Bet You Can't Ride Just One

Do you actually ride all of those bikes?

You've probably heard that question from the non-cyclists in your life.  I try to explain that even though each of my rides might look similar, they actually offer different kinds of rides, based on their geometry, frame material and components (especially wheels and tires).  

So, my answer is, yes--though, if I'm feeling a bit snarky, I might add, "but not at the same time.  I'm working on that."

Well, last weekend I did manage to ride three of my bikes in three days.  On Friday afternoon, I took Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear, for a spin along the waterfronts of Queens and Brooklyn.

Saturday was the sort of gloriously sunny and brisk early fall-day that riding dreams are made of.  What better day to ride to Connecticut--on Dee-Lilah, my delightful Mercian Vincitore Special.

I'll say more about her accessories--the bags--in another post.   For now, I'll just say that I like them a lot, and while they're not the easiest to acquire, they're worth waiting for.  

And yesterday I took another ride along the waterfronts, mainly because I didn't want to turn it into an all-day (or even all-morning or all-afternoon) ride, as I'd promised to spend some time with someone who can't ride--and some quality time to Marlee.  I didn't take any photos of the bike I rode--Negrosa, my vintage Mercian Olympic, but she's pretty much how you remember her if you've seen her in some earlier posts.

So, while I didn't ride all of my bikes, I think I varied my rides enough to feel justified in having, well, more than one bike!

I Rode Under This "Canopy"

 On Saturday, I did my 140 km ride to the Greenwich Commons, in Connecticut, and bike.  It was the first time I'd done the ride in nearly a month.  I decided on that ride because, well, it's become a favorite and clear skies, brisk breeze and high temperature of 24 C (about 75F) belied the hideous conditions that prevailed a couple of days earlier, when Ida breached my apartment.  

As lovely as the day was, I wondered what I'd find in Ida's wake.  There wasn't as much water as I'd expected but, not surprisingly, I encountered a few downed trees, including this one on the path through Pelham Bay Park in the Bronx:

Where others would see an obstacle that would detour or turn them back, I saw a canopy.  The "arc" was just barely high enough for me to ride through, bent down with my hands gripping the bottom of my Nitto 177 bars. But I made it through, slowing down only slightly.

I encountered a few large fallen branches along the back streets of Rye and Port Chester, and Glenville Street, which winds through woodlands and along the edge of the gentry's estates in Connecticut.  But at least I could easily ride around those, even if it wasn't as (ego-) gratifying as riding under the "canopy" in Pelham Bay Park.  

Different Rides, Different Folks

 There are some things non-cyclists just don’t believe, or understand.

About the former:  my neighbor and new riding partner, Lillian, has a friend named Beverly who can’t ride. Her husband—whom I knew slightly before I met Beverly—is a gruff blue-collar Queens guy who reminds me a bit of Frank Barone of “Everybody Loves Raymond.” He’s seen me on a bicycle, and knows I ride, but simply does not believe it’s possible to pedal to Connecticut.  Mind you, he doesn’t believe that I, personally, can traverse distances: He simply doesn’t think it can be done.

Well, I rode to Connecticut on Saturday,—after trekking to Point Lookout on Friday and spending Thursday pedaling to Freeport and up to the North Shore.  Moreover, I did each ride on  different bike: 

 Dee-Lilah, my prize Mercian Vincitore Special to Connecticut

Negrosa, my vintage Mercian Olympic, to Freeport and the North Shore, and

a bike I’ll mention later to Point Lookout.

Oh, and I took a spin to Bayside on Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear, yesterday morning.

All of that brings me to the second point of this post.  I did four rides on four different bikes.  Most non-cyclists can’t understand having more than one bike.  

Cloud Chase To Connecticut

 Yesterday was, for me, a great day to ride:  A predawn thunderstorm dissipated the heat of the previous few days, and masses of clouds moved across the sky, revealing the sun just long enough to brighten up the ride without bearing down on my melanin-deprived skin.

So I took a ride to Greenwich, Connecticut.  Along the way I felt I was playing hide-and-seek with the sun and clouds.  The clouds caught up at the Greenwich Common, where they retreated behind the Veterans’ Monument—and trees like the ones on the Connecticut state quarter—in full bloom.

I Made It Home This Time

 I finished my ride yesterday.

Normally, that would hardly be worth mentioning, especially since it's one I've done many times before:  to Greenwich, Connecticut and back.

Yesterday, however, marked one year since the crash that ended the life of Arielle, my Mercian Audax Special.  It was my first Mercian, so the loss was all the more painful.

Yesterday, I mostly retraced the route I took one year earlier. I must admit that I slowed down a bit more than I needed to, and was especially wary, when I made the turn onto Bonnefoy Avenue in New Rochelle.  That is where I crashed:  about 30 kilometers from home. Instead of home, I spent the rest of that weekend in Montefiore-New Rochelle's emergency room and Westchester Medical Center's trauma unit.

I was transferred to the latter facility because of the the impact to my face and head.  There was "slight" bleeding around my brain, but that healed relatively quickly.  After a month, I was back to riding more or less the way I was before.

 

Ironically, the "dooring" incident I suffered late in October kept me off my bike for longer, and led to a slower recovery, but the accident in New Rochelle had the potential to be more serious.  Once the bleeding around my brain subsided and there were no signs of a concussion, I was able to ride without pain:  the wounds to my face, while they required stitches, looked worse than they actually were.  On the other hand, after the "dooring," I suffered deep lacerations and injuries to my right thigh muscles and knee.  

I didn't finish that ride, either.  But I made it home yesterday, from Connecticut--and made myself a sumptuous dinner of cavatelli with broccoli rabe and fresh mozzerella, and a dessert of a fresh peach and cherries.

Say It Won't Close!

Many years ago (Can I still say I'm in "midlife" if I can use a phrase like that?), I worked at Buck's Rock Creative Work Camp.  Aside from having one of the strangest names of any place in which I've ever worked, that place taught me things I probably wouldn't have learned any other way.

About the name:  Until someone encouraged me to apply to work there, I thought a "work camp" was a place where wayward youth were sent--a stop between reform school and "juvie."  So how could a "work camp" be creative?

Well, Buck's Rock was a camp for creative work:  Kids could spend their time in art, sculpture or dance studios, at the radio station, practicing and playing musical instruments or engaged in crafts like woodworking, batik or weaving.  A farm bordered on the camp; campers could attend to chickens, goats or other animals if they didn't want to indulge in their artistic impulses (or if they didn't have such urges:  some campers were rich kids whose parents' involvement with them was inversely proportional to how much money they had).  

So what was I doing there?  Well, there was also a creative writing workshop.  I was a "counselor" there:  I worked one-on-one with young poets, fiction writers and other scribes.  Two other writers worked with me to conduct group activities and the occasional class, which we tried to make as little like the classes to which they were accustomed as we could.

As you might guess, it was an important experience for me because it was the first time I was paid for working with people on their writing and, if you want to use the term loosely, teaching.  I also met two people who are friends to this day.  In addition, I  came to understand, a little, a world completely apart from the blue-collar Brooklyn and New Jersey enclaves in which I grew up.  Most of the kids came from neighborhoods like the Upper East and West Sides.  Some went to boarding schools, and came home only at Christmastime and for a week or two between the end of the school year and the beginning of camp.  During that time, they didn't see their parents:  Nannies, au pairs or housekeepers tended to them.  More than one kid told me they talked to me than they talked to their parents!

That is one reason I chose not to return for a second summer.  I really liked working with the kids--aged 12 to 18--with their poems and stories, and sometimes playing chess or softball, or simply talking, with them.  But that last part was sometimes heartbreaking:  I came to the realization that they needed an adult they could trust and confide in more than they needed that camp.  Then, perhaps, they would have been healthier:  Even when I worked in a children's hospital and as a writer-in-residence in schools located in some of New York's poorest neighborhoods, I never saw kids who were sick, whether physically or emotionally, as I did at that camp.

Another reason I didn't want to go back is that I did almost no cycling that summer.  You see, I was on site around the clock; I got one day (literally:  24 hours) off every two weeks.  That was the only time I could leave the premises.  So, while I learned more about some of my passions, the experience took me away from another--and I learned that I don't want to live and work in the same place.  (Many people have come to that realization during the past year!)

Our time off really didn't leave much time except to go from one place to another and back, as the camp was in a pretty remote location.  Also, I was on camp with someone with whom I would elope and, a few years later, break up. (Is it a divorce when you break up an elopement?  Is "elopement" even a word in English?) She was about as far from being a cyclist as anyone I've ever met: In fact, she was all but allergic to any form of physical exercise except one, if you know what I mean. We did manage to get the same days off and went to some nearby hotel or cottage where she could get her exercise, which she didn't like to do alone.

On our way to wherever we went to work out, we'd stop in the town.  I would leave her for an hour or so--our only time apart--to look in a gift shop or some other place while I browsed and chatted with the folks in Bike Express.  It was frustrating to look at and talk about bikes when I couldn't ride; they understood and indulged my browsing.  I think I bought a couple of things I wouldn't use, of course, until the summer ended.  

What brought back those memories is a news item that came my way:  Bike Express is closing. 

The reason?  Its owner, John Gallagher says, "I want to go out and ride my bike for fun."  He's 67 years old and has owned it since he and his brother bought it in 1985.  The lease is up in October; he hopes to sell the shop by then because he doesn't want to leave New Milford without a bike shop.

John Gallagher, in his Bike Express shop. (Photo by H. John Voorhees III)

The past year, he says, has been a paradox. "Last year was our best year ever," he says.  This year, however "will be our worst" because "there is an unavailability of bicycles to sell our customers."  That actually could help to sell the shop, he explains, because as with any such enterprise, a buyer pays for the business as well as the inventory.  He still has 200 bikes on order from the last eight months and a waiting list of between 60 and 70 customers--but has received only 15 bikes in that time.  That means his inventory could be "at its lowest level ever" so if someone wants to buy, "they won't have to put up a huge chunk of money" for the inventory as well as the business.

I hope this all ends with New Milford keeping its bike shop--which, according to its "tech expert" John Lynch caters to the "regular person"--and John Gallagher having his days to ride for fun.

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!

Afternoon Nourishment

Over the past week or two, clouds have blanketed, and rain has fallen on, this part of the world more often than the sun has shone.  But the days have grown noticeably longer:  Every day, it seems, the sun sets a few minutes later.

That means I can start early in the afternoon and still get a decent ride in.  On Monday, I rambled along local streets and roads to the North Shore and central Queens to Flushing Meadows-Corona Park.  

The cherry blossoms were, well, not quite blossoms, not yet.  But the buds were visibly more open than they were over the weekend: open enough that I could envision the pink canopy the grove will soon provide.

I deliberately used the word "provide" because such sensual spectacles are sustenance for me:  They sustain me on my journey and the journey.

The following day, I didn't see cherry blossoms after I pedaled a few miles from my apartment.  I pedaled north and east, across the RFK Bridge into the Bronx and Westchester--into Connecticut.  I realize now that the difference in latitude, however slight, may have been enough to make a difference in the blooms:  Festivals in Washington, DC and much of Japan happen early in April (or even late March) because their trees, at a more southerly latitude, are exposed to the necessary sunlight, and therefore bloom, earlier.

I did, however, enjoy a snack or late light lunch*, depending on how you look at it, by a bed of tulips:

The soldiers, sailors and flyers commemorated at the Greenwich Memorial aren't buried there. Throughout my life, as I've become increasingly anti-war, I have become more pro-veteran.  Maybe I still have the hope that one day, whether or not it happens during my lifetime, no one else will have to do what they did--and that beauty can flourish in the ruins.

All right, enough faux-profound commentary.  It was great to start after noon and finish a 145 kilometer ride well before dark--and to chow down on some Italian American soul food--baked ziti and salad--after feeding my apartment mate.**

*--A quarter of a whole wheat baguette with Brad's peanut butter and Bonne Maman preserves--cherry on half, wild blueberry on the other half.

**--I always feed Marlee before I feed myself.  I got into the habit of feeding my cat(s) first years ago, with my first feline companion.

  

Am I Normal Yet?

Public figures and everyday people talk about the world or their lives "returning to normal" once Mango* Mussolini is out of the White House or "when the pandemic is over."  Of course, the new "normal" is never the same as the old "normal;" it never can be.  When our routines or the machinations of society are disrupted, things change and we, hopefully, learn.

Even with this knowledge, however, I am going to give in to the temptation to say that something in my life might be returning to normal.  Yesterday and the day before, I did something I hadn't done since I was "doored" in October:  On Saturday, I pedaled up to Connecticut; on Sunday, I rode to Point Lookout.

The Saturday trek was my standard route to the Greenwich Common via Glenville Road, about 140 kilometers (85 miles) round-trip.  As I hadn't done the ride in about three months, I actually wondered whether I'd get up the last climb on the ridge, just after I crossed the state line.  But partway up, I realized that I was fighting not only "rust," but also a headwind.  

The last time I saw the Common, leaves were turning red and gold and orange.  On Saturday, bare trees bore witness to the cold and wind through which I'd pedaled.

On my way home, I felt ready to challenge Jeanne Longo, Rebecca Twigg and Missy Giove in their prime.  Pedaling downhill with the wind at your back can make you feel that way!

Yesterday's ride took me to the South Shore of Queens and Nassau County, through the Rockaways and Atlantic Beach to Point Lookout.  Under a clear, bright sky, the water barely rippled.  And, in contrast to Saturday's ride, this one is flat, and I encountered barely a breeze on the 120 km (72 mile) round trip.

In late summer or early fall, when I'd normally have pedaled a lot of miles, the Point Lookout jaunt would be a "recovery" ride if I did it the day after a Connecticut ride.  But it seems odd to call it a "recovery" ride when the past three months have been a time of recovery for me!

One thing I couldn't help but to notice was how little traffic, motorized or otherwise, I encountered on both rides.  I guess the cold kept people in their homes in spite of the bright sunshine.

In case you were wondering:  I rode Dee-Lilah, my Mercian Vincitore Special, to Connecticut and Zebbie, my 1984 Mercian King of Mercia, to Point Lookout.  Being able to do those rides again was enough to make me feel good, but being on bikes that look and ride the way they do made me feel even better.

Things may not be "normal" yet.  But at least one part of my life is getting there, I hope!

*--I feel guilty about equating  a mango, a fruit that brings nothing but pleasure to those who eat it, to someone who's slammed democracy and people's lives with a baseball bat.

Steam And Heat

For the past five months, gyms have been closed here in New York.  That means lots of people can use, not only treadmills and exercise bikes, but also saunas and steam rooms.

During the past few days, though, it's been steamier than A Wish Upon Jasmine. (Picking on Fifty Shades of Gray is way too easy!) I mean, it's literally been steamy.  

This is what I saw from the shorline of Greenwich, Connecticut, where I rode the other day.

And this is what I saw from Point Lookout, on the South Shore of Long Island, where I rode yesterday.  That same mist filled the horizon along the Rockaways.

It was odd to see such heavy fog over the water when, only a kilometer or two inland, the sun burned through haze and on my skin.

So, as temperatures soared past 33C (92F), I pedaled 145 kilometers, with some hills, and 120 kilometers (flat) on consecutive days.  During any of the past few summers, this might not have been normal.  But this is the first time I've ridden as much in two days since my crash and hospital stay.

Oh, and I got to sweat even more than I would have in any sauna or steam room.  And I enjoyed a refreshment no gym could have provided!  

What My Recovery Is Telling Me.

"Recovery tells you what it needs."

Madelyn, a social worker/addiction counselor uttered those words of wisdom years ago.  I worked with her, for a time, when I was conducting writing workshops for kids whose family members were in, or recovering from, addictions.

Her words are making a lot of sense to me now. To her pearl of wisdom, I would add that a recovery tells you what you're ready to do.   I want to ride as much, and at the same pace, as I did before my accident.  If I'd crashed back when I was working with her, it might have been possible.  Actually, I believe that it will be.  It's just taking longer than it might've in my youth.

Still, Madelyn probably would have told me--even then--that I was doing well.  (She wasn't a cyclist, but I think she spent some time in a gym.)  The other day, I did another ride to Point Lookout:  120 km round-trip.  Two days before that, I took my first ride to Connecticut since my crash.

My trek to the Nutmeg State was particularly gratifying, not only because it was longer (140 km) and hillier.  When I got home, I feel as if I'd finished the trip I took the day I crashed, when my ride back from Greenwich ended in New Rochelle, about 30 kilometers from my apartment.

I was happy to have done both of those rides, but they further enhanced the meaning of my old collaborator's words:  I was more tired at the end of the Connecticut ride than I'd been the last time I completed it. Oh, and even though I slathered my skin with sunscreen, my skin took on quite the lobster hue.  Whenever my skin absorbs a lot sun, I get sleepy.

I got what I needed before, during and after I rode.   Madelyn knew what she was talking about.

This Isn't An Experiment

Some people simply cannot abide any toe-clip overlap.  Me, I can stand a little, depending on the bike and how I'm riding it.  But this is, shall we say, a bit out of my range.

What's worse is the way it was achieved, if you will:

I'm thinking now of Rigi bikes from about 40 years ago. Its creators made the wheelbase shorter by splitting the seat tube in two--rather like the top tube on a mixte frame--and running the wheel between the smaller tubes:



I've heard of a bike that does the same thing with the down tube:  The front wheel runs through it.  I don't know how one steer such a machine.  The only possible use I can see for it is a motor-paced time trial.

Now I'll dispense with the levity:  As you probably have surmised, I didn't try to alter Arielle's geometry. Rather, it happened--in front of a nondescript tenement on Bonnefoy Avenue in New Rochelle.

I was pedaling, at a pretty good pace, home from Connecticut.  Well, I thought I was going home:  I hit something and, the next thing I knew, I was getting stitched up.   Then someone in the New Rochelle hospital decided I should be observed in a trauma unit, to which I was sent. 

Poor Arielle.  As for me, I still feel pain on the sides of my neck down to my shoulders.  Oh, and I have a headache and have been tired.  A trip to the drugstore felt like a century or a marathon.

When I got home, my face looked as if someone had superimposed a railroad map over a satellite image of the Martian surface.  It's a little better now, but I don't think I'll be modeling for Raphia any time soon.

I hate asking for money, but I think the real pain will begin when I see what my insurance doesn't cover.  So, I've set up a GoFundMe page.

I hope, more than anything, to be back in the saddle soon.  Until then, I'm going to catch up on some reading, writing and a project.  And Marlee is going to catch up with, well, the cuddles she misses when I'm out of the house!

Thank you!

Lilacs On Lilac

Today I won't do a "Sunday funny."  Instead, I'll share something that is lovely, or at least charming.  

This house stands on King Steet in New Rochelle, near the Mercy College (formerly College of New Rochelle) campus.  I pass it almost every time I ride home from Connecticut, as I did on Wednesday.

Lilacs on a lilac house.  It's a visual respite from the gloom of pandemics and lockdown.

Forever And Connecticut

It’s a classic beautiful spring afternoon.  After doing what I needed to do, I took off.  

Up through the winding path of Pelham Bay Park and the side streets of Westchester County I rode.  Even though I was pedaling into the wind, I felt as if i could go forever.

I ended up in Connecticut, feeling younger than my years.  It was that kind of ride.

Coming Out

The other day, I rode to Connecticut.  It was one of the most spring-like days we’ve had so far:  bright and breezy.  So, I encountered a little more traffic than I’ve seen during the past few weeks.  On the other hand, I can remember very few days, under any sorts of circumstances, when I saw more people on bikes.  Some were cycling in groups, others solo, and a number of families were riding together in and around the parks in New Rochelle, Mamaroneck and Rye.

I also remember few times when tulips seemed so bright or beautiful—even if they were growing on the war memorial monument in the Greenwich Common.

Empty Spaces, Everywhere

Over the weekend, I took two rides.   On Saturday, I pedaled up to Greenwich, Connecticut.  Yesterday, I took a spin out to Point Lookout, on the South Shore of Long Island.

What did those rides have in common, besides pleasure?  Well, both were seasonably cool (high temperatures around 14-15C or 58-60 F) and sunny.  Oh, and there was plenty of wind.  Fortunately for me, I pedaled into it much of the way to Connecticut and on my way down to Rockaway Beach, where the wind blew at my side on my way to Point Lookout. That meant, of course, I had the wind at my back most of the way from Connecticut, and for a long flat stretch from Rockaway Beach to Woodside.

It also meant that I saw very little motorized traffic.  I think that in 252 kilometers (157 miles) of riding, I probably saw fewer cars and trucks than I see in my 8 kilometer (5 mile) commute on weekday mornings.

That might be why the expanse of water, as happy as I was to see it, wasn't as much of a contrast with the road behind me as it usually is.

RIding Solo--In More Ways Than One

When I wrote my previous post, I was worried--about a lockdown, and other things. I'd heard that in Puerto Rico, people aren't allowed to leave their homes for just about any reason.  Even taking a walk, cycling or skating alone are out of the question.  Italy has enacted similar restrictions.  I wondered whether I wouldn't be able to ride for weeks, even months, just as the season is beginning.

So, the other day, I made it a point to take a long ride--to Connecticut. On Sundays, Greenwich Avenue in Greenwich teems with strollers and shoppers, and the street is lined with parked cars.  But, from the Greenwich Common, I saw this:

and this:

Arielle, my trusty Mercian Audax, isn't accustomed to such isolation.  She could have been forgiven for wondering whether I took her on a trail instead of a street.

Speaking of streets, here was the view down University Avenue in the Bronx at 2 o'clock this afternoon:

Mind you, on the right, that's an entrance to the Cross-Bronx Expressway--the gateway to upper Manhattan and the George Washington Bridge.

Of course, I didn't mind having to contend with so little traffic, although it seemed almost surreal.  Still, I''d be happy if some of the cars and trucks didn't return after the epidemic--as long as their drivers survive.  I don't extend any bad wishes to people.

While we're on the subject of people:  There is a calm, if not a quiet, I haven't seen since the days just after 9/11.  Sometimes people eye each other warily, even suspiciously--Is that person sick?--but complete strangers are telling each other, and me, to be safe.  

And I want you, dear readers, to be well and safe--and to ride, as often and much as you can!