Here is what I would have posted yesterday, had I not invoked the Howard Cosell rule for someone who deserves it as much as anyone: Desmond Tutu.
On the day his illustrious life ended--Boxing Day--I rode out to Point Lookout. I woke, and started my ride, late: It was close to noon before I mounted the saddle of Zebbie, my red vintage Mercian Vincitore that looks like a Christmas decoration. (I don't say that to throw shade on her; I love the way she looks and rides.) One consequence is starting late, and stopping for a late lunch at Point Lookout, is that it was dark by the time I got to Forest Park, about 8 kilometers from my apartment. That also meant, however, that I saw something that made me feel a little less bad about not traveling this year, or last.
Because the Rockaway Boardwalk rims the South Shore of Queens, you can see something you don't normally associate with the East Coast of the US: a sunset on the ocean. From the Rockaway Peninsula, the Atlantic Ocean stretches toward New Jersey.
The next time I feel as if I have no influence on anybody, I'll remember yesterday's ride. As I stopped to take photos, people strolling along the boardwalk stopped and turned their heads. One couple with a small child actually thanked me: "Otherwise, we never would have looked: It's perfect!," the man exclaimed.
It was about as close to a perfect sunset as I've seen in this part of the world, and I've seen some stunners--in Santorini (of course!), the Pre Rup temple (Cambodia) , Sirince (in Turkey), .Le Bassin d'Arcachon (near Bordeaux), Lands End Lookout (San Francisco) and from the window of an Amtrak Coast Starlight train.
All right, I'll confess: I'm a sucker for sunsets--and bike rides. Either one is a form of "redemption," if you will, for a day that could have been lost from having beginning too late. And they make a difficult year, a difficult time, more bearable--especially in a moment when I don't have to feel, or think about, anything but my legs pumping away, the wind flickering my hair and colors flowing by my eyes--and, in spite of--or is it because of?--the cold and wind, a glow filling me: what Salvador Quasimodo meant when he wrote,
M'illumno
d'immenso.
He probably never met Audre Lorde, but I think she would appreciate that, and he would understand what she meant when she wrote, "Caring for myself is not self-indulgence. It is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare."
Now, I don't claim to be the world-changer that she or Desmond Tutu were. But on more than one occasion, I've been chided over my passions for cycling and cats. I derive no end of pleasure from them, to be sure, but they also have kept me sane, more or less, as I navigated this world "undercover" and "out."
