A Surprise During A Ride Without A Plan

Errands and things that weren’t so complicated that a politician or lawyer couldn’t further complicate them took up my morning.  

So, by afternoon, I wanted—and needed—to ride  I had no destination or route in mind.  I didn’t even know which bike I’d ride.  For some reason, Marlee sniffed around La-Vande, my King of Mercia. For some other reason, that was the reason I wheeled her out my door.

I zigged and zagged along waterfront promenades and side streets from my Astoria neighborhood to Williamsburg. From there, a detour led me into industrial areas of East Williamsburg and Bushwick where I found myself following a string of graffiti murals that seemed to unfurl like a videographic collage along my ride and led me to this:

The word “truck” over the window hints at the building’s former role as a tire shop.  Given the location, drivers or owners of those hulking industrial vehicles were no doubt most of their customers.

The new clientele, I imagine, are more likely to be fixing or fueling their psyches and, perhaps, accompanying friends, dates or partners than to be hauling steel stock or power tools.  The Bushwick Triangle—where Johnson and Scott Avenues intersect with Flushing Avenue—is a lounge.

Even with its new look and purpose, its shape reminds me of a much larger and more famous structure:  the Flatiron Building, often cited as New York City’s first skyscraper  Somehow, though, I can’t imagine it adorned with a mural like the one on the Bushwick Triangle—even if the Flatiron’s owners were inclined to, and the city allowed, it.

I am glad, however, to have encountered a fun and interesting visual surprise during a ride for which I had no plan.

Riding Into The Season's Light

Sometimes I ride into sunrises.

Sometimes I pedal into sunsets.

Sometimes the day dawns as it ends.

Sometimes the day ends as a season continues.

And they're all journeys of light.

The other day, after work, Dee-Lilah--my custom Mercian Vincitore Special--took me into such a journey.

From a block away, I felt as I could see the day, the season, coming to us as we approached this tree

and it filled me with its light.

Do I need a better reason to ride?

 

In Place

Yesterday I was torn between taking a familiar or a new ride.  So I did a bit of both:  I pedaled through areas of Westchester County I hadn’t seen in a while, on roads I’d never ridden.

While riding, I couldn’t help but to think about how two affluent towns, so close, could feel so different. Scarsdale, New York, like Greenwich, Connecticut, is one of the most affluent towns in the United States.  Both have quaint downtowns full of shops that offer goods and services you don’t find in big-box stores.  But while some Greenwich establishments have the intimacy of places where generations of people have congregated, others are like the ones in Scarsdale and other wealthy parts of Westchester County:  more self-conscious—you can see it in the names, some of which show merely that whoever came up with the name took French or Italian—and more trendy while trying not to seem trendy.  

Also, the mansions of Greenwich are set further from the roadway than those in Scarsdale.  I suspect that has to do with the differences between the towns’ zoning codes—which has to do with the philosophies of the people who made them.  Also, part of Greenwich includes farms where horses are bred and herbs are grown.

In other words, they reflect the difference between New England and suburban New York wealth (though Greenwich is certainly part of the New York Metro area). 

While both towns have public art and sculpture, I don’t think I’ve seen anything like this in Greenwich:

Simone Kestelman, the creator of “Pearls of Wisdom,” says she was inspired by what pearls mean: something to wear for special occasions, purity, spiritual transformation, dignity, charity honesty, integrity—and, of course, wisdom acquired over time.

One might expect to see something like this in Greenwich:

Indeed, the town has public horlogues like that one,  But I encountered it in the Bronx, across the street from Montefiore Hospital!

A Spring Afternoon Reverie

Yesterday marked the last time until mid-August that the sun set before 20h ( 8pm).  Still, I had plenty of time to get in a Point Lookout ride--120 kilometers (75 miles):  I took a couple of detours in Long Beach and near Forest Park-- and get home before dark. even though I didn't start until about 14h (2 pm). During my last mile, along 31st Avenue in Astoria, I was literally pedaling into the sunset. Oh, an I had the wind at my back, as I did on my way back.  That, and the colorful sky, felt like a reward for pedaling into a brisk wind all the way out.  

In short, it was a perfect Spring afternoon ride.  Also, an interesting one, even though I've taken it many times before.  You see, when I started, hardly a cloud veiled the bright blue sky.  The temperature, around 20C (68F) seemed to be on the rise, though the wind, of course, made it feel cooler.  I rode through this seeming diorama of an idyllic spring afternoon until I crossed the Addobo Bridge from Howard Beach to Beach Channel.

Beach Channel, or BC, as its residents and fans like to call it, includes part of the Gateway National Recreation Area. It occupies an isthmus washed by Jamaica Bay.  And I mean washed--Superstorm Sandy really dumped its fury there.  Most of the damaged areas have been repaired or rebuilt, and the residential parts look something like a cross between Sea Bright, a Jersey shore locale where I did a lot of riding during my high school years, and a New England fishing village.  In other words, it's easy to forget you're still in New York City--and many residents rarely seem to, rarely, if ever, going to Manhattan or even Brooklyn or other parts of Queens. 

And the weather, along with that in the Rockaways, often differs dramatically from that on the other side of the Addobo Bridge.  At this time of year, you can feel the temperature drop a few degrees as you cross the bridge, and even further when you cross the Veterans' Memorial Bridge into the Rockaways.  Now, the water temperature is about 10C (50F) in both the bay and Atlantic Ocean.  The wind blowing off those bodies of water--which I rode into on my way out and blew me back home--can also change the skies:

As much as I love a sunny day, I also love the light that seemed to fill with the sea.  As thick as those clouds are, they posed absolutely no threat of rain.  If you've spent a lot of time in a coastal area, you've probably a similar veil of clouds rippling across the face of the sun and sky, especially early and in the middle of Spring.

All of it, while riding, opens my senses.  That alone makes such a ride a treat, almost a guilty pleasure! 

To Their Own Hues, And Others

Earlier today, I wrote a post about something people might not associate with Spring:  a survivor pedaling among the wreckage of Mariupol.

To me, this season is about the living beings who make it through winter--whether it's a season of cold, snow and darkness or the death and destruction of war (another kind of darkness) as well as the new life that rises, whether from the ashes or a well-tended garden.

Because I've encountered the latter on afternoon rides, I am more fortunate than the cyclist in my earlier post.  It's funny, though, how Dee-Lilah (my custom Mercian Vincitore Special), Vera (my Miss Mercian), La-Vande (my custom King of Mercia) and Tosca (my Mercian fixie) always seem to find reflections of themselves.

Or, at least they, in their differing shades of purple, are drawn like moths to the flame of color.

Even if it isn't their own.

 

Rest And The Path Ahead

 I wanted to ride this afternoon, but I wasn’t feeling adventurous.  Perhaps it has to do with the year ending:  Starting new journeys seems more appropriate for a new year.

So I rode to the Flushing Bay Promenade, recently renamed the Malcolm X Promenade.  He lived in nearby East Elmhurst, along with other luminaries like Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie and Ella Fitzgerald.

The ride is pleasant enough, sort of like comfort food for me and my bikes.  I rode up and down the promenade a few times, in part to get into a physical and mental “groove,” but also because of two men.

Short and squat but broad-shouldered and thick-fingered, they looked like the sort of Central American immigrants who wait at strategic but discreet intersections in residential neighborhoods where contractors, landscapers and other small business people hire people like them as day laborers.  

Such people work and sleep hard, wherever they can. So it’s unusual to see men like them dozing on park benches.  

But were they sleeping ?

Their faces, which probably would have been colored like terra cota or the earth from which they came, instead looked as if they’d been worn to reflect the gray sky and water. One man’s hand drooped in front of him, his fingers frozen in a grip of something no longer there.  

The other man’s head was cocked to his side, as if he stopped himself from resting it on the other man’s shoulders—or a pillow he realized wasn’t there.

A mobile phone propped between them played bouncy conga drum and stringed music.  But it could just as well have emitted “elevator music,” for all of the effect it had on them.

Finally, when I rode by them for the sixth time, I think, the man with the cocked head stirred. 

“¿Estás bien?” I shouted. He nodded.

“¿Necesitas algo?” He moved his head slowly from side to  side.

“¿Estás seguro?” Another nod.

“OK. Feliz año nuevo.” Even if they’re OK, I hope the path ahead is easier and clearer for them in the coming year.

At least the ride back was, for me.

I Didn’t Miss The Train

 Yesterday afternoon, I unwound myself with a no-destination ride.  I have no idea of how many miles or kilometers I pedaled.  All I know is: a.) I was hungry when I got home (I fed Marlee first!) and b.) I wandered through Brooklyn neighborhoods seen by almost no one who doesn’t live in them—streets where women in long dresses and thick hosiery pushed baby carriages while young men in colorful shirts chatted and swaggered to the beat of Bob Marley songs and other sounds from Jamaica, other parts of the Caribbean and Africa.

I also wended down streets in a neck of Queens between Jamaica Bay and the Hawtree Inlet.  The narrow streets, some barely or not at all paved, could just as well be part of a New England or Gulf fishing village.  It would be easy to believe they weren’t part of the New York City borough of Queens were it not for this:

Part of the neighborhood—Hamilton Beach* —lies within the Gateway National Recreation Area, which includes parts of the New York and New Jersey coastlines.  The West Hamilton Beach part might well be the only part of the US National Park system that has a municipal railway running through it.

That subway line is the A train—yes, the one in Duke Ellington’s song.  The Hamilton Beach section of Gateway is about 30 miles as the crow (or seagull or egret or whatever bird you like) flies from Harlem.  As Ellington reminds us, if you miss the A train, you’ve missed the fastest way to Harlem—especially from one of New York’s most remote locales.

Fortunately, I was riding Negrosa, my vintage Mercian Olympic, so I didn’t have to worry about missing the train.

*—Although the neighborhood shares its name with a brand of kitchen appliances, there is no relation between them.  Supposedly, the community is named for two of its early developers.

Fun Fact:  Hamilton Beach is one of the few NYC communities with a volunteer fire department!

A Chorus Of Purple Echoes A Spring Ride

 How do I reward myself on a gorgeous mid-Spring afternoon after a busy morning?

With a bike ride, of course!

I did another one of my aimless wanders along Queens and Brooklyn streets.  I felt no need to ride to any particular place; I simply wanted to fill myself with the light and air of this season, and to stimulate my senses in as many ways as I could in a couple of hours.

Early in my ride, I wended along the paths by the Long Island City piers, a.k.a. Gantry State Park.  I don't know who does the gardening there, but whoever they are, they're outdoing themselves every season, every year.

OK, if you've been reading this blog for a while--or if you just look at the pictures of my bikes--you know what colors I like best.  I could look at any and all purple flowers--lilacs, wisteria blooms, asters--all day.  But I really like the way the gardeners used the different shapes and heights of the blooms to make a chorus of purple.

Ah, the rewards of cycling!

Another Fine Afternoon RIde

If I took a fine Spring ride the other day, yesterday's spin to Point Lookout would be my first summer ride of the year, sort of.

On Tuesday I began just after noon and got home from Connecticut in time for dinner.  The day began cloudy and chilly but sunlight--and warmth--broke through.  Yesterday, I began a bit before noon and rode through an afternoon when clear skies and bright sun brought the temperature up to 83F (28C), at least in the central parts of the city.

Most of my rides to Point Lookout, including the one I took yesterday, include crossing the Veterans Memorial Bridge. It spans Jamaica Bay and leads to the Rockaway Beach, a string of land barely a kilometer wide that separates the bay from the Atlantic Ocean. 

At this time of year, "mainland" Queens and Manhattan might bask in summery air, if for a day.  But the waters are just emerging from winter:  The ocean temperature at Rockaway Beach was 9C, or 48F, yesterday. The water temperature of Jamaica Bay probably wasn't much higher. That meant the air temperature dropped by about 15 degrees F, or seemed to, when I crossed the bridge and another couple of degrees when I reached the boardwalk.

Not that I minded.  The sun shone so brightly and other cyclists and strollers seemed to be in a good mood.  Also, the wind blew out of the northwest:  in my face for most of the way out, and at my back for most of the way back.

Today bouts of showers are punctuating a cloudy but still warm day.  I might try to sneak in a quick ride between spritzes.  But I'm happy that, for two days in a row, I managed to get in what would normally be, at this time of year, day rides in the space of an afternoon.

Colors Of An Afternoon Ride

 Yesterday I took advantage of the lengthening stretches of daylight:  I took another noon-to-dinner ride that didn't require the lights I brought with me.

As I did last Tuesday, I pedaled to Connecticut and back.  My ride started cloudy and chilly just before noon.  But, by the time I reached Greenwich, clouds opened and sunlight filtered through.  Along the way, cherry blossom, wisteria and lilac flowers seemed to burst with more color with every moment.  

Then there were the tulips on the Greenwich Common Memorial.

 They are in full bloom now.  So, of course, they are bursting with color.  This purple one isn't an "outsider" or as lonely as William Wordsworth's cloud:   Its hue, like the reds and yellows behind it,  seem to be fuller, and more intense, after a couple of hours of riding

Or were my perceptions influenced by the chocolate (Ghirardelli 92 percent) I munched?  I can't help but to believe that it--or Lindt's or, of course, craft dark chocolates--are drugs Dr. Hofmann himself would have envied!

The Hole At The End Of The Day

Late today, I took Negrosa, my black Mercian Olympic, on a no-planned-destination ride.

After zigzagging through some industrial areas and blocks of brick rowhouses, I descended the long hill from Ridgewood, Queens to Cypress Hills, Brooklyn.  After some more zigging and zagging along and around the Brooklyn-Queens border, I found myself in a place I hadn't visited in a while.

"The Hole," which I've mentioned in earlier posts, is an alternative universe between Brooklyn and Queens, near the South Shore of both boroughs.  The land--and incongruously-named  streets (Ruby, Sapphire, Amber)--drop suddenly behind a shopping center and a row of doctors office-type buildings on Linden Boulevard.  Not much seems to have changed since the last time I visited:

My guess is that those who live and work--legitimately or not--in the area want to keep it that way. Why else would they stay in a place that practically forces them to live and work like Okies or folks in rural Appalachia before World War II?  I mean, it's still not hooked up to the city's sewer systems and some aren't even on the electrical grid.  Oh, and I can't think of any place else in this city where a yard can fill with junked cars or school buses without attracting the attention of the Health Department.

A couple of guys, who were working on a truck, noticed me and nodded.  As obvious an outsider as I am, I guess they didn't see me as a threat.

I am a cyclist, after all.

Seaside Archaeology

We're just a couple of days from the autumnal equinox.  I've noticed the decreasing amount of daylight although, interestingly, about two weeks ago, the days weren't much shorter than they were when I was in Siem Reap, which is around the 13th parallel north of the equator.

But I know that in the coming weeks it will be more difficult to "sneak in" a long afternoon ride. (I'm not afraid to ride in the dark; I just prefer to ride in daylight.)  So, today, I set out for the ocean and made it to Point Lookout.

I wonder when "construction" of the Lookout spot--and beach--will end.

It looks more like destruction to me.

Perhaps, one day, whatever life forms are living on this planet will chance upon sites like these and wonder what sort of creatures roamed this land.

Of course, they would never surmise that such beings ambled forth on conveyances like this:

into vistas like this:

  

How I Wandered Into Common Sense

If you're a regular reader of this blog, you have seen a few photos of me riding, and a few more with one or more of my bikes.

Now, if you are a truly committed and dedicated reader of this blog (translation:  if you are reading this blog when you should be riding), you might have wondered what I look like when I write these posts.

Well, today I am going to reveal all:

All right, so I don't have an outfit like that.  And if I did, why would I wear it while writing--or riding?

That is actually a figure of Thomas Paine writing "Common Sense".  At least, that's how someone remembers or imagines him writing it.

So, apart from the fact that he wrote one of the most important documents in American--and possibly human--history, why am I showing an image of him?

Well, this afternoon I snuck out for a ride.   I got done what I needed to get done and scarcely a cloud was besmudging the sky.  So, out I went, with no particular destination in mind--although I kinda sorta started on one of my routes to Connecticut.

But I took a couple of turns I wouldn't normally take and found myself pedaling up and down hills in unfamiliar parts of somewhat familiar towns.  After riding up a hill to avoid traffic headed for the Thruway, I came upon this:

Yes, Thomas Paine lived here.  No, he didn't ride that bike.

Thomas Paine lived in this house from 1802 to 1806.  It was originally one of several buildings on a 300-acre farm the State of New York gave him for his service to the state, and the cause of independence.  The State had seized the farm from Frederick DeVeaux to punish him for treason:  He worked as a spy for the Crown during the Revolution.

The house contains a number of artifacts as well as some charts and dioramas describing, among other things, the roles Jews and the descendants of the Huguenot settlers of New Rochelle played in the Revolution.  (The city was founded by Huguenots from La Rochelle, France, who were escaping the wars of religion.)  

One interesting fact I learned is that the Hessians weren't actually mercenaries, at least in the way we define that term today.  They were conscripted into their national armies, and the Landgrave (Prince) could basically use them as he saw fit.  In essence, Landgrave Frederick II of Hesse-Cassel rented those troops to King George III--whose grandfather, George II, just happened to be Frederick's father-in-law.  And Frederick pocketed the money.

Today the house sits in a part of New Rochelle with sprawling houses and lawns.  In addition to the old house, another remnant of the farm remains

one that suggests, if obliquely, one of Thomas Paine's occupations before he became a pamphleteer:

Yes, he was a sailor.  No doubt he guided boats in or out of another stop on my trip this afternoon:

Mamaroneck is just a couple of towns up from New Rochelle on the western end of Long Island Sound.  Not surprisingly, its harbor is a favorite spot for walkers and idlers, as well as a destination for cyclists.  And a wedding party or two has been known to be held there.

I can't help but to wonder whether Thomas Paine was looking out toward that expanse of water when he envisioned a new nation free from the rule of a king on the other side of the ocean.

Playing Hooky--Sort Of

Yesterday and the day before, the weather was more like May--or even June!--than February.  Best of all, I managed to get out of work early enough the other day, and have enough time between classes and a late-day meeting yesterday, to do some non-commute riding.

I wasn't really "playing hooky", but I like to feel as if I were.  (Do people who say "as if I were" play hooky?)  In my defense, I'll say that I took my "guilty pleasures" in the Bronx, where I work.

New York City's most maligned borough has some of the most amazing murals.  I saw this one while riding a bike lane in the Hunts Point Market area that must have opened in the last year or two.  At least, I hadn't ridden there in a year or two, until the other day.  

Then I took in a view of the East River and South and North Brother Islands--the latter of which was the site of one of the worst maritime disasters in this city's history--from Barretto Park.

Not a bad way to end a work day, don't you think?

Now It's Arielle's Turn!

Today Arielle, my Mercian Audax, decided she wanted to "go camouflage".  After all, if Tosca (my Mercian fixie) could do  it, why shouldn't she?

I couldn't argue with her logic.  So, this afternoon, I took her out on a ride that somehow or another (ha, ha!) ended up in Connecticut.  Why not?  The day was utterly gorgeous, and the high temperature reached 25 C (77F), much lower than what we experienced on Sunday, as was the humidity.

Anyway, before the "camo" shot, I made her pose for something a bit more revealing.  She seemed not to mind:

then a front shot

and one from the rear

Finally, she got her wish.  Now, I took the photos with my cell phone, so they aren't the best.  But the sun was so bright that the light purple flowers seemed to be reflections of the sun:

All in all, I had another great day and great day.  Good thing:  Rain is forecast for tomorrow.   Maybe it's time to ride one of my fendered friends.

Afternoon Delight With The Rocket Thrower

I had an Afternoon Delight today.  No, it didn't have anything to do with that.  This is a blog for PG audiences!

All right, that all depends on how you define PG.  Anyway, my afternoon delight was a short but sweet (ah, the cliches!) ride via a circuitous route to Flushing Medow Park.

Tosca seemed content to ride and fade into the background.  She had the chance:

I mean, if she wanted to camoflauge herself, could she have picked a better spot?

Actually, I think she looked quite lovely there.  The folks in the New York City Parks Department do a nice job.

Even if the arrangement had consisted entirely of lilies, Tosca would have been hiding in plain sight of this icon:

The Rocket Thrower clearly has his sights elsewhere.  Good thing:  He probably wouldn't want to see some of the things that go on right at his feet.  

For that matter, he probably wouldn't want to hear, either.  When he was unveiled, for the opening of the 1964-65 World's Fair (held in Flushing Meadow Park), some people said absolutely terrible things about him.  One of the most merciless was the New York Times art critic (who else?) John Canady described The Rocket Thrower as "the most lamentable monster, making Walt Disney look like Leonardo da Vinci".

Robert Moses, the "master builder" behind the Worlds' Fair, famously sneered, "Critics build nothing".  So, perhaps, it isn't a surprise that he tried to console Donald De Lue, the sculptor of The Rocket Thrower.  "This is the greatest compliment you could have," Moses said.  "[Canady] hates everything that is good."

Hmm...I'll admit, it certainly doesn't compare to Da Vinci or Michelangelo or Rodin.  Or even Brancusi.  But it fits into something like a Worlds' Fair, especially one in the age of space exploration.  And, on his lofty perch, nobody can take "selfies" with him!