Although this Fall has been warmer and drier than any other I can remember, my rides reveal sure signs that winter, whatever it might bring , isn’t far in the future.
Somehow the preternaturally clear sky and blue water at Fort Totten—where the (misnamed) East River meets the Long Island Sound, and the destination of my midday ride—only highlighted the imminent seasonal change.
Then again, some places and trees are holding onto what’s left of the season.
The other morning I took a ride to Fort Totten before work. Those 45 miles (72.5 kilometers) of pedaling—into the wind for most of the way out—were just what I needed to help me with my post-election trauma. It might be a reason why the class I taught was easier than the two I taught the day before, the day after the election.
I am happy to report that some things haven’t changed
yet. I hope that someone doesn’t discover petrol under Long Island Sound or anywhere in this area. I don’t want to see El Cheeto Grande’s campaign donors “drill, baby, drill.”
Yesterday’s weather reflected May more than August: a high temperature of 24C (75F) and cumulus clouds drifting across a sun-filled sky. It followed a couple of days with similar conditions: After the heavy rains of last weekend, could it have been a “gift” from Hurricane Ernesto.
During my ride, I saw other reminders of his visit. I cycled down to Rockaway Beach and east along the south shore of Queens and Nassau County to Point Lookout. Swimming was prohibited in all of the beaches I passed—and the ones I saw on my ride ride back, which I continued along the coast to Jacob Riis Park, Sheepshead Bay, Coney Island and the Verrazano-Narrows promenade before turning “inland” where Bay Ridge meets Sunset Park and pedaling through Brooklyn and Queens back to the Bronx.
One interesting phenomenon about the aftermath of a hurricane is its effect on tides. After a storm passes, the water’s calm surface may hide a strong undercurrent—hence the swimming ban. It also can lead not only to strong high tides but, almost counterintuitively, cause the tide to recede even further than it normally does, as I saw at Point Lookout.
Someone—a resident, I believe—remarked that on one of the most beautiful days, weather-wise, he’d experienced, he’d “never seen the tide so far out.”
Oh, and I should mention another reminder that a strong storm had passed: It seemed that no matter which way I pedaled, a strong wind blew at my back or face. I didn’t mind: Even when I fought it, the wind seemed to make the day even more beautiful.
Oh, and by my calculations, I did a bit more than a “century” in miles (about 105, or 169 kilometers). Does that mean I’ve extended my “midlife” just a bit more.
My brother and I are experiencing different kinds of heat waves.
He, in California, is dealing with temperatures over 100F (37.8C). Our high temperatures in New York have been a few degrees cooler. My brother, however, said that as much as he doesn’t like the heat, “I don’t miss East Coast humidity.”
He has a point. Even though we in New York rarely have to cope with 100F, almost every year includes a few days when the mercury rises above 90F (32.2C). But that heat is almost always accompanied by relative humidity of at least 7O percent.
The good news, for me anyway, is that I have been waking up early enough to get a decent number of kilometers/miles—and, more importantly, quality time—on my bikes. Those jaunts have taken me to and along bodies of water, where I have witnessed something associated more with chilly London.
Seeing mist ride along the Verrazzano Narrows Bridge, by itself, made yesterday’s ride (which brought me down to Coney Island) worthwhile.
Likewise, I felt rewarded in seeing “fog” at the end of the Rockaway boardwalk this morning.
Some of the best things in life are shrouded in mist-ery.
Yesterday I packed a picnic lunch of Addeo’s bread, Delice de Bourgogne cheese and some nice, ripe cherries and hopped aboard Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear bike.
On about as pleasant an afternoon as one can hope to have, I spun down Creston and Walton Avenues to Yankee Stadium, where I crossed the Macombs Dam Bridge into Harlem. Then I crisscrossed that iconic neighborhood to the Hudson River, where I picked up the Greenway and rode—with a breeze at my back, it felt more like sailing—down to the World Trade Center, where I took the PATH train to Jersey City.
After enjoying about half of my picnic along the waterfront, I zigzagged through modern office towers and charming row houses down to Bayonne*. A highway crosses over the line between it and Jersey City; a man I’ve seen before lives under it, in a tent, with a bicycle—it looks like a ‘90’s mountain bike—I’d seen on previous rides.
The first time I saw him, his tent and his bike—probably a couple of years ago—I stopped and offered him food and money. He thanked me and refused both. I have been tempted to photograph him and his encampment because they seem to be as established there as the houses, apartments, stores and offices of the two cities he straddles. But I haven’t because I figure that if he’s refused my help, he wants his privacy. Could it be that he worries about being “exposed”—to authorities, or in general?
Anyway, after crossing the Bayonne Bridge, I rode along the North Shore to the ferry terminal. After “rush” hour, boats run less frequently, and I just missed one.
Once I boarded and the boat pulled away from the dock, however, I wasn’t complaining.
Nice evening, isn’t it?,” a deckhand mused.
“It’s like we’re on a sunset cruise” I quipped. “And it’s free!”
“We take whatever little luxuries we can get,” he said. I nodded, feeling that not only was it a “little luxury;” it was a privilege.
I’ve wimped out.
After taking a great ride, yesterday, to Connecticut, I was going to pedal out to Somerville, New Jersey so I could…watch other people pedal.
But when I woke up this morning, I couldn’t see out my windows. It had nothing to do with anything I imbibed with my post-ride ravioli with Salsa Giustina*. Rather, my window panes were sheets or curtains of cascading comet-tails of rain.
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| Photo by Dave Sanders for the New York Times. |
I wouldn’t have minded riding in gentler rain: Three of my bikes have fenders and I could’ve worn my rain jacket. Also, it’s pretty warm today, in a late spring-almost summer sort of way, so a shower would feel nice. But I am not about to start a ride in a near-zero-visibility torrent and the prospect of standing in a downpour to watch races—even if they are part of the once-a-year Somerville event—just doesn’t appeal to me.
Oh well. Maybe, if the rain lets up a bit later, I’ll go for a ride—or to the Botanical Garden. I’ve been there twice since I moved next to it (and got a free membership): to see the lilacs a couple of weeks ago, and for the orchid show and cherry blossoms last month, just after I moved in. It’s funny, really, that I’ve been there twice (and a few times before I moved here) but I am one of those New Yorkers who has never been to the Statue of Liberty!
*—Fresh tomatoes, garlic, onion, mushrooms and red sweet peppers, simmered in olive oil with sliced black olives and seasoned with rosemary, freshly-ground black pepper and squeezed lemon. Like many such concoctions, it’s best when it’s a couple of days old: I made it on Thursday night.
Even after half a century as a dedicated cyclist, I still don’t understand what goes on in the minds of traffic and transit planners.
There are the bike lanes to nowhere that seem to begin out of nowhere—not to mention the ones that are ill-placed, -constructed and -maintained. Oh, and then there are lanes and turns that seem to be designed to put cyclists and pedestrians in the most possible danger.
Sometimes, though, I wonder whether those planners—those who enforce policies or the law—have any idea of what they’re trying to tell us or a working knowledge of the language in which they’re communicating.
In earlier posts I have given examples of signs that seem to contradict the intended message, or are simply confusing, because of poor logic, grammar or syntax—or seemingly-unintended oxymorons. To wit:
Now, perhaps I’m missing something but I don’t understand how something can be “loud” and a “muffler” at the same time. And even if such a thing could exist, how could it be “enforced,” strictly or otherwise? Is that sign warning people that if they enter New Rochelle without a “loud muffler,” they could be penalized? If so, what does the city deem an appropriate punishment for something that, by definition, cannot exist?
For the record, I cycled into New Rochelle without a loud muffler. I wonder whether there will be a peacekeeping force of violent pacifists stationed at the border the next time I enter the city from Eastchester.
“Very well then, I contradict myself (I am large, I contain multitudes)”
Walt Whitman may have given us one of the best definitions of good mental health. A corollary to that might be that maturity is understanding that we all have our contradictions: After all, who tries to live by any book or idea, to the letter, once he or she has had to hold down a job
Anyway, I won’t try to assess whether, or how well, some Hasidic men in Brooklyn understand their own internal (and sometimes external) juxtapositions. I do, however, find it interesting that when Citibike went online just over a decade ago, the Ultra-Orthodox community of South Williamsburg included some of the bike-share program’s most enthusiastic users—and some of its fiercest opponents.
While “Williamsburg” became synonymous with “hipster” and “gentrification,” the area south of the eponymous bridge to Manhattan remained one of this city’s two major Hasidic enclaves. (Borough Park is the other. East Williamsburg is, arguably, the heart of the Big Apple’s Puerto Rican community.) One notable difference between Hasidim and the hipsters and Nuyoricans is family size. That leaves little, if any room, for a bicycle in their living quarters.
Another visible difference is that from sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday, streets on Hasidic neighborhoods are deserted, except when people are walking to or from shul. And, of course, there is sartorial style: It, shall we say, leaves much to the imagination.
That last point was an argument against installing Citibike ports in the neighborhood. Some Hasidic rabbis and other community leaders complained that those blue bikes streamed “immodest” riders—or, in thr words of one Reddit commenter “sexy ass hipster girls” —down their neighborhood’s streets.
A result of this tension was the “Hasidic hole” or, as one wag put it, “black hat hole” of Citibike availability. Hasidim were walking as much as a mile to access the bikes.
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| The map on the left reflects Citi Bike last year. The map on the right is the current coverage. (The green zone is the Brooklyn Navy Yard, which is not a public area) |
Recently, freshman City Council member Lincoln Restler, who is Jewish but not Hasidic or even Orthodox, has been doing what his predecessor Stephen Levin (also Jewish but not Orthodox) couldn’t. He has negotiated with Hasidic leaders to shrink that “hole” and make Citibike—which now includes eBikes—more accessible. He is also working to bring more bicycle infrastructure to a part of the city that is better-served than most.
His efforts might allow a community to accept its contradictions: People might profess shock and dismay over “sexy ass Hipster girls” (who, I assure them, don’t include me!) but they appreciate the convenience and fun of cycling.
Last week, we in New York City got our first measurable snow in nearly two years. A couple of lighter snowfalls followed and the temperature didn’t reach the freezing point for almost a week.
During that time, snow fell, it seems, over every part of the United States not named Florida or Hawai’i. Cyclists, wheelchair users and pedestrians thus had the complaint I am about to mention.
While the Department of Sanitation quickly cleared streets and most property owners promptly shoveled and salted their sidewalks and other common areas, bike lanes and even the rightmost part of traffic lane were patchy or sheets of ice. I didn’t take any long rides—just commutes and errand runs. But at times, those rides seemed like expeditions. I actually got off my bike and walked one stretch of the Williamsburg Bridge when it’s lane was impassable. And I resorted to riding on sidewalks—something I all but never do—for stretches of half a block or so.
I didn’t take any photos. But the folks at Bike Portland documented a similar situation in their city.
Have you ever quipped, “I’ll pedal between the raindrops?”
Some of us gave that response when asked whether we’ll ride in the rain. I will, to a point: I won’t set out if it’s cold and raining or if I can’t see more than a couple of bicycle lengths ahead of me because the rain is falling so hard or it’s getting blown sideways.
This week, I haven’t been pedaling between raindrops. Since taking a ride to Point Lookout on Monday I have, however been riding between storms. In four days, we’ve had three incidents of flooding rains. The first, on Tuesday, began with a combination of rain, sleet and snow that didn’t accumulate.
So when I rode Negrosa, my vintage Mercian Olympic, to Coney Island
I wasn’t sure of whether this was the end of a storm—or the calm before a storm or between storms.
Turns out, it was the latter: We had two more inches (5cm) of rain last night.
Has something ever stopped you in your tire tracks?
While commuting, touring, day-tripping or doing just about every other kind of riding except racing, I have stopped when I’ve seen something unusual or interesting. I more or less expect to make such stops when I’m somewhere I’ve never been before: Whether I was seeing the chateau at Amboise or an elephant in the wild for the first time, I knew that such sights—or a marketplace that only the locals know—is as much a reason for my ride as, well, pedaling on unfamiliar terrain.
Perhaps nothing is quite as surprising, however, as pedaling through a part of my neighborhood I hadn’t seen in months and encountering something that not only differs from its immediate surroundings, but would stand out almost anywhere.
While spinning the pedals on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bike, along 36th Avenue, I couldn’t have missed a house with such a paint job. I know it had to have been built recently because, while the stoop and other fittings seemed to match those of adjacent houses—at least at first glance—they didn’t have the nooks and crannies (like Thomas’s English Muffins) of bricks that have weathered seasons and been painted over.
I saw a name plate by the front door. Looking it up, however, was fruitless because it’s a name common to the Indian-Bengali community in that part of the neighborhood. My guess is that it’s the name of the person or family who built it. Whoever they are, they’re probably rich and eccentric.
At first glance, it reminded me of a Buddhist temple. Perhaps the nearby spice shop and Punjab restaurant and bakery had something to do with that. (I know: Punjabi people are as likely to be Sikhs, Hindus, Muslims or even Christians. My Eurocentricity is showing!) Then, for a moment, I thought of San Francisco about 35 years ago, before tech money remade it: Victorian houses were painted in colors you never would see on similarly-styled houses in Brooklyn, Boston or Montréal.
I believe that if I’d seen that house anywhere, it would have stopped me in my tire tracks.
Mind you, I have lights and reflective garments. I am not against night riding: It has been thrilling, surreal and revealing for me. I simply prefer to end a ride of more than a couple of hours in daylight.
Yesterday’s ride to Point Lookout and back—on LaVande, my Mercian King of Mercia—got me home just before high wispy clouds began to flicker with orange rays. The light at the Point was even more of a harbinger of winter than the early sunset that would follow my ride.
Even if I hadn’t known it was near the end of October, the day’s warmth would have seemed incongruous with parents chaperoning their costumed kids to tables representing everything from the fire department to the local Democratic Party where volunteers gave them miniature candy bars. Tomorrow is Halloween, so the past weekend became the setting for Trick or Treaters, parades and parties.
Even stranger was seeing mid-to-late Fall foliage simmering in such heat. On my way back, a tree in New Rochelle blazed, it seemed, as much from the summer-like air as the season itself.
How red can a tree be?
Now I wonder what it looks like today. Some time around midnight, a storm pushed its way in. The temperature plummeted and the rain and wind that soaked and strafed Sunday’s sky—and denuded the golden tree that greeted me early Thursday morning.
Question of the day: Which is rarer: an annular solar eclipse or a weekend day without rain?
Well, the celestial event wouldn’t have been visible in my part of the US, even if meteorological ones would’ve permitted it.
So the eclipse keeps that title—for now. Moreover, we yesterday we had—wait for it—a beautiful Fall day that kept the “Sun” in “Sunday.”
(I’ve heard that someone pointed to the glowing orb in the sky, nudged the man next to her and asked, “What’s that, Mulder?”)
So, I did what any right-thinking cyclist would do. Yes, I went for a ride; specifically to Greenwich, Connecticut on La-Vande, my King of Mercia.
Not only was the weather delightful in the way only the day after a rainstorm can be; everything—from the early fall hues to roads that seemed hewn for riding—seemed to conspire for a great ride.
Even the path through Pelham Bay Park seemed to be made for an October ride.
Once again, I followed the Bruckner bike lane. I had to wiggle around a couple of trucks and construction cranes that, apparently, were being used to do some maintenance on the Bruckner Expressway. I didn’t begrudge the workers: I was such a great mood from riding on such a beautiful day, and I didn’t want it to be spoiled by a highway falling on me!
Anyway, I rode to—where else?—Greenwich, Connecticut. Along the way, I made another, longer, detour. This one was intentional, though: I followed another bike lane I hadn’t previously ridden. Starting at Old Post Road in Rye, it’s a single ribbon of asphalt (well-paved!) that parallels, and is separated from, the Playland Parkway to the Rye Playland, an old-school amusement park that somehow fends off threats from much larger and flashier amusement parks.
The lane reminded me of some that I’ve ridden in Europe: It followed a significant roadway and,‘while peaceful and even somewhat scenic, is actually useful in getting from one place to another.
The detour added a couple of miles to my ride. Of course I didn’t mind: I had no deadline and the weather seemed to get even better.
Today is supposed to be as nice, but a few degrees warmer. After I finish my coffee, yogurt and croissant, I’ll be on my way—to where, I haven’t decided.
Though I had particular place I intended to ride, I knew I wanted to pedal into that wind so that, depending on my route, it would blow at my back on my way back.
So my ramble took me up and down the hills, and past estates—some inhabited, others turned into museums, libraries and other monuments and institutions. That meant going first through the Bronx—and up the new Bruckner bike lane I rode on Sunday.
As I entered the lane from 138th Street, I had a flashback that caused me to stop at one of the pillars holding the highway above me.
The scene I recollected may have happened at that post. If not, it took place at one nearby. Whichever it was, realizing that the memory was from about thirty years ago made me feel, for a moment, old. But I’m still in midlife. Really!
I was riding with some of my old mountain biking buddies. We all lived in Brooklyn and rode trails in nearby parks or took trains or rides with whoever could drive to places further from the city.
That day, if I recall correctly, we were pedaling home from Van Cortlandt Park. We prided ourselves on not having to stop for a traffic light—until that moment.
As we waited, I saw a boy who looked about 12 or 13 years old facing the post, his hands cupped in front of his crotch. I didn’t judge him: After all, countless men and boys (and I, once upon a time) took care of their needs in a similar way when they (we) couldn’t find a toilet.
Except that he wasn’t taking care of that kind of business. I couldn’t help but to notice something longer and darker than the “jewels” a boy of that age would’ve had. And it was darker, and made of something that wasn’t human flesh.
He took one hand off it, reached into his pocket and brought his hand to his crotch.
The light changed. As we pedaled down the next block, I turned to my riding buddies. “Did you see what I saw?”
I didn’t need to ask. They nodded. “Yeah, he was loadin’ his gun,” Ray—“Crazy Ray” to us—deadpanned.
As I continued yesterday’s ride, I couldn’t help but to think about that boy. Did he live to see a day like yesterday? If he’s still around, he’d be even older than I was then. Did he make it to midlife?
There’s no “but” or “however” in this story. The cherry on top of this Sunday (pun intended) was that I pedaled into the wind on my way to the Greenwich Common in Connecticut—which meant that the same wind stroked my back (and stoked me!) on my way back.
At the Common, I watched folks in their most carefree moments strolling and sashaying in polo shirts tucked into navy or beige chino shorts, frilly dresses and skirts and college T-shirts over gym shorts whose wearers were trying not to show that they were showing that those shorts didn’t come from discount stores.
Was it all a great show? Or had the ride and weather elevated my dopamine levels higher than someone who paid a visit to the local cannabis shop half an hour ago? All I knew was that I could’ve held the ride, the weather and the day, if not forever, then long enough to, well, write this post.
Oh, and along the way I found a good, if short, bike lane in the Bronx.
Built on a concrete island on Bruckner Boulevard, under the Bruckner Expressway, it runs for about two kilometers from East 138th Street to Hunts Point Avenue. I saw some evidence that it might be extended further. Even if it isn’t, I am sure to use it on future rides, as it will allow me to avoid the chaos of delivery trucks, tow vehicles pulling in and out of auto body shops, motor bikes making deliveries or simply trying to outrun young guys who really want to turn Southern Boulevard into their personal race track.
Finding a useful, safe bike lane during a blissful ride on a perfect day: Could a Sunday spin from Queens to Connecticut and back have been any better?
Have you ever heard your bike calling out to you?
Well, I can’t say I have—at least, not literally. But when I pedaled La-Vande, my King of Mercia, to Greenwich, Connecticut on Saturday, she seemed to be leading me there—the way Marlee does when she rubs against my ankles and steers me toward the sofa.
Well, Saturday was a nearly perfect day for a ride of any kind, of any length on any bike. But I think La-Vande had ulterior motives.
She wanted to pose against a backdrop she knew would flatter her.
Oh, and when I got home, Marlee “led” me to the couch, and curled in my lap.
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| Photo by Kevin Duggan, AM New York |
On this date 140 years ago, the Brooklyn Bridge opened.
I recently overcame my skepticism and rode across its bike lane. It’s better than I expected, though the Williamsburg is, if out of habit, my East River crossing of choice.
Traffic on that opening day did not, of course, consist of motor vehicles. From the images and accounts I could find, most of those who crossed on that first day were dignitaries.
Among them were Emily Roebling. Her husband was its architect and chief engineer until he was killed in an accident. Then her son took over until caisson disease (commonly called “the bends) incapacitated him. Without her, the bridge might not have been completed.
I suspect that at least some of the traffic in the bridge’s early years included high-wheeled bicycles. Today, of course, one encounters all manner of bikes—just as every kind of person imaginable has crossed the Bridge that has given all of us with access to the sun, sky and the city.
—Hart Crane, from “To Brooklyn Bridge”
I didn't stop for this:
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But I did stop for this:
I can't recall seeing cherry blossoms bloom so early in any year before this one. These trees in Greenpoint, Brooklyn aren't at "peak" yet, but they will be very soon.
Normally, the cherry blossoms here in New York bud and flower a week or two later than the more famous ones in Washington, DC, which put on their show in late March and early April. I am not a scientist, but something tells me that what I'm seeing isn't just a symptom of a mild winter: This has hardly been the first in recent years. I can't help but to think that it's a harbinger of more fundamental changes.
Don't get me wrong: I am always happy to see the cherry blossoms, whenever they blossom. But even if the weather was still cold, those lovely pink flowers were a sure sign that Spring had indeed arrived. So...Does this mean that Spring is indeed arriving earlier? Or will they become another precursor, like snowdrops and winter jasmine, of a season that is on its way, but has not quite arrived?
I went looking for answers. Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear bike, led me to this:
A psychic reader under new management? Does that mean readings will be less vague and more detailed? That they'll be done faster? Or that you get your money back if what the reader predicts doesn't come true?
At least my trip to the reader's storefront--which was closed--took me through some interesting vistas. The block leading to it, (66th Street from Cooper to Myrtle Avenues) looked like a valley of "Ridgewood Yellow:"
Not surprisingly, I saw a couple of pro-police banners. Not so long ago, Ridgewood was home to many officers. I'll bet that some worked here:
The former headquarters of the eight-three (police parlance for the 83rd Precinct) is now a command station for that precinct, and several others in Brooklyn. That doesn't surprise me, though on first glance, I would've thought it was an armory.
A desk officer saw me wandering around and came to the door. "Can I help you?" I explained that I simply had to stop and look at the building. He then explained its history to me and told me the part of the building in which he was posted had been a horse stable.
I tried to imagine it when the neighborhood--Bushwick--was home to German and Italian immigrants who probably would've been dressed in their "Sunday best" for church. Apparently, the young woman with pink hair and they young man in a long yellow paisley coat had no such thought: It was just another building they passed on their way to the Cal-Mex cafe.
I guess pink and yellow, wherever they're seen under a gray sky, are signs that the season--whatever it is-- is here, or on its way.
