Journey To The Sea In Another Country

Yesterday, after visiting the Acropolis and Acropolis Museum, I rode the bike I'd rented to the sea.

Technically, that's true.  But not in the way I anticipated.

Manos, the co-owner of Athens by Bike, gave me a paper and "app" version of a route to ride to the Saronic Gulf, a.k.a. the Gulf of Aegina, which is part of the Aegean Sea.  I am sure he has taken that ride in the recent past.  But, as a New Yorker, I know that road conditions can change on any given day, without notice.  So I don't blame him for my ride not turning out quite as I'd planned.

I did indeed get to the Saronic/Aegean, more or less the way I'd planned. But I didn't quite see the coast in the way I'd expected.

Following Manos' directions, I followed one of the few bike paths in Athens.  For most of its length, it parallels a line of the city's Metro system to Piraeus, the port that serves much of the area.  From what Manos showed and told me, the path goes underneath a highway before reaching the shoreline and, at the shoreline, there's a bike/pedestrian path that follows the highway and sea.

Once I got to that highway, though, it seemed that there was no way to cross--except through an underpass with a side lane barely wide enough for most people's feet.  I took it, and found myself at the Athens Marina.  While it's not meant for folks like me, there is an area where couples stroll and (I assume) poor Athenians and immigrants fish.  I rode out to it.  The views from it, I must say, were pleasant enough.

As I returned to the path along the tracks, another delightful young Athenian woman called out to me.  "Excuse me, do you know how to get to the sea?"

Turns out, her nearly-flawless English came from her study augmented by a trip to the United States.  I guess I shouldn't find that so unusual.  What struck me, though, was that she was, in essence, asking me for directions--only two days after arriving in this city, and country.

She was trying to do exactly what I'd wanted to do--get to, and ride along, the sea on her bike.  She said she'd found the lane blocked.  Hmm...Maybe I'm not such a rube, or so hopeless at navigation, after all!

So, having been stymied, we decided to ride back together.  In another odd coincidence, she lives in the same neighborhood where I'm staying.  En route--about 12 kilometers--we shared a bit about our lives.  While she is an esteemed professional here in Athens, she shares many of the same struggles as other people in her native city and country--and of her age and gender.  

Since I was a somewhat-chauvinistic guy in my previous life, I promised to help her.  At least, I'd promised to help her in one specific way she requested.  When I told her I planned to take a trip to Delphi, I promised to ask the oracle what she should do about a particular dilemma she faces.

How could I do otherwise?  This might not be the best cycling country or city--at least, not yet.  But my limited cycling experience here has brought me into contact with two very intelligent women with whom I enjoyed riding and conversing.  I am perfectly willing to return the favors, however imperfectly!

Oh, and her name is Virginia--as it happens, the name of my beloved maternal grandmother.

Riding And Working

Whenever I ride along the Brooklyn waterfront--especially in Red Hook or near Bush Terminal--I can shed a tear or two as I'm opening my wings.   At least, that's how it feels sometimes.  It's the joy of victory twinged with a little bit of sadness and guilt.

The views along those stretches of New York Harbor are always awe-inspiring, and not only because of the Statue of Liberty or the lower Manhattan skyline.  No matter how many towers are built along the shorelines, they are exactly that:  shorelines, which means that they can never fit into a grid pattern; they can only disrupt or stop it.  And whoever or whatever comes or goes, lives go on.  

For that is what those waterfronts have always represented to me:  lives.  Sure, the promenades and picnic fields built over the old piers are pleasant places to walk one's dog or hang out with friends and loved ones--or to bicycle.  But nearly anyone who goes to the waterfront now has never worked on the docks, on the piers.  Those who work in the concession stands or clean the paths or fields don't work on the waterfront; they work for companies in faraway places that contract with the city's Parks Department.  

That is not to say they don't work hard (for low pay).  But their work enables the leisure of others, nearly none of whom will they ever get to know.  Those who worked on the docks and in the nearby factories were working for and with other people who worked:  the people they saw all day, and sometimes at the end of the day.  They ate, drank, played ball and attended each other's (and their families') important life events.  It's hard to imagine the person making lattes in the snack bar going to the bachelorette party of someone who power-walks or takes an outdoor yoga class along the promenade.

It's still a little strange for me to be one of those people who goes to the waterfront for recreation or fitness--in my case, to ride a bicycle--after it was a place of work, and more work, for various members of my family, most of them gone now.  For that matter, the jobs or even the very work they did no longer exist:  the plant where one of my uncles made cement, the shoe factory where my mother and grandmother stitched and the old docks where two of my uncles were longshoremen--a job rendered obsolete by cranes, container ships and interstate highways.

To be sure, their work was difficult, draining and sometimes dangerous.  The pay was decent--at least for my uncles--but, really, it did not justify the risks to themselves they were expected to take.  Nobody should have to work under those conditions, or those my mother and grandmother endured.  But, at the same time, those jobs allowed people who couldn't, for whatever reasons, spend lots of time in school to make lives for themselves and, in time, to support families.  I don't think the man grilling hot dogs in the concessionaire can do that on his pay.

He, and his co-workers are probably working other jobs. And they don't have much time, or energy, for the sorts of things we do now when we visit the pier.  If he has a bike, he's probably riding it to the job and back, but not along this pier.  I'll bet he, and the woman making lattes, didn't get to see the "rainbow cloud" to the right of the Statue.

At the end of the day, they probably want to flop into a couch or bed.  I am more privileged: In the middle of a ride after work, I can enjoy the whimsy of something like this:

I imagine that the artist who created it was one of the people who, like me, cycled (or strolled or ran) along the promenade, or some path like it in his home town.  So we might say the waterfront is a place of recreation for him.  Then again, he created a public sculpture that is exhibited on the pier.  He is an artist; that is his his work.  Or is it play--recreation--for him?

I hope it's everything.  Then I will feel nothing but pleasure about it, and about having the time to ride by and see it.

It's All About The Shoes!

I think I've found my next pair of cycling shoes:

And they'll only cost me $300.

Never mind that they're the wrong size.  They're in my color:  purple.  (Well, OK, lavender).  These shoes are actually much prettier than they appear in this photo, which I shot through a display window.

I mean, what's not to like?  In addition to the lovely color and details, they're from Chanel, made in France:  no knock-offs here.

So where did I find these chaussures carines?

Well, since you're reading this blog, you probably have guessed that I saw them during the course of my ride today.  So, of course, the question becomes:  Where did I ride today?

OK, so Arielle is telling you that it's next to a body of water.  So what other clues can I give?

I don't know how those blotches got onto that photo.  But at least you know that there were boats moored where I cycled today.

And they weren't just any old boats.  Nor were the others I saw at my destination.  They belong to some of the wealthiest people on the planet.

If your "Great Gatsby" associations led you to think I was riding along Long Island Sound, you'd be right.  Except, I wasn't riding much along the Long Island part.

Rather, these photos came from Greenwich, Connecticut.  The consignment shop in which I saw those lavender Chanel ballet flats is just up the hill from the yacht club, where I saw those boats.

You might think that I'd need to butcher modify the shoes to make them suitable for cycling.  I'd have to add a carbon fiber insert to the insole and drill them for cleats.  Or so one would think.

But, given the kinds of pedals I ride these days, I think I could get away with pedaling in those Chanel ballet flats as they are.  Would Coco approve?

The idea that I would use them for cycling made me think of a joke I played on Stella Buckwalter, who worked at Open Road Cycles and later opened, with her then-partner Stelios Tapanakis, Rock'N'Road in Park Slope, Brooklyn.

Orange was her favorite color.  In a thrift store, I found a pair of pumps in that color with 15 cm (6") heels.  

She had recently bought a new bike, onto which she had installed a pair of SPD pedals.

So--you guessed it--I drilled out the soles of those shoes to accept SPD cleats!

She got a kick out of them--even though the shoes were the wrong size.  I figured as much when I found them, but they were only $1--and worth much more than that in the laugh I got out of her.

Of course, drilling the shoe and installing those cleats defeated one of the purposes of off-road SPD shoes and pedals:  It was impossible to walk in those pumps with the cleats on them!  

Then again, knowing Stella, I doubt that she would have tried such a thing, even if the shoes fit!