Diverting My Commute Through History

The bike/pedestrian lane on the Queens spur of the RFK Memorial (a.k.a. Triborough) Bridge has been closed for "painting and repairs."  The signs said the lane would be closed from 9 am to 5 pm from the 1st to the 26th of this month.  I didn't figure that it would affect me much, if at all, since I always go in to work before 9 and usually am heading home after 5.

Last Tuesday, however, I didn't leave work until 8 pm.  I pedaled across the Randall's Island connector and the island to the Queens spur of the bridge.  There, the gate was still locked, with the same sign announcing its closure.

All right, I told myself.  Maybe they just forgot to reopen it.  That night, it meant backtracking to the north end of the island and the Manhattan spur of the bridge.  Then I rode down Second Avenue from 125th Street to the Queensborough (a.k.a. 59th Street) Bridge.  It was a longer commute home, but I didn't mind, really.

Well, the Queens spur of the RFK hasn't been opened since.  No one from the Department of Transportation has returned my calls.  (Should I be surprised?)  So, I've been taking another route to and from work.  To get to the Bronx, I've been crossing the Queensborough to First Avenue, which has a bike lane all the way up to 125th Street.  From there, I take the Willis Avenue Bridge into the Bronx.  It's not bad, really:  Above 96th Street, there isn't much traffic, and below, there are other cyclists so, if nothing else, we're visible, though one has to watch for pedestrians who step into the lane while looking at their electronic devices or simply not looking at anything in their surroundings.  One place where you have to be careful  is at 96th Street, where traffic enters and exits the FDR Drive and there are several schools, a hospital and the largest mosque in the US within a two-block radius. 

(Along the way I passed several fruit sellers.  I stopped at one and bought my first cherries of the season.)

I often think that I ride, write and teach for the same reason:  to learn.  Well, today, I did just that on the Willis Avenue Bridge--or, more specifically, what's below the Bronx side of it:

 

Now, I know it looks like just another lot in an industrial landscape.  But this plaque, on the bridge, told of its significance:

It may be hard to believe that until 1840, most of the Bronx was farmland or woods.  That changed when the railroad cut through the area around that lot, which is now crisscrossed by highways, bridges and railroad tracks. 

Port Morris--the part of the South Bronx by the bridge--became the first commercial and industrial area of the Bronx.  (In fact, one nearby section became the nation's center of piano-making and has recently been dubbed "The Piano District" by realtors who are envisioning the next DUMBO.)  It also became a railroad center, which is why the roundhouse was built on the site under the bridge. 

Hmm...You never know what a slight change in your daily commute can teach you, eh?

Cherry Blossoms Bloom In The Bronx

I have been at my current job for almost three months.  Most days, I have ridden my bike there and home.  It seems that I have settled into a basic route with a few minor variations.  But, whichever way I go, I seem to notice something new or different, if not every day, then at least very often.

It shouldn't be too surprising, I suppose to see a lot of trees growing in the Bronx, especially given that one grows in Brooklyn.  (By the way, I am not endorsing the book or any movie made from it.  The title is catchy, though.)  Today, it seemed, I saw them in places where I never expected.  Did they grow overnight?

Best of all, some of those trees--more than I expected--are cherry blossoms, just starting to bloom.

 

Cherry Blossoms Bloom In The Bronx.  How's that for a book (or something) about bike commuting in New York?

 

One Way Of Entering The Bronx

As I mentioned in a previous post, a bicycle/pedestrian connection between Randall's Island and the Bronx has opened.  It's actually very good:  It's well-constructed and makes a smooth transition to the pathways on the island.  Also, it's wide and closed off to motorized traffic, though there is a rail crossing--albeit one that doesn't seem to be used very often.  My only real complaint about it is that it's that most people would have a difficult time finding it from the Bronx side.

Still, I sometimes choose to ride up the walkway on the Bronx spur of the RFK Memorial/Triborough Bridge.  One reason is that it has a fairly steep incline, which adds a small challenge to my daily commute.  Also, while the new connector makes for an easy entrance into the Bronx, the old RFK walkway makes the entrance, shall we say, a bit more grand

and perhaps a bit more dramatic, even a bit Gothic, on an overcast day.   It's not exactly noir--more like gris, perhaps.  Plus,  you have to admit, there's something imposing about seeing a cross--or something that looks like a cross, anyway--as you are riding up to an arch.

Don't get me wrong:  I'm enjoying my new job, and the commute to it.  Truth be told, the part of the Bronx where I now work is more interesting than the part of Queens where I had been working.  And, oddly enough, even though I don't see a lot of people in the neighborhood riding bikes (a few of colleagues in my department and elsewhere in the college ride in), somehow I don't feel as conspicuous as I did at my old job, where practically nobody rode.  And I couldn't make the kind of entrance I make when I pedal up that ramp into the Bronx!

Morning Commutes Through The Gates of Hell

I am teaching early morning classes in my new gig.  That means, for now, that I am pedaling to work around dawn.  Someone remarked that I am "bringing the morning to the Bronx", where I am now working.

Should I bring the morning in a pair of panniers?  A bicycle briefcase?  Or some other kind of bike bag? 

While pedaling across the RFK/Triborough Bridge, I saw the morning arrive in another conveyance

through the Gates of Hell--all right, I mean through Hell Gate or under the Hell Gate Bridge.

Perhaps I wasn't bringing morning through the Gates of Hell.  But some of my students probably thought I was bringing them hell this morning through the campus gate!

It's Here: The Randall's Island Connector!

OK, I won't be sarcastic. Or snarky. I'll even try to dispense with irony. (Actually, if you're trying, it isn't irony anyway.)  I'll be appreciative, maybe even polite and respectful, too. 

But, I must admit, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You see, something I never thought would happen in my lifetime came to pass.  No, I'm not talking about $200-a-month apartments on the Upper East Side.  Or a sale at Sotheby's.  Or that Congress will pass legislation banning the production of any new movie with "Ocean's" in the title--or any sequel or remake. Or that gender theorists will stop using any form of the word "performative".

So what is this epochal event to which I'm referring?

 

 

The bicycle/pedestrian bridge from Randall's Island, a.k.a the Randall's Island Connector (catchy, isn't it?) to the Bronx has just opened.   I used to joke that it's been under construction ever since the island (and the rest of North America) split off from Pangaea.  All right, that's an exaggeration.  But it did seem to take longer to build than Stonehenge or the Great Wall of China. 

 

So, of course, I just had to cross it, just to be sure that I wasn't having a flashback from something I don't remember taking.

It spans the Bronx Kill between the island and 132nd Street, just a couple of blocks east of where the RFK Bridge bike/pedestrian lane enters the Bronx.  What makes this new bridge better is that it's flat, lets pedestrians and cyclists off in a less-trafficked area than the RFK Bridge does and has much better sight lines.

 

 

Interestingly, it has a grade-level railroad crossing on the Bronx side. If the bridge is ever shut down for a passing train, it could take a while to open:  The bridge enters, and the train tracks cut through, an industrial area and trains can be more than a 100 cars long.  Just as interestingly, the bridge runs underneath an Amtrak trestle.  The effect is enigmatic:  like being in an open-air (at the sides) tunnel.

I wonder whether the RFK Bridge lane will be kept open.  Even though it has a rather steep ramp with sharp turns and is rather squalid, it's better to have it as an option if, indeed, one has to wait an hour for a train to pass through the Bronx side of the new bridge.  Plus, this is one bike lane that purely and simply makes sense, a trait not shared by many other bike and pedestrian lanes.

I know, I said I wouldn't be sarcastic. Or snarky.  Oh, well.  I tried.

More Signs (Of The Season, And Other Things)

The weather during the ride I took to Connecticut on Monday was a sign of Fall's impending arrival.  Today, during--you guessed it--another ride to Connecticut, I saw yet another sign the season will soon be upon us:

This trail, part of the East Coast Greenway, connects Pelham Bay Park, City Island and Orchard Beach with Westchester County.  Along the way, it passes by a horse riding academy, golf course and the shores of Long Island Sound before twisting its way through woodland that straddles the line between the upper Bronx and Pelham Manor.

Although the temperature was slightly higher (rising to 25C by mid-ride), it really didn't feel that way, in spite of the bright sunshine.  As I mentioned in my post about Monday's ride, the days are growing shorter, so the ground and buildings aren't absorbing as much heat as they did even two or three weeks ago. But, perhaps more important, the wind was even more brisk:  At times, it reached 40 KPH.  And, yes, I was pedaling into it on my way up.

The wind didn't deter these folks who were enjoying the light and vistas of Mamaroneck Harbor:

Back to the subject of signs:  When you ride, you see the kind I've mentioned as well as the ones posted on buildings.  I hope this isn't a sign of things to come:

All right:  The name of the bowling alley has nothing to do with firearms or survivalists.  Rather, it's located near the intersection of Gun Hill (great name, huh?) and Boston Post Roads in northern Bronx.  What amazes me is that the sign looks so pristine while keeping to the look of the 1950's or early 60's.  I don't believe it's anyone's attempt at self-conscious irony:  There are no hipsters in the neighborhood around it. (Most of the residents are Caribbean immigrants or their children; not long ago it was a blue-collar-to-middle-class Italian-American neighborhood.)  I think life throws enough irony at those people.

Seeing such a sign on an absolutely beautiful and bright day, as Fall knocks at our door, is plenty or irony for me.  I love it!

The Harvest Begins

The other day felt autumnal.  It wasn't just the cool, crisp air or the fact that I was in Connecticut.  I couldn't pinpoint exactly why I felt the fall had begun, or was well on its way, but I think I now know why.

Today the temperature reached 31C (88F), but the day still seemed autumnal.  Granted, we didn't have the sauna-like humidity we had during an earlier heat wave. But there was something else.  At first I thought it was just a feeling, but I realize now it was as visual as it was visceral.

Before going to work, I managed to ride by the Concrete Plant Park along the Bronx River.  I could swear I saw the first tinges of yellow and orange in a few trees:

And, because there is less daylight every day than there was earlier in the summer, the sun isn't as intense, and the ground and buildings don't have as much time to absorb the heat. So, while the air temperature climbed over 30C, the heat didn't feel as oppressive as it did a few weeks ago.

There's one more signal of Fall, for me.  My rides, whether to Connecticut or the college, seem easier now.  That is one of the things I've always loved about cycling in September and October, at least in years when I've done a decent amount of riding:  I can climb hills in a gear or two higher than I did in, say, April or even June.  Also, on my ride the other day, I was pedaling into a 20-25 KPH wind most of the way to Connecticut and barely noticed it.

Since I have never farmed (and probably never will), the kind of cycling I've experienced this week is probably the closest I will come to a harvest:  I am enjoying the fruits of all of the pedaling I've done over the past few months.

A Bronx Bike Dealer

This is a Bronx bicycle dealer:

Believe it or not, this photo came up when I typed "bicycle Bronx" in Google.  I know the Bronx fairly well--though, I admit, not as well as I know Brooklyn, Manhattan or Queens--and could not recall seeing anything that looks like the shop, or its locale, in the only New York City borough that's part of the mainland United States.

But, really, they are a Bronx bicycle dealer. Granted, that photo is from 1948, but the shop in question--L.J. Stronnell Cycles--is still in business, in the same location in Buckinghamshire.

Buckinghamshire doesn't sound like a neighborhood in the Bronx, does it?  Well, it shouldn't:  I don't think there's any place in the Bronx with "shire" at the end of its name. 

Those of you in the UK know that it's where, for ages, rich Londoners have spent idyllic holidays.  And not without reason:  Much of it is quite lovely, with its rolling hills and rivers.  But it's becoming more developed, as more and more of said Londoners are moving there and commuting into the city. 

OK, so what does all of this have to do with the Bronx?, you ask.  Well, it turns out that Stronnell sells Bronx bicycles.  No, they're not airlifted from the Grand Concourse or Fordham Road.  Bronx Cycles, believe it or not, is a line of bicycles available in the UK but not in the US (at least, not to my knowledge).

It's interesting that with all of the cachet the Brooklyn brand, if you will, has gained all over the world, a popular line of bicycles in England would be named for New York's most maligned borough.

I guess whoever came up with the name was trying to evoke images of toughness.  Or, perhaps, that person (or those people) actually spent time in the Bronx and realized that it has a number of interesting places besides the Zoo, Botanical Gardens and Yankee Stadium--and some good cycling and fine people. 

Perhaps they know what I have been telling people:  One day, anything related to the Bronx will be just as hip and fashionable as anything connected to Brooklyn is today. I can't say exactly when it will happen, but the day is certainly coming.  When it does, will hipsters be wheeling their fixies to craft-beer cafes on Bruckner Boulevard--while English cycle-tourists roll across the countryside on Bronx bicycles?

Climbing Away From My Fear Of White Plains

Today I took another ride into Connecticut.  I figured--correctly--that I wouldn't encounter heavy traffic even along Boston Post Road, as Route 1 is known in Westchester County.  Most likely, folks from the Nutmeg State already took off for the weekend yesterday, or even the day before.  Also, riding to Connecticut means riding away from most of the beaches in this area, which is where most travelers are going or have gone this weekend, which includes the Monday holiday of Labor Day.

I thought about taking off for some place or another this weekend.  Now I'm glad I didn't:  The ride I took today is more emotionally relaxing and satisfying than just about any trip I could have taken on a crowded train, plane or bus.  Also, Greenwich, Mianus and Byram aren't full of tourists, and the people who stayed in town are relaxed and friendly.

This weekend, I also plan to ride again and meet a friend or two here in the city, which is strangely idyllic.  Perhaps we'll go to a museum or show, or just "do lunch."

But I digress.  I took slightly different routes through the Bronx and lower Westchester County than I had on previous rides.  I also wandered through an area of Greenwich--up a hill--I hadn't seen before.  There are houses built on stretches of land that could serve as game preserves.  ("Deer crossing" signs were everywhere.)  I stopped in a park where I was reminded that this is indeed the unofficial last weekend of summer, and the fall--the actual season as well as the autumn that includes the march of time across people's lives:

All right, I'm making more of this photo than is really there.  The park itself is a well-kept spread of lawn with a single picnic table.  I didn't want or need anything else.

Behind me, this tree stood authoritatively.  It seemed such an indignity for it to share the same ground, from which it's grown for decades (if not centuries) with a fence and a garbage can.

That tree seems like a New England tree:  It belongs where it is. Trees I see in the city, as lovely as they are, so often seem like they are where they are only at the pleasure of some land owner or agency that can evict or "retire" (I've heard the word used in that way) it to make way for something more profitable or convenient.

The ride back took me up and down more hills, past more palatial estates.  Nowhere did I find a sign one normally finds when leaving or entering a state.  I knew I had crossed back into New York State only because of a sign from the local police department--in Rye Brook--asking people to report drivers who text. 


A few miles up the road, I passed through a city I had always avoided: White Plains.  Somehow the name terrified me:  I always imagined folks even paler than I am chasing away....someone like me?  OK, maybe not me, but certainly most of the students I've had.

(For years, New Hampshire was one of two states that didn't observe Martin Luther King Day.  I actually wondered whether it had something to do with having the White Mountains.  Then I realized Arizona, the other state that didn't recognize MLK Day, had no such excuse!)




White Plains was a bit bland, though not terrible.  It has a road--Mamaroneck Road--that actually becomes rather quaint, in spite of the chain stores on it, after it passes under the highway and continues toward the town for which it's named.

The rest of the ride was as pleasant as the warm afternoon with few clouds and little humidity. Even though I pedaled about 140 kilometers, I barely broke a sweat.  But the relatively pleasant surprise of White Plains was balanced by a signal of The End of the World As We Know It:

The South Bronx is becoming SoBro?  Oh, no! 
 

In Twilight And Afterglow With Arielle

It was a gorgeous late-summer day...and life intervened.  The new semester is starting, so I had various things to attend to, including course outlines and finding and restoring links to readings and films I'm assigning my students.

At least I got out to ride in the middle of the afternoon,.  I took Arielle, my Mercian Audax, off the peg and inflated the tires.  I knew she would feel great after spending a week on a rented hybrid, but Arielle exceeded my hopes and expectations. I felt as if I were in a race car suspended by hot-air balloons.  Or maybe a flying carpet with jet engines.

Whatever the metaphor, the bike overcame the deficiencies in the human engine.  Possibly the best part of all was riding a Brooks Professional--which is starting to feel really broken-in--after whatever was on the rental bike and the cheaper leather seat on my LeTour.

The bike felt so good I just wanted to keep on riding it.  And that's what I did, all the way to Connecticut.

I'd've gone even further than I did into the Nutmeg State, but I really didn't want to ride back in the dark.  I have lights, but riding back from ConnectIicut means passing through a couple of dodgy neighborhoods.  I've ridden them in the dark, with no problems, but I prefer to avoid nocturnal rambles in them.

I descended to the Queens side of the RFK-Triborough Bridge just as the sun was setting.  From there, it's only a kilometer to my apartment after 120 kilometers of delightful cycling. 

I arrived in a glow of twilight, and in an afterglow of an invigorating ride--and, of course, my adventures of the past few weeks!

 

After Paris....A Ride In The Bronx?

Two years ago, the former chief of the French National Police caused a stir when he said that certain parts of Paris were starting to resemble the Bronx.

He was making reference to the increasing crime in those Parisian arrondissements--namely, the 18th, 19th and 20th.  (It also just happens that those neighborhoods contain the city's greatest concentrations of African and Middle Eastern immigrants.)  He is not the first Frenchman, or European, to make such a comparison:  the worst parts of cities, or the banlieues are often likened to New York City's northernmost boroughs, usually based on impressions gleaned from such films as Fort Apache, The South Bronx.  While I certainly wouldn't compare Port Morris with the Place des Voges, not all of the Bronx is poor and crumbling and even its worst parts aren't quite as dangerous as some other urban neighborhoods.  But I guess "Camden" or "North Philadelphia" or "The South Side of Chicago" doesn't have quite the same ring.

Anyway, there is a certain irony in the former police chief's comparison.   It can be seen in certain areas, such as a stretch of the Grand Concourse near Yankee Stadium where I rode today:

 

 

 

 

 

While the buildings are in need of maintenance, some are quite nice:  People actually lived in them by choice.  More to the point (for the purposes of this post, anyway), they bear the influences of Art Deco and classical architectural styles found in many Paris buildings.

Also, you may have noticed that the Grand Concourse, like the Boulevard des Champs-Elysees, is wide, has a parklike median and is lined with residential as well as commercial buildings. 

The parallels I've described are not merely coincidental.  At the end of the 19th Century, most of the Bronx was still wooded or farmland; all of its industry as well as most of its population was concentrated in the southernmost part of the borough.  But new waves of immigration would fill Manhattan's tenements and trains almost to their bursting point, and many longtime Manhattan residents sought bigger apartments as well as more open space but wanted a manageable commute to work.  The city's subway and trolley lines were extended into the Bronx, and new street and apartment buildings were constructed. 

Around this time, a man who had been a surveyor, mapmaker and engineer for the New York Central Railroad (then the second-largest corporation in the US, after the Pennsylvania Railroad) was appointed the chief  topographical engineer for New York City.  His name was Louis Aloys Risse. At age seventeen, he emigrated to the US from France, where he was born in 1850.  Thus, it comes as little surprise that while on a hunting trip (!) in the hills of the North Bronx, he conceived of a boulevard, inspired by the Champs-Elysees, that would connect one end of the borough with the other, and with Manhattan.

So...Do you still think it's so odd that I'd take a ride in the Bronx while still in the afterglow of my trip to Paris?


 

There's Hope--Really!

While pedaling up a hill, I saw this:

Now, the hill wasn’t particularly steep or long, and I was riding Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear.  But right now she has a gear of 47x17, which isn’t high but isn’t exactly a climbing gear.  Still, I managed to get up that hill without getting out of my seat or breaking a sweat.  But I have to admit that I liked seeing “There’s Hope”—which is all I saw as I started the climb.  It was only about halfway up when I realized that the place was a barber- and beauty-shop.  Until I saw the subtitle, I thought it might be a storefront church or one of those centers where twelve-step programs meet—neither of which would have surprised me in that neighborhood.

I think it’s kind of funny that a barber- and beauty-shop would have such a name.  Perhaps I should have gone in and asked whether they’d make the same claim for someone who’s as completely un-photogenic as I am.

Anyway, after ascending that hill, I came to a garden.  Well, all right, the name of one—sort of:

Somehow I never associated Eden with mountains.  In any event, I’m glad the city created that green mall along Mount Eden Avenue, which traverses a low-income neighborhood that immigrants from the Caribbean, Latin America and West Africa call home.

A bit further up in the Bronx, I felt a bit like an urban archaeologist when I came upon this, across from the WoodlawnCemetery:

Here in New York, one occasionally sees advertisements that were painted on the sides of buildings decades, or even generations, ago.  Although almost nobody would consider them Fine Art (at least, not with a capital “F” and a capital “A”), some show a level of illustrative vividness—and pure-and-simple imagination and craft—one rarely finds today.  That is why I have respect both for whoever created, and whoever actually painted, those ads. I am sure those people are, unfortunately, long dead.

On the other hand, the graffiti “taggers” who painted their "signatures" on the building next door (which I wasn't able to photograph)  may be alive and well.  Perhaps they have become “legitimate” artists; perhaps they are doing things entirely unrelated to art.  Or—this being the Bronx—they also might be long dead.  Somehow it’s strange to see graffiti (at least here in New York) that seems almost as much an ancient artifact as a grotto unearthed by some construction crew building a hotel or office tower or parking lot in some city along the Mediterranean.

Speaking of history:  Believe it or not, in the Bronx, there’s a still-standing house that’s even older than this country.  This house was built sixteen years before the Declaration of Independence—and two centuries before I was born:

The Valentine-Varian  House is now home to the Museum of Bronx History.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t open when I got there.  But I’m going to make it a point to go there again soon, when it is open.

If that house is still standing—and I climbed some hills (by choice)—I feel that I can say, after all, There’s Hope!

P.S. Can you guess what this building is?

 

What I Did To Avoid A Race Today

Yesterday I said I love sports.  Let me qualify that:  I love most sports.  Among the exceptions is horse racing.  Fortunately, I never had to write about it. 

I also have never been keen on dog racing.  In fact, I don't care much for anything that involves training animals to put themselves at risk to entertain humans.  Making animals fight each other simply disgusts me:  I fail to see what is entertaining or even thrilling about bullfighting, cockfighting, dog fighting or camel wrestling. 

Believe it or not, that last abomination exists:  I saw a match when I was in Turkey.  During camel mating season, males are tied up and left in a dark room.  Then, just before they're walked out into the ring, they're adorned with embroidered capes and such.  By the time they get into the ring, at least one of them is foaming at the mouth.  If I were an animal-rights activist rather than the mere animal-lover that I am, I probably would have been foaming at the mouth, too.

Seeing that camel wrestling match was the only thing I hated in Turkey.  I don't get quite that worked up over horse racing; I simply don't care for it.  And, if you are here in the US, you probably know that the Belmont Stakes was run today.  There was a lot of buzz about it because of American Pharaoh, who had the opportunity to become the first horse in thirty-seven years to win the Triple Crown.  He did not disappoint those who bet on him.

What that means is crowds and lots of traffic on the roads leading to the Belmont Park race track, which is 25 to 30 kilometers from my apartment, depending on which route I were to take.  Once I rode in the direction of the track on the day of the Belmont Stakes, and even the side roads and some residential streets were clogged with SUVs piloted by testy, impatient drivers.

So, of course, I made it a point of avoiding all of that today.  Instead of a horse race, I saw another kind of sport:

No, it's not baseball.  It's one of its forerunners:  cricket.  I wish I could have gotten a bit closer, or that I had my camera with me.  I was relegated to taking that photo with my cell phone.  I also had to push my limited skills to the limit to capture this image:

OK.  So now you're thinking, "She went all the way to England to get away from a horse race?"  If only...

Actually, I rode in the opposite direction of the race track and found myself riding through the Bronx and Westchester County.  Believe it or not, both of those photos were taken in the Bronx.

Van Cortlandt Park is the second-largest park in the Bronx and the fourth-largest in New York City.  Its northern boundary is the city line with Westchester County.  To its south and east are longtime Irish enclaves  Norwood and Bedford Park.  That is where the players in the photo live, or have lived.

On a nearby field, there was another game of cricket in progress:

Adjoining Norwood and Bedford Park is one of the city's largest enclaves of immigrants from the Anglophone West Indies, centered along Gun Hill Road.  The players in this photo probably live there, or possibly in one of the West Indian neighborhoods of Brooklyn.  Although there is no Jim Crow policy in place in Van Cortlandt (or anyplace else in New York) and, from what I understand, the players were not segregating themselves by race (they were merely playing with friends and family), it was still a bit jarring to see white players on one field and blacks on another.

The house in the photo is in a nearby neighborhood almost no one would associate with the Bronx.  The street on which I found the house is private, as are the streets surrounding it.  A couple of blocks away is the Fieldston School, where the tuition is higher than the salary I earned in any of the first twenty or so years I worked. 

Anyway...I saw the cricket games on my way up to Westchester County and the house on my way back.  In Westchester, I rode as close as I could to the Hudson River and was treated to a vista of the Palisades:

What most people don't realize about the Hudson is that south of the Tappan Zee, it's not really a river:  It's actually a tidal basin.  And I could tell, by the way the water was churning, that the tide was coming in. It turns brownish-green then and looks more like a river when the tide is out.

I pedaled against the wind going upriver, so the wind blew me back into the Bronx and to my place.  And I avoided the throngs of gas-guzzlers people drove to watch little men drive horses in the service of bettors.