A Fall Ride?

It's October.  There's nothing like a ride on a beautiful Fall day:

Happy Sunday!

Get Well, Ely!

I was going to write another post about another Lovely Fall Ride.  Today's trek was different from yesterday's LFR in that I didn't leave the confines of the Five Boroughs. In fact, I traversed only two of those boroughs:  the one in which I live--Queens--and neighboring Brooklyn.  All of my ride covered streets that are entirely familiar to me but were accented by the clear mid-October afternoon accented by hints of the impending sunset and the crisp air.

Yes, I could write about today's ride which, while shorter and less varied than yesterday's ride to Connecticut, was still soul-satisfying.  Funny that I should choose such a term given that I wended along the side streets of the Hasidic enclave in the southern end of Williamsburgh.  Wooden booths enclosed balconies and building entrances; tents were erected in lots and alleyways:  I then realized that today is the beginning of Sukkot, or the Feast of Tabernacles.  People gathered inside those booths and tents to commemorate the Exodus; those structures are meant to invoke the gathering of people who, so often, have been dispersed.

But I am not going to talk more about a Jewish observnce, of which I have very limited knowledge and experience.  I also won't talk about my ride because, well, I can do that whenever I want to.  Instead, I want to tell you about someone who's been part of my cycling life over the past three years, even though I've never met him.

We've talked on the phone, exchanged e-mails and responded to each other's post on Facebook.  I made a promise, sort of. to come out his way and ride with him.  And, if he's ever out this way and he has time, we're going to take at least one of the rides I've described in this blog. 

(Once, about a year or so ago, he was here in NYC, but only for two days, and had a commitment with a relative.)

So, aside from his good cheer and inspiration, how else has he affected my cycling life?  Well, he's made some things that are on all of my bikes.  They have become some of my favorite accessories, ever.  And now that they're on my bikes, I can't imagine my bikes without them:  They work so  well for me and the way I ride, and they highlight the beauty of my Mercians.

I am talking, of course, about my Ruth Works bags:  The Brevet bags on the handlebars of Arielle and Tosca, my Mercian Audax and fixed-gear bikes respectively.  The Randonneur bag on Vera, my twin-tube Mercian mixte.  The clutch on the handlebar of Helene, my modern Miss Mercian.  The seat wedges on all of those bikes, and the shopping panniers I use on my commuter.  And a large seat bag I sometimes use, and the panniers he made but which I haven't used yet.

Ely Ruth Rodriguez made all of those bags for me.  After he made those first bags--the Brevets and seat wedges--I fell in love with his work. And those bags just seemed to belong on my Mercians.

Today I found out that he suffered a heart attack while out on a ride.  I don't have a lot of details, but we exchanged e-mails and he says he's resting now.   

I hope he recovers quickly and well.  After all, I want to ride with him and, well, I might ask him to make another bag for me when he's up to it. But most important, he's a nice, engaging person with a family who loves him.  

Another Connecticut Ride, And Why I Did It

Another Beautiful Fall Day today.  If I don't have some really urgent commitment, and I am not out and on a ride, someone should check my pulse!

"Ride me!"

Seriously, it was just one of those days when I couldn't have not ridden, even if I tried.  And I don't know what would have motivated me to try.

Anyway, I did the most quintessentially fall ride I could do without taking a train or plane--or accompanying someone who was driving a few hours out of town.  You guessed it:  I rode to Connecticut again.  On Arielle, my Mercian Audax, of course.



This time, though, I changed my route a bit.  I've found more segments of the East Coast Greenway I hadn't ridden previously:  Today I took it all the way from the Bronx to Rye, which is near the Connecticut line.

Most of the route follows secondary roads that are commercial strips or main streets of residential neighborhoods in several Westchester County towns.  Some parts of it are two-lane streets with cars pulling in and out. The drivers, thankfully, seemed cognizant of cyclists and gave me as much of a berth as they could.  I also noticed that they were very careful before opening their doors and didn't honk or yell at me when I was just ahead of them and they were trying to pull into a parking spot.  Maybe they were in a good mood:  After all, it was Saturday and most of them were shopping or getting waffles or ice cream in the cute little stores.

And, where I couldn't find any more ECG signs--near the Rye train station--I followed a hunch and took a left on Purchase Street, which I rode for about a kilometer to a fork, where I decided to hook right onto Ridge Road.  Not surprisingly, I had to climb a couple of hills, though they weren't terribly steep or long.  And it brought me to Port Chester, where I know the side streets well enough that I could follow them over the state line.

So,on today's ride, I managed to avoid US 1--and the entrance and exit ramps for I-95 and other highways--altogether.  That alone was enough to make me happy.

Even better was the opportunity to see the changes in foliage.  In just over a week, I saw more reds and yellows in the trees and bushes.  

And, interestingly, some flowers have come into bloom.

Some years, there is a week or so when the Fall seems like a second Spring. The colors are, of course, different, but no less vivid.

To think that I was offered such treats during a ride when I felt really, really good!  

Today I also realized another reason why I've done my Connecticut Ride so often.  It's like one of those meals that offers a nice combination of tastes, textures and even colors.  This ride takes me from my block of brick houses, across the park that is Randall's Island, through the industrial areas and shabby but lively tenement-lined streets of the South Bronx, along tree-lined streets in Westchester County and around the vast estates and horse farms of Connecticut.  And back again.  Pretty good for a day ride, wouldn't you say? 

Playing Chicken With The Sunset

In earlier posts, I've written about "playing chicken with the rain".   On days when precipitation the clouds look ready to drop buckets, I might for a ride, all the while daring the sky to deal me a deluge.  I feel I've "won" the "game", if you will, when I arrive home (or wherever I'm going) just as the first drops plop against my skin.

Today there was absolutely no risk of rain.  It was one of those perfect fall days, with the kind of sunlight that feels as if it's trickling through leaves even though the sky is blue.  And the wind and the waves echo a softly crackling flame.  At least, they seem as if they should.

The waves...Yes, I took an afternoon ride to the Rockaways.  Although the water is still warm enough (at least for someone like me) to swim, the air was cool enough that nobody tried.  In fact, the only people in the water were a few surfers.

But I was playing chicken.   You see, I started in the middle of the afternoon and lingered on the boardwalk (actually, it's concrete now) at Rockaway Park.  A month or two ago, I could have lingered--or ridden--even longer than I did.  Well, actually, I could have done that today, too.  But I was also thinking about the time of day--or, more precisely, the time at which the day would end.

After lingering, I rode some more along the boardwalk and, after crossing the Veterans Memorial Bridge into Beach Channel and Howard Beach, took a circuitous route through streets of wood-frame houses--some with boats in their driveways--away from the ocean and bay and up the gradual climb to Forest Park, right in the middle of Queens.  From Forest, I rode streets I've ridden dozens, if not hundreds of times before as the sun began its descent just beyond the railroad tracks and the East River.

Yes, I got back to my apartment just as the twilight began to deepen into evening and the street lamps were lighting.  I had lights with me--  I always keep them in my under-seat bag--but I didn't have to use them.

In other words, I played chicken with the sunset.  And "won"!

Fall, And What I Needed

Some have called last night's debate "depressing".  

I was too much in shock to be depressed.  The last time I felt that way about an event in which I was not personally involved was on 11 September 2001. 

Like many other people here in New York, I was stunned for days, for weeks, afterward.  Then came grief, a sense of loss:  Even though I didn't lose anyone I knew in the events of that day, I felt a sense of loss.  When a complete stranger cried on my shoulder, I held her until she got off the bus we were riding.  We didn't speak and I never saw her again. Each of us understood, I believe, and gave each other what we needed in that moment.  

I had not thought about that encounter in years, until now.  Some have seen that time as a kind of Fall, when this country lost its collective innocence.  The days and weeks that followed--which, as I recall, were unusually warm for the time of year--did not feel autumnal.  

The holidays, like the days that preceded and followed them, passed through a kind of gray storm in which needles of ice rained down even on the clearest of days.  Those first glacial spears stung; the ones that followed stunned; after that, I was too numb to feel the rest, for a long time.

There may have been a Fall that year.  But the season that followed did not feel Autumnal:  that October and November felt just like the following January and February, in no small part because those months were--up to that time--the warmest winter months this city had experienced.

Today, in contrast, felt exactly the way some of us might have, at some time in our lives, expected a day from this time of year to feel.  Today began overcast but turned, rather quickly, into an afternoon with a blue sky lit by intense sunlight that hinted at the sunset that would tinge the horizon a few hours later.  The morning's chill had, by that time, turned into a nip.

In other words, it felt like the Fall day it is.  It was that day when one realizes that the season is well underway:  It's no longer possible to say that summer has just passed, but winter, though everyone knows it will come, does not yet seem imminent.  

Fewer cars and taxis and buses plied the street on which I live, or the avenue around the corner or the other streets that branched from it, than one sees on a typical Monday.  The reason, of course, is that today is a holiday (as I like to say, for a guy who got lost):  the one that always seems, to me, the one that signals that it is indeed Fall.

On this holiday last year, I was in Montreal, where--ironically--it was warmer, more like a September day here in New York and the leaves of the iconic maple trees that line the city's streets blazed in the sun.  Montrealers, like other Canadians, don't celebrate Columbus Day.  Rather, the second Monday of October is, for them, Thanksgiving Day.   I certainly was thankful for having such a wonderful day to ride and interesting places to explore.  

I had those things, today, too.  So of course I went for a ride.  I didn't plan anything, not even which of my bikes I rode.  As it turned out, I took Tosca, my fixed gear Mercian, for a spin.  Perhaps I chose her because, somehow, I knew--my body knew--that I needed to keep my feet spinning.  But I was not riding for escape:  In fact, it was quite the opposite.  

Where did I go?  I know I pedaled through various parts of Brooklyn and Queens; I think I even popped into Nassau County, briefly, and back again into the borough I now call home, into the one I called home The Day The Towers Fell, and back home.

That ride gave me exactly what I needed, for I did what I needed to do.  And I am satisfied now.

(Note:  I didn't take any photos during my ride.  The image you see was made by Matt Hyde.)

Mother Wouldn't Have Told Me To Do Otherwise

Whatever we can do about climate change, there isn't a whole lot we can do about the weather.

At least, that's what I told myself when I went for a ride today.

I talked to my mother this morning.  She and my father were bracing for Hurricane Matthew.  They'd done what they can, she told me, and they couldn't do much more.

I'm sure she knew I was feeling anxiety--and a bit of guilt. After all, in my part of the world, we had one of those perfectly gorgeous October days you see in Fall Foliage Tour ads.  And I didn't have to go to work.  So, of course, I was just itching to go on a ride.



I offered to help my mother and father.  She reminded me that, really, there was nothing I could do because I have no way of getting to them. Even if I had a drivers' license, I probably couldn't have driven there.  Also, there were no flights into the area.  I think even Amtrak suspended service to the area.

So I went on a bike ride--to Connecticut, again.  I mean, where else would I ride on a day like today--unless, of course, I were going to take a trip to Vermont or Maine or Canada or the Adirondacks:  places where the foliage is already in bloom.  I have no such plans for this weekend.

Naturally, I rode Arielle, my Mercian Audax, and thoroughly enjoyed it.  The temperature was just right (a high of about 21C or 70F) and the wind blew out of the east and northeast, which meant that I was pedaling into it up to Greenwich and sailed my way back.



Although we don't yet have the blaze of colors one would see right about now in the other places I mentioned, there are subtle changes in color--and, more important in the tone, texture and other qualities of light that signal that fall is well under way.

Just as I was about to cross the Randalls Island Connector--about 20 minutes from home--my mother called.  The worst of the storm had passed:  the rain had stopped and the wind wasn't much stronger than it is on a typical day. She and Dad were OK.  They had no electricity, they said, but aside from a few small tree limbs and other debris in their yard, they suffered no damage.  

After I got home, I fed Max and Marlee.  Then I wiped my bike down, and fed myself.  Mother wouldn't have told me to do otherwise.

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:

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.

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.

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?

 

A Fall Classic (For Me, Anyway)

Few things in this world are more of a treat than a bike ride on a beautiful mid-fall day.

A pleasantly cool breeze stroked my back as my feet seemed to glide through circles down the path beside Beach Channel Drive, the road that cuts through a sliver of land in Jamaica Bay.  Part of that land is occupied by Gateway National Recreation Area which, from what I understand, is a great bird-watching spot.  I was flying, with a great bike under me and a blaze of colors surrounding me.  

In addition to the trees whose leaves have turned yellow and orange, I saw these bushes:

I never noticed those deep red leaves before.  Is that a fall color?  I also saw, for the first time, berries that looked like blackcurrants.  Knowing that my temptation to try them could get the better of me, I sought out a ranger.  (I know there's usually at least one on duty:  I've seen them before.)  But I could not find him or her.  I did, however, see a lot of people who were probably bird-watchers or hikers.  One of them might have known about those bushes, but I couldn't bring myself to ask.  

Oh well.  I guess if I want to make Ribena, I'll have to get my fruit elsewhere!

Anyway...I rode out to--you guessed it--Point Lookout.  I've been there when the tide was out, but I've never seen anything like this:

Usually, when the tide is out, just the sandbars are exposed.  I've never before seen that pool of moss where I usually see water lapping up against the rocks.

Perhaps it's not that unusual for that place.  At least, that's what I hope.  Then I can see the moss as just another one of this beautiful day's colors.

 

In Autumnal Mists

If you read some of my earlier posts, you might recall that I actually enjoy riding in fog.

That's kind of ironic when you consider one of my rules about riding in the rain:  I won't do it if the precip is falling so densely that I can't see more than two bike lengths ahead of me.  Somehow, though, it's easier (for me, anyway) to navigate--and pedal--through even the densest fogs.  Hey, I've actually ridden through clouds, when ascending and descending mountains in Vermont and the French Alps.  Compared to that, navigating a mist is easy.

Perhaps my enjoyment of riding under such conditions has to do with the structure of my eyes:  After all, I love riding (or walking or just about anything else) in the diffuse light of places like Paris, Copenhagen and Prague, and of overcast days at nearly any seashore.

Perhaps the best thing about such light and mist is the way it brings out autumnal hues:

From Favim

 
What is it about bikes that they are (to my eyes, anyway) best photographed in the fall?

Late Fall Trail Ride

I was dragged kicking and screaming to the Internet.  Now look at me--I'm a blogger.  Still, I'm not a "first adapter" of technology:  I tend to stick with things that work for me until I have no other choice.

That means I probably won't ever ride with a webcam in my helmet.  Had such devices been available back in my off-road riding days--and I had been more of a technophile, I might have made a video like this:







Thanks to Ruben Guibert for this!

Two Fall Rides

In my next life, I'm going to look like this when I ride to work (or the farmer's market) at this time of year:

From Simply Bike

Sigh.  Well, at least in this life, I can do a fall ride like this.  In fact, I just might do such a ride soon.

From Mycle's Cycles

In the ideal cycling world, I could ride through such colors and have the long hours of daylight we enjoy in May and June.  And, oh yeah, it would all be located near a large body of water.

I don't ask for much, do I? 

Lone Star Fall Cycling

If you've been following this blog for a while, you know that I will use the flimsiest of excuses to turn a post into a forum for an image I happen to like.

So, be forewarned:  That is exactly what I am about to do!

I wanted to take some good photos of fall cycling.  The weather has been right but, alas, in these parts (Has anyone else ever used "alas" and "in these parts" together?) the leaves haven't begun to change color.  As I don't anticipate a trip to Vermont in the next couple of weeks, I'll have to wait, I guess, to ride through a blaze of color.

So I went looking for images of fall cycling on the web.  As they say in the old movies, looky here at what I found:

From Fort Worth Bike Sharing

Folks like me always think of northern climes when it comes to fall foliage.  However, we musn't forget that points south and west also have autumnal vistas, and sunsets to go with them.

Plus, in the process of finding this image, I found out that Fort Worth has a bike share program.  I guess I shouldn't be surprised. As for cycling in that part of the Lone Star State, I imagine fall would be the best time: I simply cannot imagine riding through their summers!

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.