greenwich, Mianus and Byram aren't full of tourists, and the people who stayed in town are relaxed and friendly.

This weekend, I also plan to ride again and meet a friend or two here in the city, which is strangely idyllic.  Perhaps we'll go to a museum or show, or just "do lunch."

But I digress.  I took slightly different routes through the Bronx and lower Westchester County than I had on previous rides.  I also wandered through an area of Greenwich--up a hill--I hadn't seen before.  There are houses built on stretches of land that could serve as game preserves.  ("Deer crossing" signs were everywhere.)  I stopped in a park where I was reminded that this is indeed the unofficial last weekend of summer, and the fall--the actual season as well as the autumn that includes the march of time across people's lives:

All right, I'm making more of this photo than is really there.  The park itself is a well-kept spread of lawn with a single picnic table.  I didn't want or need anything else.

Behind me, this tree stood authoritatively.  It seemed such an indignity for it to share the same ground, from which it's grown for decades (if not centuries) with a fence and a garbage can.

That tree seems like a New England tree:  It belongs where it is. Trees I see in the city, as lovely as they are, so often seem like they are where they are only at the pleasure of some land owner or agency that can evict or "retire" (I've heard the word used in that way) it to make way for something more profitable or convenient.

The ride back took me up and down more hills, past more palatial estates.  Nowhere did I find a sign one normally finds when leaving or entering a state.  I knew I had crossed back into New York State only because of a sign from the local police department--in Rye Brook--asking people to report drivers who text. 


A few miles up the road, I passed through a city I had always avoided: White Plains.  Somehow the name terrified me:  I always imagined folks even paler than I am chasing away....someone like me?  OK, maybe not me, but certainly most of the students I've had.

(For years, New Hampshire was one of two states that didn't observe Martin Luther King Day.  I actually wondered whether it had something to do with having the White Mountains.  Then I realized Arizona, the other state that didn't recognize MLK Day, had no such excuse!)




White Plains was a bit bland, though not terrible.  It has a road--Mamaroneck Road--that actually becomes rather quaint, in spite of the chain stores on it, after it passes under the highway and continues toward the town for which it's named.

The rest of the ride was as pleasant as the warm afternoon with few clouds and little humidity. Even though I pedaled about 140 kilometers, I barely broke a sweat.  But the relatively pleasant surprise of White Plains was balanced by a signal of The End of the World As We Know It:

The South Bronx is becoming SoBro?  Oh, no! 
 

What I Did To Avoid A Race Today

Yesterday I said I love sports.  Let me qualify that:  I love most sports.  Among the exceptions is horse racing.  Fortunately, I never had to write about it. 

I also have never been keen on dog racing.  In fact, I don't care much for anything that involves training animals to put themselves at risk to entertain humans.  Making animals fight each other simply disgusts me:  I fail to see what is entertaining or even thrilling about bullfighting, cockfighting, dog fighting or camel wrestling. 

Believe it or not, that last abomination exists:  I saw a match when I was in Turkey.  During camel mating season, males are tied up and left in a dark room.  Then, just before they're walked out into the ring, they're adorned with embroidered capes and such.  By the time they get into the ring, at least one of them is foaming at the mouth.  If I were an animal-rights activist rather than the mere animal-lover that I am, I probably would have been foaming at the mouth, too.

Seeing that camel wrestling match was the only thing I hated in Turkey.  I don't get quite that worked up over horse racing; I simply don't care for it.  And, if you are here in the US, you probably know that the Belmont Stakes was run today.  There was a lot of buzz about it because of American Pharaoh, who had the opportunity to become the first horse in thirty-seven years to win the Triple Crown.  He did not disappoint those who bet on him.

What that means is crowds and lots of traffic on the roads leading to the Belmont Park race track, which is 25 to 30 kilometers from my apartment, depending on which route I were to take.  Once I rode in the direction of the track on the day of the Belmont Stakes, and even the side roads and some residential streets were clogged with SUVs piloted by testy, impatient drivers.

So, of course, I made it a point of avoiding all of that today.  Instead of a horse race, I saw another kind of sport:

No, it's not baseball.  It's one of its forerunners:  cricket.  I wish I could have gotten a bit closer, or that I had my camera with me.  I was relegated to taking that photo with my cell phone.  I also had to push my limited skills to the limit to capture this image:

OK.  So now you're thinking, "She went all the way to England to get away from a horse race?"  If only...

Actually, I rode in the opposite direction of the race track and found myself riding through the Bronx and Westchester County.  Believe it or not, both of those photos were taken in the Bronx.

Van Cortlandt Park is the second-largest park in the Bronx and the fourth-largest in New York City.  Its northern boundary is the city line with Westchester County.  To its south and east are longtime Irish enclaves  Norwood and Bedford Park.  That is where the players in the photo live, or have lived.

On a nearby field, there was another game of cricket in progress:

Adjoining Norwood and Bedford Park is one of the city's largest enclaves of immigrants from the Anglophone West Indies, centered along Gun Hill Road.  The players in this photo probably live there, or possibly in one of the West Indian neighborhoods of Brooklyn.  Although there is no Jim Crow policy in place in Van Cortlandt (or anyplace else in New York) and, from what I understand, the players were not segregating themselves by race (they were merely playing with friends and family), it was still a bit jarring to see white players on one field and blacks on another.

The house in the photo is in a nearby neighborhood almost no one would associate with the Bronx.  The street on which I found the house is private, as are the streets surrounding it.  A couple of blocks away is the Fieldston School, where the tuition is higher than the salary I earned in any of the first twenty or so years I worked. 

Anyway...I saw the cricket games on my way up to Westchester County and the house on my way back.  In Westchester, I rode as close as I could to the Hudson River and was treated to a vista of the Palisades:

What most people don't realize about the Hudson is that south of the Tappan Zee, it's not really a river:  It's actually a tidal basin.  And I could tell, by the way the water was churning, that the tide was coming in. It turns brownish-green then and looks more like a river when the tide is out.

I pedaled against the wind going upriver, so the wind blew me back into the Bronx and to my place.  And I avoided the throngs of gas-guzzlers people drove to watch little men drive horses in the service of bettors.
 

Which Way?

Today I hopped on Arielle with no particular direction in mind.  After wandering down a street near the Botanical Gardens, I found myself entering an expressway:  No sign indicated I was pedaling in its direction.  I couldn't very well turn around, so I channeled my adrenaline, remaining testoserone (if indeed I still have any), and all of the aggression I could muster from thinking about the boyfriend who cost me a job and the girlfriend who cost me my sanity (well, sort of) to high-tail it to the next exit, which got me onto a street I'd never heard of before.  But, I figured, that was better than the world hearing about a cyclist who's a direct descendant of Christopher Columbus and inherited his navigational skills.

About half an hour later, I found myself pedaling up and down hills in Westchester County.  I didn't mind; in fact, I was enjoying the challenge, which I needed.  The day was perfectly clear but warmed up quickly, though not oppressively so.  

In my effort to avoid that same wrong turn, I headed back in the direction of the Throgs Neck Bridge.  There's no way to walk or cycle across it, but there's a rather nice (though often crowded) next to it.  Plus, I know my way home, more or less, from there.

The plan worked until I had to detour around a street that was torn open.  I then found myself wandering, and coming to a place I seem to encounter only by accident:  Westchester Square in the Bronx.  In fact,  I've never cycled to the neighborhood intentionally, although I never regretted finding myself there.  From what I've seen--and what Forgotten New York says--it seems like quite an interesting area.  It's one of the most architecturally varied parts of the city, with everything from churches and cemetery structures built early 19th Century to saltbox houses and Art Deco-inspired apartment buildings. Also, the shopping area  and it's odd to find streets with names like "Mayflower" anywhere in the Big Apple.  

I didn't bring my camera with me, but here's a streetscape from Forgotten New York:

Given that I seem to end up in the neighborhood only by accident, I wonder whether I'd get there if I set out for it on my bike!

Crossing Another State Line From Memory

Is Arielle inspiring wanderlust in me?  Or does she have it all on her own, and does she merely take me along for the ride?

Today we crossed another state line.  So that makes two-- Pennsylvania two weeks ago, when I rode to the Delaware Water Gap, and Connecticut today—since my surgery.

Going to New Jersey doesn’t count.  Not really.  Or does it?  We New Yorkers sometimes say that Jersey is a foreign country.  I wonder whether the Brits say that about the eponymous island in the English Channel.  Although it’s a semi-independent part of Great Britain, it’s actually much closer to France and has a language--Jerriais-- that bears more resemblance to French than it does to English.

Then again, lots of people would like to think of anyplace where Snooki would live as a country different from their own. Otherwise, they’d start campaigns to deport her.

Anyway, I started my ride by crossing the RFK Memorial (nee Triboro) Bridge to Randall’s Island and the Bronx, through neighborhoods where women don’t ride bikes.  I made a wrong turn somewhere north of Fordham Road and ended up on a highway and riding a square around the perimeter of the Botanical Gardens.  From there, I managed to find my way to Westchester County.

For someone who lives in New York, I really don’t spend much time in Westchester County.  Occasionally a ride will take me to Yonkers or Mount Vernon, both of which are just over the city line from the Bronx.  But I never have felt much inclination to explore the rest of the county.

Part of the reason might be that my first experience of cycling in Westchester County came the year after I came back from living in France.  That in itself can make Westchester, and lots of places, seem like a comedown.  (I think now of the time I ate a particularly bad take-out dinner the day after returning from a cycling trip through the Pyrenees and the Loire Valley!) But I first entered Westchester County on a bike near the end of a cycling trip from Montreal to New Jersey, where I was living at the time.  I had cycled through some nice Quebec countryside, the Vermont shore of Lake Champlain and the Berkshires before entering New York State near the point where it borders on Massachusetts and Connecticut. 

That night, I slept in a cemetery that was in or near the town of Austerlitz, NY.  It was a clear, moonlit and pleasantly cool evening.  I had no idea (and wouldn’t find out until the next day) where I was, and I had almost no money left.  So I simply rolled out my sleeping bag.   I slept fine:  There was absolutely nothing to disturb me.  And I guess I was a good neighbor.

After all that, Westchester County seemed like just a place with lots of big houses and lawns and a bunch of golf courses.  It wasn’t bad; it was just a bit of a letdown, I guess.

Later, Westchester would become the place where friends of Eva, Elizabeth and Tammy lived.  And all of those friends didn’t like me, or so it seemed.  Going to their homes felt a bit like going to the in-laws’ or to a relative of one of your parents—and that relative didn’t like your other parent, and saw you as his/her child.

Fortunately, I didn’t think about any of those things today.  I didn’t see as many houses that seemed like ostentatious versions of houses the owners saw on their European trips as I recall seeing in previous treks through the county.  And, when I stopped in a gas station/convenience store for a bottle of iced tea, I saw the friendliest and most polite attendant I have seen in a long time.  He’s from Liberia.

I hadn’t started out with the intention of going to Connecticut.  But after stopping at the gas station/convenience store, I realized that I wasn’t far from the Mamaroneck harbor.  So I rode there, along a fairly meandering road where two drivers pulled over to ask me whether I knew how to get to the Westchester Mall.  It’s funny:  People assume that because you’re on a bike, you live nearby and are familiar with the area.

From Mamaroneck, I took another road that zigged and zagged toward and away from the shore of Long Island Sound to Rye.  There, I knew that I wasn’t far from Connecticut, so I continued along the road to Port Chester, the last town before the border.

I only took a few photos, and none of them came out well.  But that part of the ride was pleasant, even charming at times.  Then, after crossing the state line, I ventured up the road into downtown Greenwich.  I’d have gone further, but I started later than I intended to and didn’t particularly want to ride the last few miles of my trip in the dark.  I’m not adverse to night riding; I just didn’t feel like doing it tonight.

In Greenwich, about half a mile from the state line, there’s an Acura dealer.  Just up the road from it is an Aston Martin/Bentley dealer, and a bit further up the road are a BMW, then a Mercedes, dealership.  So, I’m guessing that the annual per-capita income of that town is probably not much less than I’ve made in my entire life.

On my way back, I rode down Huguenot Avenue.  It’s in Little Rock.  Actually, it’s in  New Rochelle, a town founded by the people for whom the avenue is named. (The town is named for La Rochelle, the French port from which most of them sailed.  “Rochelle” means “little rock.”)  If any of you recall The Dick Van Dyke show, which featured a young Mary Tyler Moore, you’re old.  Seriously, you might remember that the show took place in New Rochelle.  The town has changed a bit since then, as you can see from new structures like this:

It connects the local Trump Tower (How many of those things are there?) with another building on the other side of the Avenue.  I wonder whether cyclists are allowed to ride in it.