Why Did This Cat Cross The Road?

Marley is curled in my lap.  So, I feel almost guilty in writing this.

The other day, the breeze into which I’d pedaled to Point Lookout lapped against my back for my ride home.  Hardly a cloud besmudged the clear, bright sky that would soon blaze with the sunset.  Even the splintered, blistered houses that had weathered the harshest winter in decades just a year after Superstorm Sandy tore at them floated through my vision like images from a dream.

From a patch of cement and shrubs in front of one of those houses, a big black cat darted into my path.  If you are a cyclist, you have had hundreds, if not thousands, of such encounters with felines.  And, to the extent that I thought about it, I expected this one to be simply another.

If you are a cyclist, you also know that cats almost invariably run as close as they can to your front wheel, then cut at a sharp angle away from it. 

Note that I used the word “almost”.  The black cat (You can’t make this up!) wasn’t one of the invariables.  He/she actually ran straight into my front wheel, and glanced off it. 

My front wheel made a U-turn to my right.  The rest of the bike, and I, didn’t follow:  It stuttered and teetered on the pavement. I flung my left leg out.  But it did not stop me from tumbling into the back of a parked car.

The sky hadn’t yet grown dark, but I saw stars.  A gust of steel lashed against my side.  And the leg that couldn’t break my fall flung to the side and left my right calf to take a blow against the car’s bumper.

“Are you OK?  Are you OK?”  A young Caribbean-Indian woman ran toward me.  “Are you hurt?”  I couldn’t talk; I could just barely inhale without feeling a stab under my rib cage.  She pulled my water bottle out of its cage on my bike.  “Here, take a drink.”  I sucked at the nozzle; after I swallowed, my next breath came easier.  “How do you feel?”

“OK, I think.”

“Just take it easy.”

She crouched beside me while a man—her boyfriend or husband, I guessed—watched from a nearby porch.  He held a cell phone.  “Is she all right?” he yelled.

The woman and I both nodded.

“Where did the cat go?” I wondered.  “Does it belong to anybody here?”

“I don’t know”.

I think she saw my frustration.  “I hope it’s OK.”  I meant that, even though a part of me was damning it.  “Don’t worry about it,” she commanded.  “Can you get home all right.”

“Yeah, I think so.  Thanks.”

The bruises are just starting to appear.  But I’ve felt the pain, just under my rib cage, every time I’ve bent over to pick up something or feed my cats.  Hopefully, it’ll fade:  I want to ride, and I don’t want Marley or Max to go hungry!  At least, they’ll never run into my wheel.

The Comfort of a November Sky

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed that I was feeling sad.  One reason is that a few people who have mattered to me died around that time of year--including a family member who was a couple of years younger than I am now and a female friend who committed suicide.  But another cause of my tristesse is the days growing shorter.

Interestingly, I don't notice the lack of light as much when I'm riding my bike.  In fact, the graying November sky becomes rather comforting, like a shawl spread across bare, wizening limbs and rocks:

 
And the November dusk has its own sort of lumination, like a sort of wisdom revealed:

A little bit of that light crossed my path--or so it seemed:

When I stopped, he rubbed against my ankles.  When I dismounted and squatted next to my bike, he rubbed his face against my hand.

He brought me joy tinged with a note of sadness:  A cat so friendly could only have been abandoned by someone.   

In that sense--as well as in his physical appearance--he's like Max.  My friend Mildred, who rescued him, told a similar story:  He, who had never before met her, approached her as she walked down the street.

I didn't have a bag or basket, but I was tempted to find a way to bring my new-found friend home.  I gave myself all of the reasons why I couldn't.  A woman sitting on a nearby bench told me not to worry:  He's been living on that stretch of the Rockaway boardwalk for "about three years" and she and other people feed him.  

I guess he manages to sleep and survive with that sky as his blanket and the sand as his mattress.

A Ride In Two Seasons

I know that Fall "officially" begins on Saturday, the 22nd.  However, I think I saw some signs of when I rode out to the Canarsie Pier late this afternoon:

On some of the trees, the tips of the leaves are turning brown:

And, on others, entire leaves have turned:

A few leaves have already fallen to the ground.

I used to look forward to the fall:  I always enjoyed riding in the cool, crisp air.  Although it was a bit warm for a fall day (about 26C), the air felt autumnal because brisk breezes from the sea swept over the streets.  Somehow, this day, which straddled summer and fall, made me a bit sad.  For one thing, the days are growing noticeably shorter.  And three seasons have passed; a year is passing.  

All right...I'll make this lighter, and bring it back to cycling. Here's a sign for which I wouldn't dare not to stop!: