Springtime:Sashaying down the street to show off new shoes, outfits or hairdos.
For cyclists, it can mean pedaling down the path on a new set of wheels or in a new jersey (in New Jersey?).
For Tosca, my Mercian fixie, a Spring afternoon included a photo op to show off her tuneup. She always seems to find the right flowers for a photo-op!
It was a perfect Spring afternoon: The breeze made me feel even lighter than the air around the sun-flecked leaves and flowers.
On such an afternoon, I feel as if I could ride forever. This afternoon, I felt as if I would ride forever, that I would continue yesterday’s ride—to Connecticut—and the ones I’ve taken along boulevards, through forests and among chateaux.
I didn’t wind my way along the Loire to Amboise. But I did ride to a castle, of sorts.
Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear, was begging for me to take her picture. Of course: Who or what wouldn’t look good in the light of our ride? I think she—and I—were both feeling good after I finally gave her a long-needed Spring tuneup.
We stopped at the garden in front of St. Raymond’s Church where, I’m told, a certain family with a daughter named Jennifer attended mass every Sunday.
She also attended a nearby Catholic school, since closed, before anyone outside the neighborhood knew about her.
Yes, I’m talking about J-Lo. I hear she and Ben are breaking up again. Still, things must be easier for her than they are for someone else who grew up a neighborhood over (to which I also rode today). I mean, imagine being Sonia Sotomayor and having to look at Sam, Clarence after they destroyed the very thing that made her and other women’s lives possible, even if they never had to avail themselves to what it allows. I’m no legal scholar, but I can’t help but to think that the “juice” for Title IX, passed in 1972, was supplied a few months later when a very different Supreme Court decided on Roe v. Wade.
Anyway, I wasn’t thinking about that as I rode. If anything, I was simply reveling in having a couple of hours to ride in what are probably the best conditions we experience in this part of the world—and exploring what is, for now, my part of it.
What is your favorite time of year for cycling?
For me, the answer has varied throughout my life. I guess it had a lot to do with my over-arching mood at that time in my life. For example, I have loved Fall riding at different times for the colorful foliage, the sunset light that simmers into a chill, or just the melancholy (definition: aesthetically sad) feeling.
Right now, I might say the month of May because--ironically--because of its colors, which include many shades of purple. But one thing I truly love is that there is more daylight with each day: a trend that will continue until late in June, when Summer begins.
Those extra minutes and hours of daylight mean that even if I am busy during the morning and afternoon, I can take a ride late in the day. I have lights, but I prefer to ride in daylight whenever I can.
Which I did yesterday. After pedaling to the World Trade Center, I took the PATH train to Jersey City and rode down to Bayonne, where I crossed the bridge into Staten Island--and the Ferry.
I took these photos with my iPhone. Depending on which way I turned, each was recorded as a different locality. This one is recorded as "Bayonne"
.jpg)
and these are "Brooklyn"
Even this
which is every tourist's vision of the Manhattan skyline, is marked "Brooklyn." I took all of those photos within a couple of minutes, from the ferry deck, and did nothing more than turn at a slightly different angle with each shot.
Ironically, I would ride through Brooklyn on my way home.
I have to admit that along with the mental and physical health benefits—and sheer pleasure—cycling has given me, something that keeps me in the saddle is that it still feels subversive sometimes.
During my junior and senior years in high school, I definitely was pedaling to my own drummer (or guitar player: they were my real musical heroes, along with Bob Dylan) when my peers were leaving their Schwinn Varsities and Continentals, Raleigh Records and Grand Prixes (Is that the proper plural?) and, in a few cases, Peugeot UO8s, the moment they got their drivers’ permits.
Since then, I’ve been in the minority for most of my life: In previous posts, I recalled how I often pedaled rural roads, suburban subdivisions and city streets without encountering another adult cyclist. Then, as now, some saw me as a nuisance or even a threat: Even during the last years of the Cold War, a man or woman astride two wheels instead of behind one and on four was linked, in some minds to socialism or communism (which, although different, were and are conflated).
Even today, as adults—mainly young ones—riding to school or work, or for fun, are more common here in New York and in other places, I still feel that bicycles are vehicles, if you will, for changes.
I was reminded of that during a late-day ride, when I was greeted by this grand dame at MOMA/PS1.
Along the way, I pedaled along a familiar path on the Long Island City waterfront. If I were just a little more self-centered (which would be saying something!), I’d say the Parks Department landscapers were paving the way for me.
I’m told that people whose favorite color is purple tend to march, or pedal, to their own drummer, or guitarist or lyricist.
The other day, I enjoyed a nearly perfect ride to Connecticut and back. An overnight rain broke the weekend’s heat wave and I pedaled, with a brisk wind against my face on my way up and at my back on the ride back, under a clear sky accented by light cirrus brushstrokes.
When I’m enjoying such a trip, such a day, I never realize how lucky I am and, however ephemeral that privilege may be, it’s still more than so many other people have —and how much more orderly yet joyful my world can be—even if only for a few hours—than what lies not far beyond.
Yesterday I learned, from my friend Lillian—who is recovering from a back injury and wants to ride with me again—that a mutual friend, Glenda, had passed away around four in the morning. That wasn’t much of a surprise, as her lung cancer was overtaking her doctors ‘ ability to treat it and her body’s ability to resist.
She also told me that Edwin, for whom we sometimes ran errands, did other things beyond his computer skills and simply provided company, passed on Thursday. That, of course, solved the mystery of why we hadn’t heard from him though, of course, that was neither a relief nor a consolation.
Oh, and there was another mass shooting in a school. The cynic in me is not surprised: In a country whose mantra is, “Children are the future,” we haven’t made it more difficult to get assault weapons or easier to get mental health care, educational services or stable housing and employment since, in an eerily similar incident almost a decade ago, 28 kids and two teachers were murdered in a Connecticut school. Or since, more than a decade before that, a dozen students and two teachers were slaughtered in a Colorado high school. Or after any number of attacks during those years.
That I can say “any number” of such incidents is a sad commentary on the situation in this country. So is the supermarket shooting in Buffalo a week and a half ago. Again, my cynicism kicks in: That horror doesn’t surprise me because if nothing changed after white kids were gunned down, I’m anticipating even less after a tragedy in which the victims were Black and, mostly, elderly.
So why am I invoking the Howard Cosell rule and ranting about such things on my cycling blog? Well, it seems almost frivolous to talk about anything else. For another, I wanted to express my understanding of my good fortune, though I am trying to avoid a lapse into guilt. Finally, though, I trust that you, dear readers, and cyclists in general, have a good sense of justice.
