Although this Fall has been warmer and drier than any other I can remember, my rides reveal sure signs that winter, whatever it might bring , isn’t far in the future.
Somehow the preternaturally clear sky and blue water at Fort Totten—where the (misnamed) East River meets the Long Island Sound, and the destination of my midday ride—only highlighted the imminent seasonal change.
Then again, some places and trees are holding onto what’s left of the season.
The other day I rode in the Tour de Bronx. The ride, which isn’t a race, is offered in three lengths: 10, 25 and the “epic” “40+” mile route. If you’ve been reading this blog, you know that I took the longest trek which, for me, still isn’t particularly long. According to a few other riders, we actually did about 45 miles.
I must say, though, that it’s interesting. We pedaled through some neighborhoods my neighbor Sam and I have explored. He has lived most of his life in the Bronx, but he—like other riders in the Tour—was surprised to see that the borough is full of such varying communities, architectural styles and topography. For example, people were as surprised to see a sign reading “Welcome to Country Club” (Yes, there is a Bronx neighborhood by that name!) as they were to encounter the climb from Van Cortlandt Park to the Fieldston enclave of private streets and the prep school JFK attended.
The ride’s’ volunteers were helpful and almost preternaturally cheerful. In addition to directing us, they handed out snacks, water and energy drinks and served up pizza and other goodies in the Botanical Garden, where the ride ended.
That they had so much food and drink was amazing when you consider one of the ways the Tour differs from the Five Boro Bike Tour (which is roughly the same length): the Bronx ride is free, while last year’s Five Boro set back each participant $100. I think the difference might be due in part to how many sponsors the Bronx ride has. But it may also have to do with another major difference in the ride itself.
Streets and highways that comprise the 5B route are completely closed to traffic. I imagine that the city spends a fair amount for police patrols along the way—and, as I understand, accounts for part of the entry fee. On the other hand, most of the streets—some of which included bike lanes—weren’t cordoned off for the TdB.
While that wasn’t a problem for me—except for two incidents I’ll mention—for some riders, who were treating the ride as a race, stopping for a red light was an affront to their egos. So they rolled through and the riders behind them—including, at times, yours truly, felt drivers’ wrath.
One of those riders, who probably was young enough to be my grandchild, squeezed past me on City Island Avenue, which has one traffic lane in each direction and, for some reason, was as heavily trafficked as it would be on a summer Sunday. So there was no choice but to ride between the traffic and parked vehicles—which is where that young rider passed and almost bumped into me.
The other incident came near the end of the ride, where we turned on to University Avenue. There is a marked, but not protected, bike lane which I don’t use because, frankly, it’s more dangerous than riding in the traffic lane. Other riders were either familiar with it or saw that the turn to the bike lane was awkward. But one guy who looked like he’s lived on beer and bacon cheeseburgers since his days as a linebacker ended and was riding an electric bike (pedal-assisted, which was allowed) decided he had to ride in the bike lane and cut in front of me. “Why don’t you use the bike lane?” he yelled.
Even after his and the passer’s lack of consideration—and the fact that I had ridden everywhere (except Woodlawn Cemetery, which doesn’t allow bikes to enter at any other time) along the route on other rides, I am glad I did the Tour and probably will do it again. To me, it feels more like a ride than 5B, which feels more and more like an event. Oh, and I think the TdB offers more surprises—and rewards.
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.
Another heat wave. Tomorrow will be even hotter.
I didn’t eat anything before setting out on an early ride to Randall’s Island. On my way back, I started to feel hungry about five kilometers from my apartment.
We’re the pangs in my stomach a result of the ride, not eating breakfast—-or seeing this?:
So…What’s it like to ride with the guy next door?
I found out, sort of this past Sunday: I took a spin with a man who lives a few floors below my “penthouse.”
That I have been riding nearly every day hasn’t gone unnoticed by other residents of my senior (don’t tell anybody!) residence. One, whom I’ll call Sam* asked whether we could “just go out and ride, to no place in particular.” Not knowing him, I wasn’t sure of what to make of his proposal. Not knowing any other cyclists—or anyone else—very well, I thought “Why not?”
So, our journey—me, on Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear bike and him, on a Roadmaster ATB he bought on Amazon, began around 9 am. I took him up to Mosholu Parkway, where a bike-pedestrian lane splits the shoestring park that splits the north from the south side of the road. Riding west takes you to Van Cortlandt Park. We went east—not very far—to Southern Boulevard and the Botanical Garden gate. It allowed us to bypass two very busy intersections where traffic enters and exits a highway, and enter the Bronx Park path to Pelham Parkway.
I took him along what has become one of my early morning rides to City Island. He’d been there before, he said, but not on a bike.
From there, we pedaled back over the bridge to Pelham Bay Park,which is three times the size of Manhattan’s Central Park. From there, I took him through neighborhoods that line the Hutchinson and Bronx Rivers and Long Island Sound. (One of those neighborhoods is, believe it or not, called “Country Club.”)
The day grew hotter and the sun bore down on us. He seemed to take the weather better than I did, but he said he was impressed with my riding “on a bike you can’t coast.”
I must say that I had all the more reason to be impressed: He simply wanted to keep on riding. Whatever his bike or strength, that told me he is certainly a cyclist at heart.
When we reached SUNY Maritime College, he confessed that he, a lifelong Bronx resident, had never seen it—or, more important, the rather scenic waterfront—before. He also had never been in Country Club, with its huge houses, some of which wouldn’t look out of place in “The Great Gatsby.” After our ride, I realized that while he is a Bronx “lifer,” he rarely, if ever, had seen anything east of the Bruckner Expressway. That made me think of my experience of living in Brooklyn until I was 13: I really didn’t know anything beyond my immediate neighborhood until I returned as an adult. As I once told somebody, I’d crossed the ocean before I’d crossed Ocean Parkway.
A journey takes you to some place where you’ve never been, where it’s on the other side of the world or a part of your home—or yourself—you’ve never seen before. For me, that—and not the number of miles or kilometers or how much time —is cycling. And, I feel that is what I experienced on a ride with a new neighbor.
*—I have given him a pseudonym because I’m not sure of how much he would want me to reveal about him.
It was a perfect Spring afternoon: The breeze made me feel even lighter than the air around the sun-flecked leaves and flowers.
On such an afternoon, I feel as if I could ride forever. This afternoon, I felt as if I would ride forever, that I would continue yesterday’s ride—to Connecticut—and the ones I’ve taken along boulevards, through forests and among chateaux.
I didn’t wind my way along the Loire to Amboise. But I did ride to a castle, of sorts.
Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear, was begging for me to take her picture. Of course: Who or what wouldn’t look good in the light of our ride? I think she—and I—were both feeling good after I finally gave her a long-needed Spring tuneup.
We stopped at the garden in front of St. Raymond’s Church where, I’m told, a certain family with a daughter named Jennifer attended mass every Sunday.
She also attended a nearby Catholic school, since closed, before anyone outside the neighborhood knew about her.
Yes, I’m talking about J-Lo. I hear she and Ben are breaking up again. Still, things must be easier for her than they are for someone else who grew up a neighborhood over (to which I also rode today). I mean, imagine being Sonia Sotomayor and having to look at Sam, Clarence after they destroyed the very thing that made her and other women’s lives possible, even if they never had to avail themselves to what it allows. I’m no legal scholar, but I can’t help but to think that the “juice” for Title IX, passed in 1972, was supplied a few months later when a very different Supreme Court decided on Roe v. Wade.
Anyway, I wasn’t thinking about that as I rode. If anything, I was simply reveling in having a couple of hours to ride in what are probably the best conditions we experience in this part of the world—and exploring what is, for now, my part of it.
Yesterday, while riding home, I stopped at Addeo’s: one of my “discoveries “ in my new neighborhood.
It’s in the same ZIP code, but some would argue it isn’t really in my neighborhood: It’s on one side of the Fordham campus—in the “Little Italy” of the Bronx—while I live next to the Botanical Garden.
In any event, I first came across it about two weeks ago. I could tell it was an “old school” bakery even before I took my first bite of their wonderful breads. It not only has the look of an old Italian bakery in New York—like the ones I grew up with-it also bakes only breads, biscuits, rolls and cookies. If you want pastries or cakes, you can go to Egidio’s, which is just up the street.
(The difference between those two bakeries is like that between a boulangerie and patisserie.)
Anyway, one thing that really reminded me that I was in the kind of bakery that’s almost impossible to find in New York, or the US, these days is when a woman about my age with what sounded like a Neapolitan accent took the loaf of bread I chose and, before I could finish saying, “no bag,” wrapped and presented it to me:
A loaf of bread, wrapped in paper and tied with string. How much more “old school” can you get than that?
Say this three times fast:
Yesterday’s ride, though short (about 40 km) was interesting. I had previously ridden most of the streets as segments of other rides. Until yesterday, I didn’t realize how close or connected some of them are. They will, of course, become strands I will weave into new itineraries.
One strange part of the ride began next to the Albert Einstein College of Medicine. (Don’t you feel smarter just reading that?) There begins this street:
A few blocks later, it runs along the Amtrak and Metro North rail lines and becomes this:
So how did Sackett lose one “T”? Did he/she/they not show up for the 4 p.m. ceremony? Or did the railroad’s builders need a “t” to turn a rack of land* into a track?
The street continues along its way beside the railway and, at Hering Avenue in Morris Park, regains its previous identity:
So how did Sackett regain its second “t?” Hmm…The neighborhood, Morris Park, has been an Italian enclave for more than a century. One thing I know about my people is that we drink coffee. (Growing up, I heard, “Tea is for sick people.”) So I imagine it wouldn’t have been difficult to get at least one of us to give up a “t.”
Anyway, I had coffee before the ride. I probably didn’t need it: The sunshine and brisk breezes woke me up!
*—That, I imagine, is how the two sides of land might look with the trench, but without the tracks, running through them.
Today I rode to, and along, a river.
It wasn’t the Hudson or East River—the latter of which isn’t a river.
And I didn’t leave the city. In fact, I didn’t have to go far from my new neighborhood.
The Bronx River cuts through the New York Botanical Garden, my building’s next door neighbor. Cycling isn’t allowed in the Garden. There are, however, trails along other parts of the only freshwater river in New York City and near its source in Westchester County.
I remember seeing the river decades ago, probably during a trip to the Bronx Zoo. Then, the water was barely visible because of the cars, tires and other refuse that had been tossed into it. Ironically, the building that once housed Lorillard’s snuff factory—one of the river’s first polluters—sits in the Garden, one of the organizations that helped to spur the River’s cleanup about 20 years ago.
I doubt that the water is potable. At least, I wouldn’t drink it. But people enjoy picnics and, I hear, fishing along its banks. And it’s become popular for canoes and kayaks.
Still, there are reminders that it is, after all, in the Bronx.
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I continued to ride for another two hours through unfamiliar streets in somewhat familiar areas. Soon, I hope, I will feel more at home, if for no other reasons that places become a part of me when I pedal them.
Yesterday I rode—on Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear— for the first time since my move. It was a short trip, past the Garden and Zoo, but it felt good to do something not move- or work-related.
Although I’d previously done some cycling in this area, as Anniebikes says in her comment, there’s more to explore. Even after 21 years of living in Astoria, I found new rides and variations on familiar ones.
My new apartment has nice views and is much lighter and airier than my old place. I wonder: Will the sun steaming in my window energize me to ride more?Will the fog creeping by lure me into winding down the bike lane by the gardens?
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!😉
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.
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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?
Two hours at a time...
That seems to be the pace of my latest recovery. I've been taking two-hour rides, mainly in and around my neighborhood. I probably could ride longer, but I am following the orthopedic doctor's advice and erring on the side of caution.
Even so, the rides are invigorating--and interesting:
It would have been one thing to find something like this house in one of this city's Chinatowns--in lower Manhattan, Flushing or Sunset Park. But this house is on Anthony Avenue, in a neighborhood that is almost entirely Hispanic and African American. About half a mile to the north is Fordham University and the Arthur Avenue district, often called "the Little Italy of the Bronx."
When you look at the adjoining house, you can see that its bones, so to speak, are like those of nearby houses, even if the skin, if you will, is that of an ashram.
When I looked at it for a couple of minutes, its location seemed a little less incongruent. After all, I had to pedal up a hill--not steep or long, but a hill nonetheless--to reach it. Also, since Zen practice is not (at least as I understand it) about social status or material wealth, it may make sense that it's in a neighborhood that hasn't been struck by gentrification.
Whatever the reasons why it is where it is, seeing it made the ride more interesting--and caused me to forget about the slowness of my recovery.
