A Clue To The Next Post

Just before Christmas, I spotted this bike on the Malcolm X Promenade, site of the World's Fair Marina.  

I've ridden that way a couple of times since, and the bike was still in its spot.

The brand decal seems to be "WTC."  That acronym, for me, denotes World Trade Center.  Perhaps some company wanted to say they were "giants" among bikes.

It looks like an old Schwinn Twinn tandem if it were made by Columbia, Huffy or one of the other department-store brand bike makers.  Tell-tale signs include the welded frame joints that aren't built up--and smooth and round--like the ones on the old Schwinns.  Also, the one-piece crank is a cheaper version of what Schwinn used.

 

What I found interesting, though, was the drum brake on the rear.  Schwinn used them on some of their "muscle" bikes and, I believe, their multi-geared Twinns. (Most people, I think, bought the coaster-brake model.)  I don't think it's an Atom--which Schwinn used--or an Arai or Shimano, supplied on higher-level tandems during the 1970s and 1980s.

Anyway, the location of this bike--on Malcolm X Promenade, which curves along the shore of Flushing Bay just east of LaGuardia Airport--is a clue to what awaits you, dear reader, in my next post! 

A Turn: A Curtain Lifts

Why do I take the same rides again and again?

Sometimes I just want to ride on "autopilot":  I don't want to think about navigating.  Or, conversely, I might want to lose myself in the rhythm of pedaling and navigating, especially if I'm weaving through traffic.

But, oddly enough, sometimes I'll ride a route I've pedaled dozens or even hundreds of times before because I somehow know that within the familiarity, I'll see something new:  a turn might reveal a new view of something I've seen for years.

That is what happened the other day, late in the afternoon.  I took Tosca, my Mercian fixie, for a spin along the Flushing Bay Promenade, which starts by LaGuardia Airport and passes the World's Fair Marina and Citi Field on its way to Flushing.

On my way back, I saw a Midtown Manhattan sunset through a scrim of winter branches:

A second or two, a few pedal strokes and a left turn later, the curtain lifted, so to speak:

There is always a show, a spectacle, even on the most quotidian ride.  Maybe that's what's kept me on my bike for all of these years!

  

A Cross I Didn't Have To Bear

It's been a while since I've been to church for anything but a wedding, funeral or memorial service. (At least they weren't my own!) But I have to admit that I at least stop and take notice when I see a cross looming over a landscape, like the Croix de Fer atop Mount Royal in Montreal.

For me, oversized crucifixes are both awe-inspiring and intimidating.  On one hand, I am impressed with the effort it takes to build any large structure that stands out in its environment. On the other, I can't help but to think about people who've been tortured and killed while or by hanging, whether from an upright tree or crossed staffs.  

Sometimes I wonder whether the person who constructed a large cross-like structure intended it to mean more than just its ostensible function--which, in this case, seems to have something to do with sails.

Somehow, seeing it over the water seems especially fitting today, the anniversary of Columbus' "discovery" of the Americas.  (I think Vikings, and possibly even Phoenicians, got here before him.  And neither they nor he "discovered" anything:  There were plenty of people living on this side of the ocean already.)  Colonizers claimed lands in the name of their church as well as the rulers of the countries from which they sailed.

Although I was pedaling into the wind when I saw this "cross" during a ride along the World's Fair Marina, my trek wasn't nearly as difficult as anything a "cross" represents!

 

Getting Home Through The Gate Of Hell

Yesterday I took a late-day ride through central Queens and up to the North Shore.   From Flushing, it's west (actually, west-southwest) to my place.  That allows me to revel in a spectacle or two if I time my ride the way I did yesterday:

Here is the bay at the World's Fair Marina, just east of the airport everybody hates, i.e., LaGuardia.  Yes, that is the midtown and uptown Manhattan skyline in the distance.

From there, I followed the bay and the East River to Astoria Park, which is only a couple of miles from my apartment.  If you've ever taken the train between New York and Boston, you rumbled over this park, which lies underneath one end of the bridge.

That span is known as the Hell Gate Bridge, named for the stretch of waterway under it.  In other posts, I've recounted the origins of the name.  Last night, the visibly strong current helped that stretch of the East River (which is really a tidal estuary) live up to its name.

And I rode under that bridge--through the gate, if you will--to go home.  If riding through Hell is so beautiful, I'm in no hurry to get to Heaven!

Thanksgiving Post-Prandial

I am sure that the ride I took yesterday didn't burn off nearly as many calories as I consumed during Thanksgiving dinner.   I suppose most people could say that the bike ride, walk, run, swim, skate or whatever they took (if, indeed, they took any of those) after their holiday repasts could say  .the same.  

Anyway, yesterday was a lovely day all the way around, from the beginning.  As I left to go to my friends' place, I was greeted by this:

The window is in a building two doors down from where I live.  I had seen the cat once before; if I do say so myself, she knows she's looking at a friend when she sees me.  Were there not a screen (as there was yesterday) or windowpane between us, I'd be stroking and possibly feeding her.  I'm sure she knows that.

What's striking about that cat is that her body is white and she has patches of colors on her head and rear--a reversal of what one normally sees. (Both of my cats have colorful bodies and patches of white.)  One of these days, I'll ask her human how he or she found her.

After spending the afternoon with food and friends (possibly in that order), I snuck out for a ride before dessert.  I tried to capture, on my cell phone, a tree in near-perfect late-fall sunset hue arched over a street.  What I got instead was the beginning of the sunset.  Oh well.

From there, I rambled over to the Worlds' Fair Marina prominade, which rims Flushing Bay from LaGuardia Airport to the Flushing Bridge, a span that provides some of the most necropolitic vistas in this city. Just east of the airport, I chanced upon this schizophrenic scene:

Then I went back for dessert, which added even more calories than I burned off.  But, hey, it was Thanksgiving.  And the food and company were great.

After that, I rode to visit a friend and co-worker in the hospital.  He's in a coronary care unit, where eating isn't allowed, so I couldn't bring any of the food I'd shared with my friends.  It was sad, but it showed me a few things for which I'm thankful. 

P.S. No Black Friday for me!

To The Airport

Today I rode Tosca to the airport.

No, I didn’t embark upon some exotic adventure.  I did nothing more, or less:  I rode to the airport.

 

 

Now, you might be wondering what kind of airport this is, or whether I’ve truly gone mad.  (A few people I know would argue that I can’t “go mad” because you can’t go to someplace where you already are.)  But, I assure you, I rode to an airport.

Unless you’re a fan of dirigibles, have flown private aircraft or know more about the history of aviation than anyone should (or you’re of a certain age), you’ve probably never heard of it.  Now I’ll assure you of something else: It’s just like most other airports in that it’s not located in the place for which it’s named.  Well, not exactly, anyway,

 

Flushing Airport is actually in a Queens neighborhood called College Point—which only briefly had an institution of post-secondary education anywhere within its environs.  The terminal opened in 1927 and, for the first decade of its existence, was the busiest airport in the New York Metropolitan Area.  Believe it or not, it actually had more competition than any area air terminal now has.

 

What most people don’t know is that Newark Airport opened only a year later than Flushing, and LaGuardia a decade after that.  (John F. Kennedy International Airport opened a decade after LaGuardia, under the name of Idlewild.)  And, around the same time that the first aircraft alighted from, and landed in, Flushing, Floyd Bennett Field and a few smaller air terminals opened. 

Like Flushing, most of those early airports are gone.  Floyd Bennett Field became the first Naval Air Station in the United States and, later,  part of the Gateway National Recreation Area and hosts a few bike races, rallies and rides for charity.  Others, like Flushing, are all but forgotten. 

After the first flights departed from, and arrived in, LaGuardia, Flushing served as a staging area for military flights.  After World War II, it served private aircraft as well as skywriters and blimps.

The airport was, unfortunately, the site of several accidents during the 1970’s, including one that killed the pilot and two passengers of a small private plane.  After those accidents, the Federal Aviation Administration determined that Flushing Airport was directly in the flight paths of LaGuardia, JFK and other airports.  (The government needed a study to learn that?)  Finally, in 1984, Flushing Airport was closed.  Even so, it still is listed on the registry of air terminals under the code FLU. 

Since its closure, Flushing Airport has reverted to the marshland it was.  (A creek bisects it.)  The main access road has been blocked off.

 

However, the parking lot is still in use, mainly by contractors. 

 

 

 

 

If nothing else, pedaling by the airport gave me one of the more interesting morning rides I’ve had.  In another irony, Flushing is less than two miles from LaGuardia “as the crow flies”.  Still, it takes about half an hour to drive—or pedal—from one to the other because the irregular shape of the Long Island Sound coastline renders a direct route impossible. 

 

 

 

Driving and pedaling between the two airports takes about the same amount of time because motor vehicles are relegated to the expressways, while cyclists can take a route that, as it turns out, is more direct, via side streets and the World’s Fair Marina promenade. 

Les Alpes Maritimes Sur Flushing Bay

Last night the temperature dropped below 10F for the first time in two years.  When I left my place, it was 12F, and the wind-chill was below zero.

So I did took the most sensible route for today's commute:  the one that takes me along the water.

For a moment, I actually envisioned myself among the snow-capped peaks of the Alps.  I rode up mountains (Avoriaz, Galibier and Colle d'Agnello/Col d'Agnell) whose roads were banked by snow--and whose peaks were covered them--when the weather was warm enough to ride comfortably in shorts and a cycling jersey. 

Today's weather, of course, was nothing like that.  However, I didn't have to do any climbing.  Along the Cote d'Azur and in Liguria, the mountains tumble all the way to the sea.  People who've spent their entire lives in this part of the world probably cannot imagine such a coastline.

This is probably the closest they'll come to seeing anything like it:

 

An After-Work Ride On A Late Fall Day

It seems that fall, as we normally think of it, has come late to this area this year.  Perhaps it has to do with Hurricane Sandy and the subsequent nor'easter, as well as the mild October weather that preceded them.

When I say "fall has come later", I'm thinking about the kind of light and the feel of the air.  Also, I'm thinking about the trees (the ones that are still standing, anyway), which seem to have shed their leaves later and have not taken on the sere, wizened facades so many of them have by this time of year.

Maybe the lateness of the season is one reason why Tosca was so enjoying this part of an after-work ride:

Admit it:  You're not above taking a roll in the leaves.  Tosca is a fine traveling companion; she's entitled.

As she so frolicked, I noticed that the house directly in front of us is for sale:

For decades, members of the Steinway family lived here, in the Astoria Mansion.  At one time, part of their piano workshop was housed on the grounds.  When that business grew (i.e., when Steinway pianos came to be regarded among the world's best), they had to build a bigger factory a few blocks away.

Michael Hiberian died about a year and a half ago after living all of his 82 years in the house.  He'd put the house up for sale a few months before breathing his last in it; now his son is trying to unload it.  At the time the house was put on the market, it had a potential buyer at $5 million.  But that deal fell through, and the current owner is looking for $3 million.

I've never been inside, but from what I'm told, it's even more impressive there than from where I stood.  The problem is that it's in, ironically, what might be the least desirable location in Astoria.  When the house was built, it was surrounded by meadows that rolled into the bay.  The house, on  the highest hill in the area, had some expansive views, to say the least.  But now the house has an even better view of the Con Ed powerplant along the shore--and the bridge to Rikers Island.  Also, in the area around the mansion are warehouses and a cement plant.

Anyway, from there, I continued to ride along the water, past LaGuardia Airport and the World's Fair Marina, to a waterfront area I hadn't seen before--at College Point.

My bikes just love waterfronts and sunsets!  

Commuting Among The Ruins

Today I commuted along the route that includes the promenade along the World's Fair Marina.  I went there, in part, to see the condition of the path.  It was surprisingly good.

However, the shore it skirts didn't fare quite so well.

Nor did the Marina.

Still, I was able to commute with Vera.  In short, I could still ride my bike.  There are some things for which I am grateful.

Verdant Verities And Vera

A few trees in this area--such as the ones I saw on the Canarsie Pier last week--have begun to change color.  A few leaves seem to have fallen, but most of the trees are still green and full.  

However, I noticed another kind of "fall" along the World's Fair Marina promenade as I cycled to work today:

A lot of branches have fallen--or, more precisely, were ripped and broken from their trunks--during the recent storms.  I saw some of the arboreal debris scattered across the path last week; now, it seems, they are being gathered.  In addition to what fell. other limbs have been cut from the trees because they were weak or ready to come off.

Soon these trees will be yellow, orange and red, then brown.  Then they'll be bare.  But one part of my commute will still be green:

Why do you think I call her Vera?  Well, to tell you the truth, the eponymous Pink Floyd song played while I was cleaning her up just after I first got her.  But, still, you have to admit it's an appropriate name--unless, of course, I decide to paint her.  

Getting There: Further Improvement To The World's Fair Marina Promenade

Yesterday I rode along the Worlds Fair Marina promenade on my way to work.  As I reported a couple of weeks ago, the path had been extended to the Northern Boulevard Bridge.  But there was a problem:  access to the Northern Boulevard Bridge.  

To get to the bridge's walkway, you have to cross an entrance ramp to the Grand Central Parkway. The worst part is that it is on a sharp curve, so motorists approaching the ramp are likely not to see cyclists or pedestrians crossing it.   At night, the visibility is even worse.

Well, since my previous post about this route, a crosswalk has been painted, and curbs have been cut at each end of it.  Best of all, there's a traffic signal there. 

Although it's an improvement, I still think there is a problem with the crossing. Because motorists approach it from a curve, they may not see the signal until they are within feet of it.  And, unless there's a traffic jam, they drive through the curve at highway speeds, or close to them. So I have to wonder whether some of those motorists could slow down and stop quickly enough when they approach that crossing.  

So, even though it's safer than it had been, anyone crossing from the bike lane to the bridge needs to be, really, just as cautious as he or she might have been before the improvements.

Getting there....

We Can Get There; Now We Need To Cross

Sometimes I'm thankful for small things.

No, this post won't be about cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudels, although those things are quite nice.  Instead, I'm going to show you something that, I hope, will make one of my rides a bit safer and more pleasant.

I frequently cycle the promenade by the World's Fair Marina, which rims Flushing Bay to the north and east of LaGuardia Airport for about a mile and a quarter.  Until recently, the lane ended rather abruptly at an especially apocalyptic-looking yard that seemed to serve mainly as a parking lot for New York City Department of Transportation trucks.  There, the lane turned into a dirt path that looked--and, when you rode on it, felt--like the Ho Chi Minh trail if it had been on the moon. That is, if you were lucky.  If you weren't, you had to dodge whatever parts the trucks dropped or a hose some cement-mixing company left behind.

Well, the dirt path has been cleaned up, and a concrete sidewalk built on it.  That has improved access to the Northern Boulevard Bridge, which you must cross if you want to continue into Eastern Queens.  But, as nice as the sidewalk/lane extension is, it still has one problem:  It leaves you at an entrance ramp for the Grand Central Parkway.  

Sometimes there isn't much traffic, but at other times, especially on game days (It's near Citi Field), it can be all but impossible to cross.   The worst part, though, is that the point at which you cross is at the end of a curve in the ramp.  So, while you may  not see any cars or trucks coming, they could come zooming from the other side of the turn.

I don't know whether the Department of Transportation plans to install signs or a signal at the crossing--or, for that matter, how much good such things would actually do.  From what I've seen, not many cyclists or pedestrians have been using the bridge.  However, I can't help but to think that it has had to do with the perilous crossing, the until-now-poor condition of the access lane and the narrowness of the bike/pedestrian lane on the bridge.  

Well, at least one part of the trip has improved.  Perhaps there is hope for the rest.

 

Colors At The End Of The Day

On my way home yesterday, I rode the promenade at the World's Fair Marina.  It runs just to the northeast of LaGuardia Airport.

While it isn't the Big Sur, it does have its own local color, especially at the end of the day:

A long, long time ago, one of my science teachers told us that we don't actually see anything; instead, our eyes collect the light reflected from it and form an image that is projected onto our retinae.  I hadn't thought about that in a while, until I saw this photo, which captures, not the sun, but a reflection of it on the water.  

Amazing, isn't it, that even the murky waters of Flushing Bay can provide such a palette of hues?

Isn't it also amazing that cell phones these days can record stuff like this?

Ride To, Or To Ride

Do you ride to go places?  Or, do you go places to ride?

Those questions came to mind when, on my way to work, I saw the gull in the photo circling across an inlet from the World's Fair Marina. That bird had about as un-picturesque a view as any could have:  Between the Home Depot and the orange-and-white "silo" are auto-body shops, a cement factory, scrap-metal yards and some warehouses, punctuated by garbage dumps.  Yet that bird was flying because it needed to and because he/she probably found plenty to eat.

Of course, when we are riding to work, we have a very speicific destination in mind.  And some of our other rides are like that.  But much of the time, when I'm on my bike, I don't care that much about where I'm riding:  I am happy simply to be in the saddle.  Interestingly, today I felt that way for at least part of my commute.

I think Vera was rather enjoying it, too.

Flight, Water and Heat

Today was another beast of a day:  ninety-five degrees, with more humidity than we had yesterday.  I'm definitely not a hot-weather person, but I wanted to get in a ride, however brief.  And I did, until I simply didn't want to deal with the heat anymore.


Time was when I would have soldiered on in even hotter weather than what we had today.  But I'm guessing that I'm still not at 50 percent of my normal condition, so I don't want to take unreasonable chances.  I know, I could ride more if I hydrate.  But I'm not training for any races, and a big tour--if I am going to do another one--is probably two years away.  And, being older and presumably wiser--and without testosterone--I'm not trying to prove anything.

Part of my ride took me along the World's Fair Marina.  It's just north of the site of the two World's Fairs held in New York City. (1939-40 and 1964-65:  I attended the latter as a small child.)  Between the Marina and the Fairgrounds (a.k.a. Flushing Meadow Park) stand Citi Field and the US Open Tennis Center, where Arthur Ashe and others had some of their greatest moments.  Citi Field replaced Shea Stadium, which opened at about the same time as the second Fair in 1964.  Just to the east of everything I've described is everyone's least favorite airport:  LaGuardia.


I did a "slalom" here:

It seems that every structure built around the time of the second Fair was either built by Eero Saarinen or was a copy of or parody of something he did.  A year or two before the Fair, he designed the TWA terminal of the JFK (Don't you love all of these three-letter abbreviations?) International Airport, which has been closed since TWA was grounded about a decade ago.

I remember being in that terminal for the first time when I was about fifteen years old.  One could still feel the romance of flight Antoine Saint Exupery conveyed in books like Vol de Nuit (Night Flight) and Pilote de Guerre. (Why that was translated as Flight to Arras is beyond me.  Then again, I still don't understand how Se Questo e Un Uomo became Survival at Auschwitz.)  And to think that some French teacher ruined him--and French literature--for you when she force-fed you Le Petit Prince!


Anyway...Arielle is still one of my preferred methods of transportation.  She withstood the heat better than I did: