Autumn began yesterday morning.
It’s not easy being green, in any season!
Showing posts with label bicycling at the beginning of fall. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bicycling at the beginning of fall. Show all posts
23 September 2024
22 September 2017
To Fall!
Today the autumnal equinox arrives at 4:02 pm EDT.
I'll be on my bike by then. In fact, I might have even finished my ride.
I haven't decided where I'm riding. Then again, apart from the usual changes (Is that phrase an oxymoron?)--you know, the shorter days and the changing colors of the leaves--we never really know what a new season will bring, do we?
For that matter, you or I can take a ride we've taken dozens or even hundreds of times before. We know the way; we know the terrain and the road conditions. But we don't always know what lies ahead on any given day, on any given ride.
Out for a ride. On to a new season.
I'll be on my bike by then. In fact, I might have even finished my ride.
I haven't decided where I'm riding. Then again, apart from the usual changes (Is that phrase an oxymoron?)--you know, the shorter days and the changing colors of the leaves--we never really know what a new season will bring, do we?
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| From Treehugger |
For that matter, you or I can take a ride we've taken dozens or even hundreds of times before. We know the way; we know the terrain and the road conditions. But we don't always know what lies ahead on any given day, on any given ride.
Out for a ride. On to a new season.
01 October 2016
Autumn, Perhaps. But Not Fall, Not Yet.
Do you call it "autumn" or "fall"?
I like the sound of "autumn", especially in French (automne), Italian (autonno) and Spanish (otono, with a squiggle over the "n"). However, "fall" is more picturesque and evocative.
Whatever you call it, we're officially a little more than a week into the season here in the Northern Hemisphere. Some places are more autumnal; others are more fall-like.
To me, the season becomes "fall" when, well, the leaves change color and fall. Normally, that wouldn't begin to happen in this part of the world for another week or so. Weather forecasters, however, are saying the blaze of color will come later than normal this year because we have had a hot, dry summer and have had--so far--a warm, dry autumn.
While riding today, I saw some signs of autumn, though not in foliage. Rather, I felt the telltale nip in the air and noticed the light becoming more muted. Sooner or later we will be fall, complete with leaves that reflect the flaring and setting of the sun, something I look forward to as much as I await the blooming of cherry blossoms and lilacs at the beginning of spring.
For now, I will have to content myself with images like this, from a 2011 posting of Kansas Cyclist:
I like the sound of "autumn", especially in French (automne), Italian (autonno) and Spanish (otono, with a squiggle over the "n"). However, "fall" is more picturesque and evocative.
Whatever you call it, we're officially a little more than a week into the season here in the Northern Hemisphere. Some places are more autumnal; others are more fall-like.
To me, the season becomes "fall" when, well, the leaves change color and fall. Normally, that wouldn't begin to happen in this part of the world for another week or so. Weather forecasters, however, are saying the blaze of color will come later than normal this year because we have had a hot, dry summer and have had--so far--a warm, dry autumn.
While riding today, I saw some signs of autumn, though not in foliage. Rather, I felt the telltale nip in the air and noticed the light becoming more muted. Sooner or later we will be fall, complete with leaves that reflect the flaring and setting of the sun, something I look forward to as much as I await the blooming of cherry blossoms and lilacs at the beginning of spring.
For now, I will have to content myself with images like this, from a 2011 posting of Kansas Cyclist:
25 September 2016
The Beginnings Of Change
Today I took a ride down to the Rockaways, and along the South Shore of Queens and Brooklyn.
The skies were even clearer than they were at the end of my ride yesterday, and the Atlantic tides seemed benign and powerful at the same time, much like today's sunlight.
Still, I found myself overtaken--at moments, overwhelmed--with melancholy. The cool breezes and low tides evoked sense-memories of rides I took, alone, along the Jersey Shore between Sandy Hook and Point Pleasant Beach during my teen years, especially during the fall of my senior year in high school.
By that time, my mother knew I wasn't going to Mass anymore, even though I didn't tell anyone else--including, ironically, my father, who had even less religious belief (though, as it turned out, more belief in a Supreme Being or Higher Power or some such thing) than I have ever had. Mother knew I was going on bike rides when I told everyone else--or led them to believe--I was going to church. She wasn't happy about that, but, really, she couldn't say much about it, as she hadn't been to church herself in decades.
I took those rides because I loved riding--but also because I simply couldn't be with anyone else on Sundays, at least before dinner time. That's when I had to be home; the hour was not stipulated, but I always knew it was some time around three in the afternoon.
During the fall of my senior year in high school, it seemed that nothing else mattered. At least, all I cared about on Sundays were riding and my mother's lasagna and salads. I had no idea of where I'd be a year later: I'd applied to a few colleges and to West Point and Annapolis--I would receive nominations to each of them--but, honestly, I didn't care which of them would take me, or whether none would. About all I knew was that everyone I saw every day that year, I would never see again. And, save for my mother, father, siblings and grandmother, I would probably never hear from anyone again.
Pedaling along the sea, along the curved rainbows the tides left, even if only for an instant, in the sand, was my only solace. I had two friends during my high school years: one died, of lukemia, during the early days of my senior year, a couple of weeks before the autumnal equinox. I still miss her. And the other, as much as I liked him, I knew we wouldn't remain in contact for long afterward: What we had in common was being the geeks, the outcasts, in that school.
Riding along the sea was my escape--no, it was my life itself--that year. I don't know how I would have survived without it. I imagined pedaling across the ocean, to Portugal, to Spain, to Morocco, to France--France!--and Italy and England. I had never been to any of those places; they were somewhere on the other side of the tides I saw on the horizon.
If I could have ridden to those places, I would have. If I could have done nothing but ride that year--and for many years afterward--I would have. The cycling buddies I would later meet would have understood why I wanted to ride; but, interestingly, my mother--who has not ridden since her childhood--might have been the only person in my life at that time who understood--though, perhaps, she might not have been able to articulate it--why I not only wanted it, but needed--and still need--it.
Somehow, I think she also understands that, in some way, that need is, and was, related to the necessity--the inevitability--of my gender transition. Riding kept me sane, to whatever degree I was sane--or, at least, intact--and for a time, racing as well as long rides up and down mountains helped to channel the anger and aggression I felt. So, when I called her today and, during our conversation, I told her about my ride, I could almost hear her recognition of the deja vu.
After all, I took a ride along the shore on the first Sunday of Fall.
The skies were even clearer than they were at the end of my ride yesterday, and the Atlantic tides seemed benign and powerful at the same time, much like today's sunlight.
Still, I found myself overtaken--at moments, overwhelmed--with melancholy. The cool breezes and low tides evoked sense-memories of rides I took, alone, along the Jersey Shore between Sandy Hook and Point Pleasant Beach during my teen years, especially during the fall of my senior year in high school.
By that time, my mother knew I wasn't going to Mass anymore, even though I didn't tell anyone else--including, ironically, my father, who had even less religious belief (though, as it turned out, more belief in a Supreme Being or Higher Power or some such thing) than I have ever had. Mother knew I was going on bike rides when I told everyone else--or led them to believe--I was going to church. She wasn't happy about that, but, really, she couldn't say much about it, as she hadn't been to church herself in decades.
I took those rides because I loved riding--but also because I simply couldn't be with anyone else on Sundays, at least before dinner time. That's when I had to be home; the hour was not stipulated, but I always knew it was some time around three in the afternoon.
During the fall of my senior year in high school, it seemed that nothing else mattered. At least, all I cared about on Sundays were riding and my mother's lasagna and salads. I had no idea of where I'd be a year later: I'd applied to a few colleges and to West Point and Annapolis--I would receive nominations to each of them--but, honestly, I didn't care which of them would take me, or whether none would. About all I knew was that everyone I saw every day that year, I would never see again. And, save for my mother, father, siblings and grandmother, I would probably never hear from anyone again.
Pedaling along the sea, along the curved rainbows the tides left, even if only for an instant, in the sand, was my only solace. I had two friends during my high school years: one died, of lukemia, during the early days of my senior year, a couple of weeks before the autumnal equinox. I still miss her. And the other, as much as I liked him, I knew we wouldn't remain in contact for long afterward: What we had in common was being the geeks, the outcasts, in that school.
Riding along the sea was my escape--no, it was my life itself--that year. I don't know how I would have survived without it. I imagined pedaling across the ocean, to Portugal, to Spain, to Morocco, to France--France!--and Italy and England. I had never been to any of those places; they were somewhere on the other side of the tides I saw on the horizon.
If I could have ridden to those places, I would have. If I could have done nothing but ride that year--and for many years afterward--I would have. The cycling buddies I would later meet would have understood why I wanted to ride; but, interestingly, my mother--who has not ridden since her childhood--might have been the only person in my life at that time who understood--though, perhaps, she might not have been able to articulate it--why I not only wanted it, but needed--and still need--it.
Somehow, I think she also understands that, in some way, that need is, and was, related to the necessity--the inevitability--of my gender transition. Riding kept me sane, to whatever degree I was sane--or, at least, intact--and for a time, racing as well as long rides up and down mountains helped to channel the anger and aggression I felt. So, when I called her today and, during our conversation, I told her about my ride, I could almost hear her recognition of the deja vu.
After all, I took a ride along the shore on the first Sunday of Fall.
24 September 2016
Following Bliss At The Beginning Of Fall (Apologies to Joseph Campbell)
Fall began the other day, though you wouldn't have known it from the weather. Today was more like it: cool and breezy, with bright sunshine showing, like the leaves, just the slightest hints of change in hue.
This also means the days are growing shorter. So, if you want to ride the same number of miles or kilometers you were riding a few weeks earlier--in daylight--you have to leave earlier in the morning. Or ride faster.
Today I woke up later than I anticipated. Still, I decided to sit and enjoy a breakfast you won't find at very many training tables. I blame the nice, warm baguettes I encountered in the bakery two blocks from my apartment. (Well, now you know one reason why I'm not as skinny as I was!) And I just happened to have a nice, ripe slice of Brie in my refrigerator. I took it out before I set out for the bakery. When I got back, it hadn't started to run, but oozed flavor nonetheless.
Perhaps incongruously, I washed everything down with green tea. I find, increasingly, that it's what I prefer to drink before a ride, especially since I've started to keep un-bagged tea (from Japan, no less) and an infuser in my apartment. I'm going to keep those things in my office, too!
(Of course, while in Paris, I drank coffee before rides. Why wouldn't I? Who goes there to drink tea?)
Yesterday the weather forecasters told us that last night we would have rain and wind, which would bring in the weather we had today--which began with a heavy cloud cover that broke up through the morning. Hearing that prediction, I planned on taking a ride to Connecticut. But I wondered how realistic that plan would be, at least if I wanted to get home in daylight. After all, it was nearly noon when I got on my bike.
And I started my ride in the teeth of a 30KPH wind. I realized that, if I wanted to return home in daylight, I had three choices: push myself, ride to Connecticut and, if need be, take the train home from there or some other point on the way back, or just ride as far as I could in a couple of hours and turn back, whether or not I reached Greenwich.
Just about all the way up, I was pedaling into that wind. But the ride wasn't as strenuous as I expected. Perhaps it had something to do with the weather: temperatures of 12 to 17 C (55 to 64 F) with muted but gradually brightening sunshine. Also, I was riding Arielle, my Mercian Audax, which always seems to make me faster, without trying. And, hey, I was just feeling so, so good simply to be out riding!
Even though I took the long route up--which also happens to be the route with more hills--I got to Greenwich more quickly than I expected: about two hours and forty-five minutes. That meant about three and a half hours to sunset. And I would have the wind at my back!
Mind you, I wasn't trying to better a personal record (I didn't) or prove anything to myself. I simply felt so good today that I couldn't help but to have a great ride. And, of course, Arielle gives such a smooth ride that I can keep on pedaling without pain, without strain and still get a good workout.
Oh...When I got home, I still had a bit more than half an hour to spare before the sun would begin to set, having pedaled 140 kilometers--and lounged for about half an hour in the public garden by Greenwich Hospital. Most important, though, I felt so, so good!
23 September 2015
Cycling In Autumn--Or Fall?
So...Is today the first day of "fall"? Or is it the first day of "autumn"?
Whichever word you choose, it's the season that began this morning in this part of the world (i.e., the Northern Hemisphere). Most people use "Fall" most of the time. I do, too, at least when I'm speaking. Using "autumn" in most everyday speech sounds affected or like a translation from another language. At least, that's how most English-speakers hear it, I think.
But each of those words has its purpose and flavor. "Fall" is both visual and visceral: You can picture leaves dropping from branches and feel the descent from the fulsomeness of summer. "Autumn", on the other hand, has more of a melancholy feel to it: You can hear the echo of sadness being born, of an ache that is just beginning to pulse. "Fall" is what happens in parables and allegories; "autumn" is what reverberates through poems from poets as diverse as John Keats, Stephane Mallarme, Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson and Edgar Allan Poe.
Today I discovered a very good reason why cyclists should say "autumn" instead of "fall". It's not that we need polysyllables to make ourselves look smart. Rather, if you Google "cycling autumn", you will see images of people riding bikes along paths and roads ablaze with trees that have turned from green into the colors of the setting sun, as well as links to websites with information about rides in places like Vermont, where people are riding (or will soon ride) along those paths and roads. You will also find advice on what to wear and eat, and reasons why cycling in autumn is so "awesome". (The assonance of "autumn" and "awesome" alone is reason to ride this season!)
On the other hand, if you Google "cycling fall", you'll find some of those same images and websites. But you'll also see pictures of riders tumbling off their bikes and "worst bike crashes" videos. You'll also find articles on how to prevent falls and the things that can happen to you if you do happen to take a spill while on two wheels.
Now you tell me: Are you cycling in autumn, or fall?
Whichever word you choose, it's the season that began this morning in this part of the world (i.e., the Northern Hemisphere). Most people use "Fall" most of the time. I do, too, at least when I'm speaking. Using "autumn" in most everyday speech sounds affected or like a translation from another language. At least, that's how most English-speakers hear it, I think.
But each of those words has its purpose and flavor. "Fall" is both visual and visceral: You can picture leaves dropping from branches and feel the descent from the fulsomeness of summer. "Autumn", on the other hand, has more of a melancholy feel to it: You can hear the echo of sadness being born, of an ache that is just beginning to pulse. "Fall" is what happens in parables and allegories; "autumn" is what reverberates through poems from poets as diverse as John Keats, Stephane Mallarme, Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson and Edgar Allan Poe.
 |
| From Wheelsuckers (UK) |
Today I discovered a very good reason why cyclists should say "autumn" instead of "fall". It's not that we need polysyllables to make ourselves look smart. Rather, if you Google "cycling autumn", you will see images of people riding bikes along paths and roads ablaze with trees that have turned from green into the colors of the setting sun, as well as links to websites with information about rides in places like Vermont, where people are riding (or will soon ride) along those paths and roads. You will also find advice on what to wear and eat, and reasons why cycling in autumn is so "awesome". (The assonance of "autumn" and "awesome" alone is reason to ride this season!)
 |
| From Cycling across America |
On the other hand, if you Google "cycling fall", you'll find some of those same images and websites. But you'll also see pictures of riders tumbling off their bikes and "worst bike crashes" videos. You'll also find articles on how to prevent falls and the things that can happen to you if you do happen to take a spill while on two wheels.
Now you tell me: Are you cycling in autumn, or fall?
29 September 2013
The Season Changes And Everything's Right Again--For Now
It just figures: As soon as my by started functioning again, my computer stopped.
What that's meant is that the other day, I did my first 100K+ ride in more than a month. And I had near-prefect conditions for riding--but not for posting on this blog!
Anyway, it felt like my first fall ride. I know that it was, according to the calendar. But everything about the sea, sky and their light made it seem, in the most sensual ways, that the season had indeed changed.
The sky, though overcast, brought no real threat of rain. Rather, it spread like a quilt made of leaves grown sere if not heavy over a skin that has darkened as it remained translucent. Perhaps it is the reason why I felt comforted, but not tired, by the time I got to Point Lookout, even though I'd been pedaling into the wind and, as I mentioned, I hadn't taken a long (or even longish) ride in some time.
Riding home with the wind made me feel as if I were bringing the power of the muted and diffuse, though not dim, light the sea and sky spread with the new season.
What that's meant is that the other day, I did my first 100K+ ride in more than a month. And I had near-prefect conditions for riding--but not for posting on this blog!
Anyway, it felt like my first fall ride. I know that it was, according to the calendar. But everything about the sea, sky and their light made it seem, in the most sensual ways, that the season had indeed changed.
The sky, though overcast, brought no real threat of rain. Rather, it spread like a quilt made of leaves grown sere if not heavy over a skin that has darkened as it remained translucent. Perhaps it is the reason why I felt comforted, but not tired, by the time I got to Point Lookout, even though I'd been pedaling into the wind and, as I mentioned, I hadn't taken a long (or even longish) ride in some time.
Riding home with the wind made me feel as if I were bringing the power of the muted and diffuse, though not dim, light the sea and sky spread with the new season.
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