The Road--And Season--Ahead

In cycling, any given time of year provides its own trials and pleasures.  In this part of the world, it is early in the Spring.  So far, riding has been a bit arduous but very exhilarating.  I think both have to do with how little riding I did this winter.

The ice and mounds of snow and slush are gone.  Some trees, bushes and other plants are budding now.  They fill me with hope, but do not yet distract me from the ones that are still bare, the ground that is barren from now and the buildings and other structures that bear the patina and show the wear and scars of the season we experienced so recently.  

 

So I am not surprised to see a kind of tentative energy in the steps and body language of people, some of whom I had not seen in months. I guess I ride that way, at least some of the time:  Even though the signs of a new season are around us, something in my body--and mind--still has not quite attuned to its rhythms. At least not yet.  It's almost as if I--and, perhaps, the people I see--still need to be convinced that it is indeed Spring, and we're not going back.

As long as we're moving forward, I guess it doesn't really matter whether we're pushing through mud or promenading along a path lined with cherry blossoms--or pedaling around potholes in the streets.  There is a ride, a season, ahead.

Defining The Season

What's the difference between a late winter and an early spring ride?

Since it's not yet April Fool's Day, this is not a joke.  However, you are free to leave humorous comments.

Here in the Northern Hemisphere, it's been Spring--at least officially--for a bit more than a week.  Some places have had the kind of weather we normally associate with spring for days, or even weeks.  Other places, like Florida, have already had summer-like (at least by the standards of NYC) conditions, if only for a day here and a day there.  On the other hand, there are places like northern New England, much of Canada and the Rockies, where snow still covers the ground.

So what, exactly, makes a ride early spring rather than late winter?  One factor might be the amount of daylight:  There's noticeably more of it than there was even a week or two ago.  And, since Daylight Savings Time began three weeks ago, that daylight (sometimes a gray pallor) lasts to 19h (7:00 pm) or even later.  Of course, the day has begun later, but soon we will have early dawns to go with our late dusks.

That's a fair measure of the seasons.  But the further north one goes in this hemisphere, the more daylight there is.  (Conversely,there is less of it during the fall and winter.) And some of those places are even more packed in snow and ice than this area was after even a series of snowstorms.  For those who are accustomed to such conditions and have studded tires, that might not be such an important factor.  But even such cyclists--some, anyway--do not ride in such conditions.

That brings me to yet another factor in differentiating the seasons:  The number of fellow riders you see on the road or trail. When I rode to Rockaway Beach three weeks ago, I didn't see any other cyclists. Ditto for the ride I took through the Bronx and Westchester a week after that.  But yesterday, I saw dozens of other riders on the bike path that wends its way along the Brooklyn waterfront.  Then again, once I got to the cobblestoned streets around Bush Terminal--deserted on a Sunday--I had them all to myself.  If I go there in a couple of weeks, I'll probably see other riders, though not nearly as many as one encounters on the Kent Street path.

By that standard, the ride I took yesterday was definitely Early Spring, even if the temperature barely broke the freezing mark and the wind whipped against our jackets.

Playing Hide-And-Seek With The Season

Compared to past winters, this one has been brutal--or, at least, especially dreary--and has seemed endless.  This putative beginning of spring feels more like a truce, one that can be broken at any moment, than a true end to the hostilities.

So far, I've done three rides that weren't commutes or related to some specific purposes. Even though I pedaled along streets, paths and boardwalks I've ridden many times before, those rides felt like discoveries and releases at the same time:  The tears that rolled down my cheeks were not only from the wind.

But somehow I feel I rode as furtively as the season slinking its way among bare branches piqued with buds not yet ready to open.  I am like a cat creeping, ready at any moment to scamper back into shelter.

The rides have been really good.  But I am anxious for the season to take root, for flowers to open and to ride expansively and endlessly.  Hopefully all of those things will happen soon. 

Early Spring Ride: Waking Again, For The First Time

So good to be riding just for fun again.  

Yesterday I took one of my seashore rambles that have been so much a part of my cycling life.  You know something's a part of you when you've been away from it for a while and, when you go back, it's like reconnecting with an old friend:  It's familiar and new at the same time.

The beaches and boardwalks are all imprinted in my mind.  And the bracing wind that pushed at me, whipped me sideways and, finally, took me home felt as if it had always traveled with me, in my skin and on it, yet was as bracing and chilly as the air itself feels to someone who's coming out from layers of stilled dreams, of time itself.  

And there is the light I have always seen again for the first time.



I wish all of my fatigue were that of the kind I experienced while riding yesterday:  of waking again for the first time.

Standing In A Spectrum Of Gray

During the past two days, our weather has been a spectrum of gray, from fog to mist to drizzle to showers to rain--and back again.  

Yes, I rode to work. But that was the extent of my cycling.  Even though we're well into May, the temperatures--and, it seems, the light--feel more like early spring.  So it's been just warm enough that some people, like me, want to experience it, or simply be outside for a little while.  But it's been chilly enough that some seek shelter from it.

Some who seek shelter look for--or build--castles in the air:

The gothic-looking building  with the blurred top in the middle of the photo is the Woolworth Building, one of the first skyscrapers built here.  I've never been to the top floors, but I've seen a fog-enshrouded skyline from the top of the Empire State Building and the World Trade Center.  It's sort of like rising from a dream without waking from it.

As for those who remain outside in the misty chill: They do not always stand tall. They don't have to; they just stand.  Sometimes it's hard not to notice them.

For them, the season is beginning in a spectrum they will help to complete.