You’re Not From Da’Hill

 Sometimes someone can just tell, “You’re not from here!”

Here in New York, if someone asks how to get to “Hew-stun” street, we know that person is a tourist, or just moved here. That downtown thoroughfare shares a name with Texas’ largest city. Or so it appears. Actually, it’s named for William Houstoun, a member of the Continental Congress and 1787 Constitutional Convention. He was the son-in-law of Nicholas Bayard III, who owned a farm (!) that covered much of what is now SoHo and the Lower East Side and has a street named for him. At some point, the second “u” was dropped from “Houstoun.” 

So how does a real New Yorker intone it? HOW-stun. Apparently, that’s how the family pronounced it.

So why am I giving you a pronunciation guide to a downtown street? Well, during a ride the other day, I got a similar lesson.  

The Bronx is full of short, but sometimes surprisingly steep, climbs. One winds up West Tremont Avenue just south and west of Bronx Community College. It was just enough to make me glad I “wimped out” and took one of my geared bikes instead of my fixed-gear.  I wasn’t out of breath but, for a moment, I thought I was dreaming or hallucinating when I saw this:

I grew up at 573 Dahill Road in Brooklyn until I was 12. What, I wondered, was this barbershop 35 kilometers (22 miles), and even more years, away doing with the name of my childhood stomping grounds?

Oh, and I hope not to sound racist—and I mean no disrespect to the skills of the clippers I saw the other day—in saying this, but nobody in my old milieu (where they didn’t use words like “milieu”) would ever have gone to such a place because, well, no such place would have existed there. Our barbers were middle-aged or older Italian men who cropped the locks of men like them and their sons. 

I brought my bike into the shop. Haircutters and patrons alike looked at me quizzically: I obviously wasn’t there for a “fade” or cornrow. “Can I help you?” a slender man with a trim beard queried.

“Mamí, man’s haircut here,” one patron admonished me.

“Yo lo sabe.” Señora Provine, my old profesora, surely would have been appalled. Then again, I’m not sure anybody in the Bronx speaks the way she or, for that matter, any of my English teachers, taught us. And those guys, I’m sure, knew “I’m not from here” even before I opened my mouth. I even could’ve understood if they didn’t believe that I’ve been living in the Bronx, albeit in a different neighborhood, for 2.5 years.

To explain why the sign on the shop caught my attention, I pulled up images of my childhood home and the street sign on my phone.  “¡Mira! Yo vivida allí. La Calle Dahill. 

I pronounced it Day-hill. Just as anyone in my old milieu, where they didn’t use words like “milieu,” would have said it.

A customer overheard. “This place. It’s Duh-hill.” 

I should have known. Duh-hill. Da’hill. I missed the apostrophe implied by the space in that sign.  Just like Da’Bronx, not The Bronx.

Just 5 kilometers (3 miles) from my apartment. But I definitely wasn’t from there. At least we had a good laugh.

“This Is In The Bronx?!”

One of the wonderful things about cycling is that it connects you with wherever you are riding. Yet, sometimes, you can’t believe you are where you are.

That was how I felt on my first overseas bicycle tour, which took me to England and France.  I have also had that sensation any time I have experienced a new (to me) country, countryside, city or village—or, say, the ancient temples and shrines of Japan or Southeast Asia.

But, even as a jaded, crotchety woman in middle age, I don’t have to go far for that sense of wonder. I have experienced it without leaving my hometown of New York City or even the borough in which I live, whether it was Manhattan, Brooklyn or Queens, or is the Bronx.

As for the latter, I took my neighbor Sam, who has lived all of his life in the Bronx, onto paths past sights he never knew existed in his home turf. Today I pedaled to one of those areas, a peninsula between the (misnamed) East River and Long Island Sound.

There I met Helen, who wasn’t on a bike but was photographing houses that look like no others in this city:  They are more like fin de siecle beachside cottages.  And they stood behind a tall fence. The street leading to and around them stretched behind a gate—which, seemingly ignorant of the “No Trespassing—Private Property” sign beside it, yawned wide open.

“Wanna go through?” 

“What can they do? Chase us away?” I wondered.

So I wheeled La-Vande, my King of Mercia and she walked beside me. She is about half a foot shorter and more than a few pounds lighter than me—hardly an imposing figure—but somehow her presence emboldened me to do something—enter that gate—I wouldn’t have done alone.

About a hundred meters inside the gate, a man whom I guessed to be a bit older than me greeted us. Helen—who, as it turns out, is a freelance reporter—asked the man what he knew about the history of the place. Quite a bit, as it turned out.  So did the postal carrier who told us he lucked into that route as his “retirement gig.” “Have a good afternoon, ladies,” the older man bade us. 

That last detail stuck with me because later, Helen asked why I thought those men, and a few other people we encountered, were so friendly. After all, we were in a gated community—yes, in the Bronx—and had no business being there. “Well, we’re not causing any trouble,” I mused. Then, something else occurred to me. I am well into midlife and Helen, though seemingly younger, certainly is a grown woman. And, I added, “I am White and you are Asian.” While I don’t want to impute racism to people I don’t know, I couldn’t help but to notice that everyone we saw was White and middle-aged or older. So, Helen and I simply never stood out as we might have had we been two young Black men.

Don’t get me wrong: Both of us enjoyed our moment there.  “You don’t need to go on vacation with these views!” she marveled. And the architecture and history of that place are fascinating, all the more so because neither of us expected to see it in the Bronx.

On Its Way: Autumn

  Autumn comes (sorry, James Wright) or Summer ends, depending on your point of view, at 20:05 EDT tomorrow.

I don’t, however, need a calendar or almanac to tell me that. My ride this afternoon did plenty: The nip in the air hadn’t turned into a chill but was enough to remind me that I won’t be riding in shorts or short sleeves for much longer.  

Also, the view from Baretto Park toward North Brother Island (where “Typhoid Mary”:was involuntarily held) and Manhattan portended, not only earlier sunsets, but the sky drawing a darkening, rumpling cloak against cold and darkness it cannot—will not?—stop. 

Do They Ride Bikes?

During the mid- and late ‘80’s, I could ride all day and not see another adult cyclist, especially in “transportation deserts “ and other areas where, by necessity or choice, people were car-dependent.  By “choice,” I mean that people drove even when they could have walked or cycled for local trips or commuted on a bus or train.

Those communities tended to be working- and lower middle class. I often thought they, like many of us, were inculcated with the notion that motor=maturity and that only kids rode bikes. Whatever receational or other “by choice” cycling took place in middle-class neighborhoods. 

When I started this blog in 2010, I noticed that if I was the only adult cyclist within sight, I was probably in a low-income immigrant community. Sometimes it had to do with the fact said immigrants came from places where there was little or no cycling, possibly because they were too poor to buy a bike. Or they aspired to having a car, and they saw riding a bicycle as a sign that they were not progressing toward the goals they had when they emigrated.

If I saw other cyclists, they were almost always male. I was often admonished to be careful or that I shouldn’t be riding at all because the dangers were too great—or because they came from cultures in which girls and women simply didn’t ride bicycles. 

These days, even in the neighborhoods or areas I’ve mentioned, I am rarely the only adult cyclist.  Some might be on beat-up wrecks they cobbled together from abandoned or discarded bikes; others might be spinning the pedals of a Trek or Cannondale.  

There is, however, one city that reminds me of the old days. Before I moved to my current home, two years ago, I had ridden through it maybe a couple of times. But now that I am living across from the New York Botanical Garden and just above Fordham University, that city is only 8 kilometers (5 miles) away, directly across the city/county line. It hasn’t been a destination—yet—but it is along some routes I now ride.

I am talking about Mount Vernon. It’s not what comes to mind when most people think about Westchester County. If anything, it’s a lot like the working-class neighborhoods I described: apartment buildings are interspersed with brick and stucco houses surrounded by small parches of lawn. I suspect that many residents, if they don’t work in the city’s shops or factories, take the Metro North commuter railroad to Manhattan. For them, commuting by bike isn’t feasible and I imagine they don’t have the time or energy at the end of the day for a ride.

Perhaps their busy schedules, or some of the attitudes I described earlier, are reasons why I have yet to see another adult on a bicycle in Mount Vernon. Or could it be that they see someone like me and don’t see themselves?

Riding To The Rappers

 Sometimes I get on my bike just to ride. Other times, I have a route and destination in mind. But I don’t always know what I’ll see along the way.

As I the Randalls Island Connctor, I heard music on the Bronx side. That’s not unusual; I figured it was coming from somebody’s car. But then I heard…rapping.  And it didn’t sound recorded. So of course I had to check it out:

The words they chanted, shouted, stage-whispered and simply spoke resonated, not only because of their rhythms and rhymes: They were as skilled as any I’ve heard, but they didn’t come cheap:  The pain and frustration—and triumphs—pulse from them.

But even though their raps dealt with events in the artist’s lives and the world today—or, at least, they could have been today’s stories—I had the seemingly-odd sensation of going back 40 or 45 years.  I soon realized why:  Those young men with old souls were doing like the early hip- hop djs:  They set up sound equipment in a public space (the corner of East 132nd Street and Locust Avenue, to be exact) and opened themselves up to whoever chanced by.

The main differences were that the man who was the actual or de facto sound engineer was using a laptop which, of course, nobody had “back in the day.” And he didn’t have a turntable, which almost everyone had.

I will definitely check out their YouTube channel (Punchline Academy). Will I encounter anything like that impromptu concert on a future ride?  Before today, I probably would have said, “no.” But after today:  “I’ll never know!”

They Can Ride

 Tall, rawboned Felix is about my age but looks younger. We often pass each other when entering or leaving the building.  Today, as he often does, he asked where I planned to ride.

I told him I had no destination in mind; I simply wanted to get out. “I’m going to do that, too,” he declared, “when I get my bike, after the new year.” Sometimes he and Sam, my neighbor and sometime riding partner, hang out beside the building. “Perhaps me, you, Sam and a few other people.  We could have our own little cycling group.”

“Maybe…,” he intoned.

A couple of weeks ago, “Elena,” who lives two doors away from me, wheeled her machine—a mountain bike in white and Easter-egg hues—into the elevator next to Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear. “I would like to ride like you,” she sighed.

“You don’t have to ride like me.” I was about to suggest riding with me when the elevator stopped on another floor and someone, apparently a friend of hers (whom I don’t know) started chatting with her. I didn’t want to interrupt.

And then there is “Richard,” who lives on a lower floor. When he sees me with my bike, he has to tell me about the rides he took “all over the city, and even further away.” I believe him; he seems to know about riding and looks like a former athlete. But, he explains, his life took some “really bad turns” through illnesses, which led to homelessness and “losing everything, including my bike.”  Many years have passed since then. “I wish I could ride again, but it was so long ago,” he lamented.

Not so long ago, I would have been dismissive of them, at least in my mind. I was one of those young (even when I wasn’t so young) cyclists who thought anyone who didn’t spend a certain number of hours or miles (or kilometers) on the “right” kinds of bikes and clad in “proper” bike clothes wasn’t a “real” cyclist.

Though I had begun to change long before I met Felix, Elena or Richard, I feel another shift (pun not intended) has happened for me since my trip to Japan. There, I saw probably as many, if not more, people pedaling to work or for pleasure as I saw in France or other European countries. But there didn’t seem to be the kind of self-consciousness (and, at times, self-righteousness) about equipment and other things that “cycle culture” seems to engender in my hometown of New York and other cities.   Most people rode utilitarian bikes with wide tires, fenders, racks and generator lights. You can’t one-up anybody who is riding a bike like yours, or those of most other people, for the same reasons you and they are riding. 

Even the cyclists—mostly young and male—I saw on lighter racing bikes didn’t seem to define themselves by their bikes (or, more precisely, those bikes’ price tags) or what they were wearing. They, and the commuters and families I saw, reminded me of why I came to love cycling. And I wish Felix, Elena and Richard could see them and realize they don’t have to ride like them, me or anyone else. Oh, and I don’t care that Elena’s bike is a Kent:  She’s riding it.

Where Did I Go?

Since my previous post--a week and a day ago--I haven't done a lot of riding. But what little time I've spent in the saddle has been interesting.

First, the question of why I haven't been on my bikes.  Short answer:  Didn't feel well.  More precisely, I struggled to stay awake when I didn't work (I took a day off) and didn't do any non-commute riding until Saturday.  That is when I had one of my interesting experiences.

As I pedaled up the short by winding hill in Starlight Park, along the Bronx River, a boy--about eight years old, I guessed--trailed me on a Schwinn beach cruiser-type bike. (It was not an original.)  Just past the penultimate turn, the bike lane branches:  to the right, where I rode, you continue climbing until you reach the pedestrian bridge to 172nd Street and Bronx River Avenue; to the left, a narrower, unpaved path cuts across a terrace and leaves riders and walkers at the foot of that same bridge.  He took the flat route. When we arrived at the bridge, he boasted, "I didn't have to climb!"

Then we continued riding down to Westchester Avenue, where we crossed to the Concrete Plant Park.  There, he voiced what I suspected: "I'm following you!"  His sweet gap-toothed smile beamed innocence.  For some reason, my inner cynic was quiet:  I didn't hear, "He won't be that way for long!" or "He's up to no good."  I realized that he was nothing more, or less, than a kid who was enjoying the sunshine and wind on his bike, just like the adult in front of him.

He didn't have a phone.  I asked him whether he lived nearby and whether his mother would be OK with him riding with me.  Nod to both.  Part of me wanted to lecture him about trusting strangers.  But I realized that wouldn't have done him any good.  All I could do was be an adult he--and his parents--could trust, and have fun riding with him.

Although we were only a couple of kilometers or so, he had never before seen the Concrete Plant Park--or Crotona Park, to which we rode a few minutes later.  He also hadn't pedaled along the bike lane that parallels the Park Avenue railroad tracks or the one that winds underneath the Bruckner Expressway. He marveled that I knew of those places, where I ride often.  Perhaps more important, he learned that he could ride to them.

After about an hour and a half of riding, we stopped at Southern Boulevard and Hunts Point Avenue for one of his favorite snacks:  garlic knots from Domino's.  Then we crossed Southern, where his father and brother were selling Yankees caps and other items from a stall. I expected suspicion; instead they greeted me as a friend and his father thanked me for spending time with him.  

Perhaps I will see that boy--Zane--again, on his bike or off it.  I will not think about how many (or few miles) I rode or that I didn't go to anyplace I hadn't been before.  Then again, maybe I did, after all.

 

Donuts and D-Day

 Today is National Donut Day here in the US.

I wonder whether it was someone’s idea of a marketing gimmick or sick joke—which are more or less the same thing—to merge a day devoted to sugar consumption with one the anniversary of a pivotal campaign in a war that consumed so many lives.

I’ll admit that I am not so ideologically or dietetically pure that I didn’t partake of a promotion:  I bought a cup of coffee—enough to entitle me to a freebie—and picked one of the most decadent-looking sugarbombs in the display case at the Fordham Plaza Dunkin’ Donuts: a chocolate cake ring with chocolate icing and pink stripes.

Now, did those (mostly) young American, Australian,  British, Canadian, Czech, Dutch, French, Greek, Norwegian, Polish, South African, Southern Rhodesian and New Zealand fighters risk—and in some cases lose—their lives so we can enjoy sweet baked goods? Of course not. But I did think about them because I think about them, and other like them, whenever war is commemorated. 

And I think about them precisely because I am (mostly) a pacifist. I believe, as Kurt Vonnegut (himself a WW II veteran) said, that Hitler was “pure evil” and had to be stopped.  But the conditions that fueled his rise to power—the devestation wrought by “the war to end wars” could have been avoided had the “haves” not wanted more from the “have nots.”

Am I the only one who thinks about stuff like this while riding? Or was it the sugar rush I got from that free donut which may have been responsible for the sprint I pedaled along the Bronx River Greenway.

A Cherry Blossom Canopy In The Bronx

The bike lane under the Bruckner Expressway isn’t more than a couple of years old. But I believe I can safely say that I’ve ridden it dozens, if not a hundred or more, times.

While pedaling Tosca, my Mercian Dixie, near the lane’s southern end, I caught a glimpse of this:

On a grimy industrial block of  East 140th Street, some men enjoyed a canopy more beautiful, to my eye, than any offered at the entrances of the most sumptuous Park and Fifth Avenue buildings.

Of course, those men may not have seen it that way: I couldn’t tell whether they live, work or simply hang out on the block. And I didn’t try to take a closer image of them because one of them eyed me suspiciously.  Perhaps it means I’m not really an artist or even journalist after all: My respect for his privacy won out over my desire to “create” or “make a statement.”

Or maybe I am: The inherent beauty of that cherry blossom, and the cloak of light and graceful curves it offered in a space bounded by concrete, asphalt, chicken wire and steel girders, impressed enough on me, however imperfectly I’ve captured it on my iPhone camera.

Boulevard Ochenta y Siete

 Yesterday’s rains left bright skies and brisk winds today: about as nice as can be expected this early in Spring.

So, of course, I went for a ride this afternoon. About 3.5 kilometers from my apartment I saw this:

I have passed that spot before, But today I couldn’t help but to notice how it was decorated. 

As colorful as the flowers (made of crepe paper) and ribbons were, that spot—a pocket park at the intersection of Southern Boulevard and Tremont Avenue—cannot be festive. That block of Southern is called the Boulevard Ochenta y Siete:  Boulevard 87.

And that name is the reason why that park can be decorated only in the sense that people who brave wars, disasters or other tragedies are “decorated” when medals are pinned on them. 

On this date in 1990–35 years ago—Julio Gonzalez got into an argument with his ex-girlfriend, who worked at the Happy Land Social Club, across the street from the park. Bouncers escorted him out of the club. Out on the street, he shouted, vowing to have the club shut down—which, ironically, he (or someone else) could have done, as it operated without a license.

In his rage, he went to a nearby gas station and bought a gallon of gasoline, which he would pour onto the staircase—the only way in or out of that second-story club—and light it.

In the wee hours of that morning, revelers, most of them Hondurans celebrating Carnaval, packed the darkened space. By the time firefighters put out the blaze, 87 would lose their lives.  

In a cruel irony, Gonzalez’s girlfriend, Lydia Feliciano, wasn’t there. In another terrible twist of fate, exactly 79 years earlier—25 March 1911–the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire claimed the lives of 146 workers, most of them young Italian and Jewish immigrant women. The Happy Land Fire was thus the deadliest conflagration in New York City since Triangle Shirtwaist—whose victims, like those at Happy Land, had no way out.

It wasn’t lost on me that I enjoyed an afternoon ride aboard Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear bike, during a beautiful Spring afternoon that just happened to be an anniversary of two of the worst tragedies to befall my hometown, New York, before 9/11.

A "Cathedral" Under Hell Gate

Yesterday I reprised the late-afternoon ride I took two days before:  a 72 km (45 mile) round trip from my apartment to Fort Totten and back.

The air was a bit chillier, but brighter, than on my previous ride.  Perhaps that accounted for my seeing fewer cyclists, though I encountered more bundled-up people with their dogs along the waterfront path that winds under the Throgs Neck Bridge.  But the biggest difference--for me, anyway--was that I started a bit later.  You might say that I was playing chicken with dusk:  I got to my apartment in under some of the last flickerings of twilight.

The return leg brought me to the Connector between Randall's Island and the Bronx.  It runs underneath the viaduct that ushers Amtrak trains toward Manhattan and Penn Station.  There, I was treated to an early glow of sunset:

That light proved irresistible to me:  I slowed down and, of course, stopped to take pictures, even at the risk of ending my ride in the dark--which wouldn't have been the worst thing, as I'd brought lights. 

 

Later, I relished the irony of feeling as if I'd entered a cathedral while pedaling under a viaduct that continues from the Hell Gate Bridge.

Flying Righr—For Me, Anyway

 Daylight Saving Time means..a longer late afternoon ride. 

This time I pedaled out to Fort Totten via the Bronx River Greenway, Randall’s Island and the Malcom X Promenade—about 72 kilometers, or 45 miles, on my not-quite-as-the crow-flies route. 

Well, I didn’t see any crows, so I had an excuse for not following them.  I’m sure these birds, not quite of the same feather, won’t hold it against me:

From The City To The Island

 Yesterday I pedaled out to City Island. It’s not a long ride (about 25 kilometers round-trip) and it’s mostly flat.  So I thought about taking Tosca, my Mercian fixie, but instead went with La-Vande, my King of Mercia.

I was glad I made that choice: I pedaled into the wind most of the way back. Also, La-Vande has fenders, which shielded the bike—and me—from salt and sand the Department of Sanitation spread over the streets during recent snowfalls. And parts of the Bronx River and Pelham Parkway Greenways were mud puddles. 

While most of the bike—and I—were protected, the chain and cassette are a little worse for the experience. I don’t mind; I’m going to replace them in a few weeks.

I regret not photographing is some streets and both Greenways.  Road conditions are usually at their worst around this time of year: The salt and sand, along with temperature changes, result in fissures that make some of those concrete and asphalt ribbons look—and ride—more like broken stairway. Interestingly, it was worst along the stretch of Pelham Greenway from Williamsbridge Road to the I-95 underpass: Its surface was more uneven, and muddier, than along the path through the wooded area just before the bridge to City Island.

Only City Island Avenue traverses the island; the other streets, only a block or two long, are bookended by the Avenue and the water. And the Avenue has only one traffic lane in each direction. So it doesn’t take much to create a jam, which I encountered. The good news, for me anyway, was that I could move along easily.  Perhaps surprisingly, given that it was a mild day (about 12C or 54F) for this time of year, I didn’t see any other cyclists—or pedestrians or scooters.

So, when I reached the end of the island, I felt it was all mine—or, perhaps, that everyone else had forgotten it.

I must say, though, that there’s something I very much like about the light and water at this time of year: The austere, steely clouds and tides of winter are showing the first hints of turning into a more vivid, if still stark, shades of blue that will, eventually, brighten in the sun.

By then, the days, and my rides, will be longer, I hope.

Calling Me To Attention

 Late yesterday, I rode the Bronx River Greenway. Cold dry wind rasped through bare branches. Birds tweeted—one, I noticed, louder and in a more plaintive way, as if pleading for something—to be rescued? Or simply to be noticed?

Of course I couldn’t rescue that darling little creature. But seeing it made my ride, and day.  I hope he/she/it felt the same way.

Branching Out Before A Ride

Yesterday afternoon seemed tropical (5C or 40F high temperature with moderate wind) compared to the previous few days.  I pedaled La-Vance, my Mercian King of Mercia, to Fort Totten and back, via the Bronx River Greenway, Randall’s Island and the Malcolm X Promenade.  The Bronx and East Rivers (the latter of which is rimmed by the Promenade) bore crusts of ice—not thick enough to skate on, but probably safe for a small bird to land in the shadow of La Guardia Airport—on their banks.

Before settling out on my ride, I made a quick run to Addeo’s for one of their sourdough loaves. (Their pan de casa is also wonderful.) Along the way, I saw signs that although the day was warmer than the past few, we are still in the throes of winter.

Where were those shadow “images ?” On the local Department of Motor Vehicles building. Somehow I think they’re reflections of what some people feel upon entering or leaving.

Jimmy Carter

 Today witnessed Jimmy Carter’s funeral.

Whatever one thinks of his politics and his overall world-view, he is—at least in my eyes—the best human being to occupy the White House during my lifetime .

That isn’t to say, of course, that he was perfect: Early in his career, he made a few compromises that, to be fair, some may see as having been necessary in the political climate of his place and time.  Still, to his credit, most of his positions and policies were consistent with his liberal philosophy and his Christian faith, as he understood it.

During the ride I took the other day, I made a point of peddling up and down Charlotte Street, which is about 4 kilometers (2.5 miles) from my apartment. While it looks nothing like it did the day he made his impromptu visit nearly half a century ago, I had a sense-memory of the smoke and ashes that filled the street (which I wouldn’t see until many years later) and others similarly devastated.

While I remember seeing and hearing about that visit—and his work that followed, during and after his presidency, these might be, for me, the most enduring images of him:

Why Did He Build This?

 During my “afternoon delight” ride, I came across this:

In the Bronx, one can find many buildings like it: handsome, even beautiful, structures built during the early 20th century, just after the Bronx became a borough of New York City.

(Most of the Art Deco buildings for which the Bronx is famous were constructed during the interwar period.)

Like so many structures in the Bronx—and throughout New York City—it is not serving its original intended purpose.  Today a moving and storage company operates in it. From some of the building’s details, I am guessing that it was once a medical or health facility of some sort.

What really intrigued me, though, was this:

Apparently, a “Cuneo” family was involved.  That caught my eye, in part because I cycled to Cuneo, Italy during a bicycle tour of the Alps.  But I couldn’t help but to notice the inscription for Lorenzo Cuneo, born during the same year—1913–Anthony Cuneo erected the building but who died in 1924.  I would think that he was Anthony’s son, nephew or grandson.  Why did he die so young?

When I stopped to look at the building, someone gave me a suspicious glance. Did she think I wanted to buy the building (which I am in no position to do) and price her out of the neighborhood? Or is she one of many people in this city who pass things that are beautiful, interesting or simply unusual but has no curiosity about it?

A Reward

 Yesterday, I took a bit of a detour during my ride home from work.  I was rewarded with this spectacle from the top of Claremont Park, about five kilometers from my apartment:

It definitely made my day!

Mid-Day, Late Season

  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 Big Pun

 You never know who you might meet during your ride

even if it’s a commute!