I Didn’t Know It Well. I’ll Miss It Anyway.

Last week, an after-work ride zigzagged me through northern Bronx and Westchester County. Along the way I pedaled down a hill (I was on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bike) to McLean Avenue in Yonkers. I had ridden McLean a number of times before but, ironically, last week was the first time since I’ve moved to my current place: From here, it’s only about 7 kilometers but about 30 from Astoria, depending on which route I took.

Anyway, on McLean, I couldn’t help but to notice a store that looked like it was being stripped to the walls. I stopped; indeed it was. Then I noticed a few bicycles, some with tags, bunched together in the middle of the floor.

I asked a man whether any of the ones without tags—which included a Cannondale road bike from, I believe, the ‘90’s, an early Schwinn Traveler and a Giant hybrid with a Brooks B17 saddle—were available. “They’re all accounted for. Sorry.”

I glanced to my left and saw another racing bike leaning against the wall. “Then I suppose that Eddy Mercx is also going to somebody.” He nodded.

I asked him why the shop closed. The shop’s founder retired; his son took over and things went downhill.  There was a “sugar rush” early in the COVID-19 pandemic followed by a “crash”: when supply chains reopened and new merchandise was available, people who already bought bikes and accessories weren’t buying more, he explained.

Both parts of his story—the bike shop passing from one generation to the next and the pandemic boom-and-bust—are familiar narratives behind long-established bike shops that close. It later occurred to me, however, that there may be at least one other reason County Cycle Center has closed.

It was one of many family-owned businesses that have lined McLean, the main artery of a longtime Irish enclave that straddles that part of Yonkers and a slice of the Bronx next to Van Cortlandt Park. Like so much of my city and its surrounding areas, it’s changing as longtime residents die or retire to the Sun Belt and their kids and grandkids move away. County Cycle, which graced McLean for nearly six decades, seemed to be the sort of shop where parents bought their kids bikes for Christmas or their birthdays, and those kids would return to buy their kids bikes and, perhaps, “grown up” bikes for themselves. (It was an authorized Schwinn dealer and later took on Fuji, Trek, Cannondale and GT.) Such shops depend on relationships they develop with people in the community; when those people leave or die, those who move in—especially if they are young or from different cultural backgrounds—may not feel inclined to get to know members of the neighborhood’s “establishment.”

I inferred the story about the shop’s relationship to its community after I got home. I realized I had stopped in that shop on at least one earlier ride and remembered that the man I met—the founder?—was curious about my bike because it was something that didn’t normally pass through his shop. I think I bought a small tool or water bottle, and he was happy for my business.

He may not be able to get you a custom frame or a replica of whatever won the Tour or Giro or Vuelta this year. Folks who ride integrated carbon fiber cockpits may turn up their noses at him and his shop. But folks like him are interesting and thankful for small things.  I will miss him and them, and their shops.

A Detour Into Surprise

The other morning, I set out for Connecticut.  Dee-Lilah was certainly up for it:  the sky was clear and bright, and a light wind rippled yellow leaves that line my street.

Across the RFK (Triborough) Bridge and the Randalls Island connector.  Up the deserted industrial streets of Port Morris and Southern Boulevard to "the Hub," where the Boulevard meets White Plains Road and several subway lines.  Traffic was almost as light as the wind (though not me, at my age!) all the way up to the Pelham Bay Bridge, where my visions of the perfect Fall ride to the Nutmeg State met with this:

"Oh, it must be Ian's fault," I thought. Though the Hurricane brushed by us two weeks earlier, the damage, if there had been any, was still there, I mused.  But, peering ahead, I couldn't see it:

Then I glanced to my right and got the really bad news:

Spring 2023.  If I could believe that, I wouldn't be so upset:  I wouldn't be able to ride the Pelham Bay Trail to Westchester County during the rest of this Fall and Spring, but most of that wait would span the winter.  But, if you know anything about New York City Department of Transportation projects, you know that Spring 2023 is most likely when the work will start.  Then it will be further delayed by some dispute or another, and costs.  Call me a cynic, but I've seen such scenarios play out too many times.

Oh, and when I looked on the city's website, I learned that the plan is to replace the bridge altogether.  To be fair, it may well need replacement:  The bridge wasn't designed for all of the traffic it handles (and, I might add, the bike/pedestrian lane isn't the greatest, but it at least takes you to the trail) and probably is falling apart.  

I could have taken one of the routes I rode before I discovered the bridge and trail.  But, instead, I wandered in and out of the Bronx and Westchester County.  Guess where I took this photo:

It's a view from the Bronx, but not from where even people who know the Bronx might guess.  At the far eastern end of the borough, there is a neighborhood with the seemingly-incongruous name of Country Club.  The neighborhood was indeed the location of the Westchester Country Club before the Bronx became part of New York City.  But, in a way, the area still has a "country club" feel:  It's effectively an island, cut off from the rest of the Bronx (and New York City) by water, I-95 and Pelham Bay Park.  The houses come in all ranges of styles, but they have this in common:  they're big, more like the ones you find in the far reaches of Long Island or New Jersey.  The few buildings that aren't single-family houses or small stores or restaurants (mostly Italian and, I suspect, good) are condos, some with their own marinas!

Just on the other side of the highway is another neighborhood that seems to have been untouched by the "burning Bronx" of the 1970s. Like Country Club, it has many Italian-American families and remarkably clean public spaces.   And it has a store that seems to have been kept in a 1950s time capsule:

Frank Bee.  Transpose the "ee" on Frank, and you could have a nickname for someone in the neighborhood--or a DJ.  Frankie B.   Now that sounds like a name people would associate with the Bronx.

Just by those signs, you can tell that, like Country Club, Schuylerville has a lot of Italian-American families whose kids Trick-or-Treat freely in the neighborhood.  While very little in the store falls into the price range advertised on the store's banner, the prices are actually very good, especially compared to those in other parts of the city.

Whatever happens, I hope the store--and those signs and mannequins--stay where they are.  In an ideal world, such friendliness would be an antidote against the odious bellowings of would-be oracles:

Now, I'm not a political scientist and I'm an historian only if you define that term loosely.  That said, in my understanding, the notion that "Democracy killed Jesus" is wrong on two counts.

First of all, Pontius Pilate wasn't an elected official; he was an occupying Roman.  Second, and more important, an angry mob agreeing on something and acting on it isn't democracy, especially if it doesn't reflect the wishes of most people--or, as in the case of Jesus (if he indeed lived and died as he did in the stories passed on to us), if most people didn't even know about the accused or his alleged deeds.

Did that bit of graffiti reflect what most people in Country Club or the Bronx believe about the death of Christ or democracy?  I suspect not.  Whatever they think, I have to say this for them:  They, whether they were walking, raking their leaves or even driving, were very nice and a couple even cheered me on.  What I didn't tell them, of course, is that Dee-Lilah, my custom Mercian Vincitore Special, makes me look like a better rider than I am!😉

A Ride To The Truth?

The other day, on a pleasant summer afternoon, I was riding back from a trek to Westchester County.  I couldn't help but to notice more work crews than I normally see on the streets.  Some came from ConEd or Verizon, others from the city's transportation department.  They confirm one of my from-the-saddle observations:  streets and roads are in worse shape than I've seen in some time.  Whether it's a result of the weather (climate change?) or simply deferred maintenance, I don't know.

One detour led me down Prospect Avenue in the South Bronx.  I actually didn't mind:  The stretch south of the number 2 and 5 elevated train lines has some rather nice old row houses, and the people seemed to be in a rather relaxed mood.  

Occasionally, I'll stop if a building or detail looks interesting. But I never expected to see, anywhere, something that sums up so many of the truths I hold to be self-evident, to paraphrase the Declaration of Independence.  

Within the past two weeks, the Supreme Court has voted to curtail a woman's right to her own body and, possibly, a bunch of other rights-- but not the one to carry a gun with you.  Why can't they support the simple truths expressed in that sign?  

  

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!

First Ride Of The Year

The threat of rain loomed all day.  It fell, lightly, exactly in the middle of my ride, when I stopped to eat.  And it very kindly stopped just as I resumed my ride.

So went my first ride of the new year:  140 kilometers round trip to Greenwich, Connecticut and back.  The day was warm for this time of year:  temperatures hovered between 10 and 15 C (50 to 60 F), which I like at any time of year.  The air felt fresher than usual:  Perhaps the New Year's Day rain washed away some of the pollution.  It may also have had to do with the near-absence of traffic through most of my ride.  

On my way back, I stopped for the traffic light at Fenimore Steet in Mamaroneck, just across from the harbor.  When the light turned green, I proceeded and, on the other side of the intersection, noticed this:

I've noticed the De Lancey name (sometimes spelled as one word, as in the name of a Manhattan street) in the area.  Apparently, the French Huguenot family emigrated to the then-British colony of New York after the Edict of Fontainebleau, an order that revoked the Edict of Nantes, which gave the Protestant Huguenots most of the same rights French Catholic citizens enjoyed.

Given that, it's not surprising that the De Lanceys amassed such wealth and married other prominent families (whose names are sprinkled all over New York) after arriving.  One of the reasons, I believe, Louis XIV and much of the French establishment wanted to suppress Huguenots--who were Calvinists, like the Puritans--is that, because they emphasized education and didn't celebrate most of the Catholic feast days (meaning they worked more), they became, essentially, the merchant and technocrat classes of France in a similar way to  Jews in some European communities before the Inquisition.

The De Lanceys might well have remained one of the prominent families of New York, and America, had their allegiances been different.  In the Revolution, they were Loyalists.  In fact, James De Lancey--to whom the house belonged--formed, along with his uncle, a brigade that was known for its brutality against American revolutionaries. Once the latter won, the family had to give up their properties and fled to Nova Scotia and England.

Unless you are a member of an historical society in New York state or a graduate student in early American history, you probably hadn't heard of the De Lanceys before today.  But you have almost surely heard of the other name on the plaque:  James Fenimore Cooper, one of this country's first popular authors.  (During Edgar Allan Poe's lifetime, his poetry and fiction were more popular in Europe, especially France, than they were in the United States.)

I wonder how  De Lancey or Cooper would feel about the restaurant that's in the house.  I think Poe would have appreciated the view some of its patrons would have had yesterday:

 

 

Budding Fall At The Harbor

Yesterday I started riding to Connecticut.  But in Mamaroneck, a bit more than halfway up, I detoured into a couple of cute downtowns and onto lanes that wind by mansions, country clubs and horse trotting courses, and through tax-shelter farms.

When I ended up back on Boston Post Road in Mamaroneck, I stopped to eat the bagel and small wedge of cheese I packed in the bag of Zebbie, my Mercian King of Mercia with the striped seat tube.  

Honestly, I rode her for one reason:  She looks autumnal.  So did the scene at Mamaroneck harbor, at least somewhat.

If you look closely or enlarge the image, you can see budding Fall foliage on the right.  Actually, it looks (to me, anyway) like someone lightly brushed red and orange across a cluster of leaves.  

It Wasn't Hiroshima, But....

Seventy-five years ago today, American soldiers dropped the world's first nuclear bomb on Hiroshima, Japan.

I will not try to debate whether the bombing, or the one in Nagaski three days later, was necessary or ethical.  The effect of those blasts was, I believe, best summed up two millenia earlier in a Calgacus speech, as recalled by Tacitus:  Ubi solitudenum facient, pacem appelant (They make a wasteland and call it peace.)

I have seen the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks, and of various natural disaster.  I cannot, however, pretend to have ever seen devastation resembling anything wrought by those weapons. 

Even what I saw yesterday pales in comparison.

On the day after a not-quite-hurricane struck this area, I went for a ride in the direction of Connecticut.  Along the Pelham Bay Park trail, I had to detour around downed limbs and other parts of trees.  Still, my ride was going relatively smoothly until I crossed into Westchester County:

Less than a mile north of the city/county line, this tree toppled onto Mount Tom Road in Pelham.  So I backed up a bit and took a right, figuring that the road would take me, if in a more roundabout way, the direction of my ride.

Didn't get very far.

On that road, a couple of guys were sitting in their car.  "Be careful out there," the driver yelled.  He explained that his friend had just been out cycling and encountered broken power lines as well as downed trees.

At his suggestion, I cut through the golf course into a residential area of Pelham Manor.  I knew that I would end up at or near Boston Post Road, a.k.a. US 1, where I could re-orient myself.  At worst, I figured, I could ride US 1 for a bit, as it has a decent shoulder--and, I thought, was less likely to contain obstacles and hazards like the ones I'd encountered and been warned about:

So much for that idea, right?  I turned down another road blocked by a tree.  For a moment, I thought perhaps the storm was some cosmic conspiracy that threw down those trees as a "wall" to keep riff-raff like me out of the upper reaches of Westchester County and Connecticut.

Of course, that thought was no more rational than any comparison between what I was seeing and what the survivors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki carried with them. 

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.

Did Lime Make Things 1000 Percent Worse?

Given how much I ride in Westchester County, I haven't ridden much in White Plains.  It seems that I pedal through all of the towns surrounding it, but somehow manage to miss WP.

Then again, I haven't found many compelling reasons to wheel through the city.  One thing I have noticed is that there are probably more signs telling cyclists (and skateboarders) not to ride on the sidewalks than in any other municipality in the area.

Lately, I've heard that the police are actually making efforts to enforce the law, especially since the dockless Lime Bike sharing company set up shop.  Although some locals say that there's been more riding on sidewalks since those green bikes made their appearance, Mayor Thomas Roach insists, [T]his is not a Lime Bike issue. This is a bike issue."

 

He may have a point.  After all, in places where Lime has come to town, the main complaint has been about bicycles left on sidewalks and other places where people could trip over them.  On the other hand, it may be that people on such bikes are more likely to ride them onto the sidewalks since the only stipulation seems to be that they can't be left in the street.

Whatever the situation, some in the city think the real problem is that there is so little disincentive to break the law.  Police officers who wrote tickets soon realized as much when they learned that the fine--$10--"hadn't been increased since the Eisenhower administration," according to Roach.

So, he says, it should be increased to $100--or 1000 percent.  Some agree with this idea, while others--not all of whom are cyclists--think it's too steep.  Some, like Laura Molloy, believe "something like $30 or $40 will make you think about it.  Fellow resident Joan Bennett thinks, "they should get a $10 ticket the first time," but "if there's a second time, they should get a much bigger ticket."

A vote will be taken on it at the next City Council meeting, 5 November.

The Ride I Missed, And The One I Did

I should know better than to make plans to go on a big organized ride.

I kinda sorta promised someone else I would go on the Tour de Bronx.  We hadn't made plans to meet up, but I told this person I was going on the ride.  

A few years ago, I did TdB and enjoyed it.  Other riders remarked about some of the places the Tour visited:  the Maritime Academy, the waterfall, parks full of cliffs, the Riverdale streets that look more like they belong in Princeton than in the Bronx--or the Bronx that many people envision, anyway.  And the hills.  More than one rider expressed surprise that there were so many--and that there was so much of interest to see in the borough.

Today, though, I woke up later than I planned.  And a semi-emergency came up.  As a result, I got on the road about three hours later than I'd planned.  Worst of all, I rode to the starting point of previous Tours de Bronx, near Yankee Stadium--forgetting that this year's starting point was near the Botanical Gardens, about five kilometers away.

Now you know why I never pre-register--or, most important, pay the registration fee in advance--for such rides!

So, instead, I took my own ride into the upper reaches of the Bronx and Westchester County.  How could I not?  The wind, which blew steadily at about 30 KPH and gusted to 60, was somewhat softened, for me anyway, by the clear skies, sunshine and foliage:

I took Vera, for no particular reason.  Actually, I think I knew, deep down, that this day's colors would become her:

Everything seemed to be dressed in such colors today, even the park benches:

Those were found in Fordham Park, next to the namesake university.  The foliage graced a park in Scarsdale, though such colors were everywhere.  

Interestingly, the most traffic-free part of my ride came after I crossed the Randall's Island Connector to the southern tip of the Bronx. There, the factories were idle and warehouses closed, so there were no trucks plying Walnut and Oak Avenues, or the numbered streets in the 130s and 140s.  There wasn't even much traffic entering or exiting the Bruckner Expressway.  

On the other hand, I encountered surprising numbers of cars and SUVs along some of the tree- and mansion-lined streets of Scarsdale, Tuckahoe and the western section of New Rochelle.  I guess a lot of people decided today was a perfect day for a Sunday ride.  Thankfully, I didn't encounter any hostile drivers.

Perhaps this man talked to them:

Until a year or so ago, the sign for this street--in the South Bronx--didn't have a tilde (squiggle) over the "n" or an accent on the "e".  So, people who don't speak Spanish referred to the street as "Louie 9".  It reminds me of the Montreal Metro station and Boulevard named Pie (with an accent grave on the "e") IX, for the longest-reigning Pope in the history of the Roman Catholic Church. Anglophones in the city often call it, with amusement, "Pie Nine".  

For the record, Louis Nine served 13 years in the New York State Assembly and is remembered for his battles--sometimes victorious, sometimes not--to obtain housing for low-and middle-income families and families with handicapped children, as well as employment opportunities for young people and members of minority groups.  

I saw Louie 9 near the beginning and end of my ride--and the fall colors in between.  Maybe next year I'll do the Tour de Bronx again.

Note:  Once again, I apologize for the quality of these images. I took them with my cell phone, and could not prevent the glare you see in some of them.  

Suspension Across State Lines

Another clear, hot, humid day.  There wasn't much traffic, and everyone seemed in a good mood, or at least not-quite-awake.  Given all that's going on in the world--what with the tragedy of Nice, the attempted coup in Turkey and the police officers slain in Baton Rouge (of which I would learn when I got home), the streets of the South Bronx seemed almost idyllic--ironically enough, even more so than Greenwich, Connecticut.

I saw very little traffic all the way from my place, through the Bronx and Westchester County, not even at The Hub or in the downtown areas of New Rochelle or Port Chester.  However, I found myself pedaling in the three feet or so between a traffic jam and the curb literally the moment I crossed the state line.

When I rode to Greenwich on Tuesday (and bumped into George), I saw signs announcing the sidewalk sales that, as it turned out, were in progress today.  Of course, I didn't pay attention (or, at least, remember) those signs.  Had I remembered, would I have come prepared?  Perhaps:  I could have brought my backpack (and, maybe, my American Express Centurion Card ;-)).  A few things I saw under the tents tempted me, particularly some batik-printed tops, shorts and skirts  that were surprisingly affordable.  I suppose I could have bought a drawstring knapsack somewhere and bought a few things, but decided I didn't want to haul stuff home.

Anyway...there seemed no way to escape the traffic in Greenwich, not even on the way out. Were people driving in circles (squares)?  As soon as I crossed the line back into the Empire State, the streams of cars and minivans disappeared.  I thought some of them would pass me in Port Chester or Rye or Harrison, but they seemed to be swallowed by some black hole at the end of Putnam Avenue.

Maybe the laws of physics were suspended in Greenwich.  What else could explain this?

Now, sometimes Arielle seems to defy gravity when I'm pedaling her on a day like today.  But this is something I've never seen her do, until now:  She's not propped against that tree, or anything else.  Nor--as you can see--is the pedal serving as a "kickstand".   I was going to lean her against the trunk when I accidentally let go for a split-second, and she stood on her own. The tires just happened to fit between the roots of that old tree in just the right way.

Hmm...I wonder if it had anything to do with the traffic or sidewalk sales.  Or maybe the laws of physics just work differently when you cross state lines.

A Developing Picture: The East Coast Greenway

A decade ago, you could say that the photos you took during your vacation were "being developed", and everybody would know what you ment.

I thought about that one day when a student reported seeing a "One Hour Photo" sign and asked me to explain it.  Until then, it hadn't occured to me that a generation of young people is accustomed to instantly sending or uploading images from cameras and "smart phones" to computers--or other smart phones.  Those pictures do not have to be "processed", at least not by human hands.

When I was in high school, I learned how to develop and print photos in a darkroom.  For those of you who have never experienced the joys of such work, I will describe it, briefly.

A darkroom can be, really, just about any space that's big enoug for your equipment, has access to running water and, as the name indicates, can be sealed against light.  Even the slightest leakage of light--except for special blue light in the last stages of printing--can ruin the film on which the photos were shot or the photographic paper on which they were to be printed. So, all of the memories and imaginings you stored on rolls of film could be obliterated by the flick of a switch or the opening of a door.

(Old joke:  Dick and Jane  are in the darkroom.  Let's see what develops.)

First, the film immersing it in a tank of chemicals that converts or releases the substances in the film that store pieces (pixels, if you will) of the image.  The image emerges, if you will, but you can't see it because the film is in a tank and you are working in the dark.  But, later, when you print the film, you can see lines and shapes forming on the blank paper when it's immersed in another chemical bath after the image is projected onto the paper, which is photosensitive.  As the print is washing, you can turn on a "safelight" and see it emerge.  Lines appear and merge with each other, forming shapes of hair, noses, leaves, petals, wheels or whatever you photographed.

Yesterday, when I rode to Connecticut (again!), I felt as if I were watching a picture emerge from a blank slate, or paper, if you will.  Perhaps it's funny that I should use such a metaphor for a ride in which I didn't take any photos.  I'll explain.

Just over a year ago, on another Connecticut ride, I saw signs for something I'd never, up to that moment, heard of:  the East Coast Greenway.  When completed, it will allow non-motorized travel from Calais, Maine (at the border with New Brunswick, Canada) to Key West, Florida. It will include paths and trails through wooded areas and parkland (like the stretch through Pelham Bay Park in the Bronx), designated bike lanes that parallel main roads and quiet residential streets. . The first ECG symbols I saw stood at the end of the PBP trail, at the city line, and along residential Mount Tom Road in Pelham Manor.

On yesterday's ride, I saw some new ECG signs--or, at least, ones I hadn't noticed before.  I spotted them on my way back, just after I crossed the line back into New York State.  They led me along a series of narrow but lightly-trafficked streets that wound through a series of old churches and stone houses in Port Chester and Rye on the way to Playland.

I welcomed the "detour", if you will, as it was pleasant and relaxing--and took me away from Boston Post Road, one of the area's main streets, for a few miles.  Then, a couple of towns south, I picked up another (shorter) series of ECG signs in Mamaroneck, near the harbor and found myself pedaling down a series of suburban streets lined with houses and small sores down to New Rochelle.

And, after navigating the intersection of the New Rochelle DIner and the Home Depot, I picked up the first stretch of ECG I rode last year, from Mount Tom Road all the way (about ten kilometers) to the Hutchinson River Parkway Bridge.  From there, I zigged, zagged and wound through Bronx streets to the Randall's Island Connector.

It's not yet possible to ride a single unified greenway from the city to Connecticut, let alone to Maine or Florida.  But it's fun, in its own way, to see segments of the Greenway emerging like the lines on a developing photograph.  Perhaps one day soon, those lines will connect,  and the picture--the Greenway--will be complete.

Riding To Trees And Light Ahead Of The Storm

Tomorrow we're supposed to have torrential rains, courtesy Tropical Storm Bonnie, ready to slam into the Carolinas any second now. To me, it's one thing to start a ride with the possiblity of rain, or even in a shower.  But riding in a hurricane or monsoon is beyod the limits of even my insanity!

So, I am happy I embarked on today's ride.  For the first time this year, I pedaled to Connecticut and back.  True to other predictions I heard, I saw very little traffic, even along Boston Road in the Bronx or in downtown New Rochelle or by the state line.  Almost anybody who planned to travel this weekend is already at his or her destination and will probably return tomorrow afternoon and evening.

Aside from the light traffic, today's ride was a delight in other ways.  For one thing, I rode Arielle, my Mercian Audax, again.  (The flat just before the state line on my return trip wasn't her fault!)  And while the temperature reached 33.3C (92F) in downtown Greenwich, the heat didn't feel oppressive until the last few kilometers (out of 125) in the Bronx and Randall's Island.  That may have had as much to do with my relative fatigue (I wasn't drop-dead tired!) as with the weather.

But what I found most enjoyable was the light of this day: the kind one might see, depending on where one is, on the cusp between late spring and early summer.  Thin wisps of clouds dissipated the sun's refulgence to make it reflect the former, but that light was bright and warm enough to signal the arrival of the latter.  I especially noticed that light around the trees by the war memorial in Greenwich.

Those trees reminded me of one of the loveliest coins ever produced in this country.  In the late 1990s, the US Mint inagurated a series of quarters, or twenty-five cent pieces to the rest of the world, commemorating each of the fifty states.  The Connecticut quarter is my favorite:

US Mint Image

Anyway, I noticed something else rather interesting during today's ride.  Quite a few people were riding bikes.  Some were families; others were on social or training rides.  Most of the riders in the latter category were men; most were on road bikes and the rest on mountain bikes.  Fixed-gear bikes were conspicuously absent. 

On the other hand, I saw a few riders on fixies yesterday after I crossed the city/county line into Nassau County on my way to Point Lookout. Not as many as I might see in Williamsburg or even my neighborhood of Astoria, but enough to be noticeable.  One reason might be that the terrain on the South Shore of Queens and Nassau County is completely flat, while there are some hills in Westchester County on the way to Connecticut. Also, the riders seem to be a bit older in Westchester than on Long Island and, at least from my observations, fixie riders are younger than other riders.

Whatever...I had another great ride today.  What else can I ask?

A Late Summer Ride In November: No Sweat!

Today was a very strange day, weather-wise.  When I got out of bed at 7:30 am, it was already 20C (68F).  The normal afternoon high temperature  at this time of year is around 15C (60F).  By mid-afternoon, we had a high of 25C (77F).

What made it all even stranger is that in the morning, the rain that had fallen in the wee hours dripped and slicked all over everything.  Most of the day remained overcast, although there was no real threat of rain.  The sun peeked out briefly about three and a half hours into my ride, but it pulled the blanket of clouds across its face almost as soon as I saw it. I have often ridden, happily, in such conditions in coastal areas in the US and Europe.  

The sun peeked out briefly about three and a half hours into my ride, but it pulled the blanket of clouds across its face almost as soon as I saw it.  The combination of warmth--more typical of early or mid September--and cloud cover could have made for very sticky conditions.  However, even on a 125 km (75 mile), about a third of which consisted of sequences of climbs with very little flat or straight stretches between them, I wasn't sweating--or drinking water--very much.  And I didn't feel tired, in the middle, late in the ride, or in the end.

Perhaps I was energized by the light I saw:  the trees and bushes radiated their autumnal colors, just past their peak in upper Westchester County, against a gray sky particular to November, I feel:  aging, like the earth beneath it, and  rather melancholy, but not oppressive. 

Now that I think of it, that might have been the reason why I sweated so little, in spite of the climbing and heat:  When the late summer sky is shrouded with thick cumulus clouds on a late summer day, you can still feel the intensity of the sun, and of the heat that almost everything seems to absorb after several weeks of summer. But, even if the sun had shown itself more today, I don't think it would have drained me, and my waterbottle:  It would have been less intense, and it would not have been aided by the the ground, streets and other things that absorb its heat in the "dog days".

Of course, I might have just felt really, really good to be on Arielle, my Mercian Audax, again after riding to and from work all week on my LeTour.