Another Ride: Another View Of The Season

Today was almost as unseasonably warm as yesterday was.  Somehow, though, it looked more like a day of this time of year, which can't be called "fall" because almost everything that is supposed to fall has already fallen.  The season is tipping toward winter.  The sky reflected it.

Yesterday, I saw lots of bare trees and sunshine.  Today, though, a curtain of thick gray clouds filled the sky and the air with the kind of shadowy light that induces a "long winter's nap".  And the bay and ocean, even during high tide, seemed as listless, almost as drowsy, as the sky they reflected.

Oddly, though, that light and air energized me.  I felt as full of verve, and my bike felt as lively under me, as on yesterday's ride.  Perhaps feeling good was making me feel good:  Even after a 140 kilometer (85 mile) ride that included some hills and a headwind most of the way to Connecticut on yesterday's ride--and cleaning my apartment afterward-- I felt as if I could have ridden forever.  

I didn't do that.  I did, however, ride 105 kilometers (65 miles) on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bike.  Granted, it was a flat ride.  But I was riding into a stiffer headwind on my way out--to Point Lookout--than I encountered yesterday.  That meant, of course, that my tailwind was also stronger on my way home.

Today I encountered almost no traffic for long stretches of Beach Channel and the Rockaway Peninsula and the south shore of Nassau County.  Part of the reason for that, of course, is that people aren't going to the beach.  But it seemed that even fishermen and surfers stayed home today.  And, even along the commercial strips of Cross Bay Boulevard and by the mini-mall in Long Beach, I didn't see as many motorized vehicles as I would expect to see on a Saturday.  Maybe people haven't begun their holiday shopping.  

Not that I minded seeing so little traffic, of course.  Or even the gray skies:  It framed both the bare trees and the bushes still sprouting their flowers and fruits with a kind of austere beauty different from what yesterday's clear skies and sunshine highlighted.  

Two days, two rides that made me happy.  On two different bikes through two different kinds of landscapes.  Autumn might be falling into winter--and we've had the worst election I can remember--but I am still blessed.

Cycling The Fall On The North Shore

Perhaps the fall is inevitable, which is exactly the reason some people live as if it will never happen to them.

Sometimes I think that is one of the messages of The Great Gatsby.  Though the novel was written, and take place, in the 1920s, a line from Prince is fitting:  party like it's 1999.

I got to thinking about Gatsby and what the fall means today because, while riding, I saw this:

and this:

along the North Shore, from Queens into Long Island and back.  

You know the old riddle:  If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?  Well, perhaps someone posed a parallel question:  If trees lose their leaves and nobody sees it, will the fall come?

Jay Gatsby, having grown up on a farm and aspired to the high life, probably never looked at a tree once he left the farm.   I doubt any of the other characters in that novel looked at very many trees or gave much thought to the changing of the season, whether in nature or their lives.

But fall comes to their North Shore playgrounds, just as it comes everywhere else.  For me, it made for a lovely, pleasant ride, one in which I didn't mind that I was pedaling into, or getting sideswiped by, brisk winds, or that as I rode along the water, the temperature dropped (or seemed to drop) to levels for which I wasn't dressed.

Today it was Vera's turn to enjoy the season.  She was dressed for the occasion.  Then again, she always looks right for the ride. So do my other Mercians.  

They have no reason to fear the fall. Nor do I.  

What The Tide Left

I had luck with the wind again today.  I was glad because it was stronger than it was yesterday.  Or, perhaps, it just seemed that way because most of today's ride took me along shorelines.  Also, the sky was even clearer than it was yesterday, and large bodies of water magnify the sun's rays. Sometimes I think long exposure to direct sunlight tires me out even more than the wind, or anything else.

Anyway, I rode to Point Lookout today.  It's not as long as the ride to Connecticut, and it's almost entirely flat.  There is one fairly long gradual incline up Woodhaven Boulevard from Jamaica Avenue to Forest Park.  Even though it's near the end of my ride, it isn't very arduous.

Best of all, the wind was at my back, as it was from the time I turned on to the Veterans Memorial Bridge from Rockaway Beach.  That meant, of course, that I pedaled into the wind on my way out, and that it blew from the Atlantic onto my right side on my way to the Point, and onto my left on my way back.

The thing that struck me most about today's ride, though, was at Point Lookout.  The tide was out--and I mean really out.  There were no boats in the water.  Most telling, though, was this:

A family picnic on the sandbar!  I've never seen it so long or wide.  It was like a boardwalk, with all of the people walking their dogs and toddlers toddling on it.  Naturally, no one was fishing.

Now, I am no climate scientist.  In fact, I can't claim to be a scientist of any sort.  So perhaps I am revealing my ignorance in describing the observation you are about to read and the question I will pose from it.

As I understand it, the extreme blizzards so many places experienced during the past few winters are actually a result of global warming:  Increasing temperatures, especially in the oceans, are causing the atmospheric instability that leads to all kinds of storms, including blizzards and ice storms as well as hurricanes and tornadoes.  

So I wonder whether tides that are receding further out (I've noticed this in other places besides Point Lookout) are a result of the rising sea level.  Just as the tides are higher and stronger, could the pull-back also be stronger--enough to pull the tides further from the shoreline when they recede?

Again, I emphasize that I am not a scientist:  What I am saying and asking is based entirely on observation and logic.  Also, I know it doesn't directly relate to cycling.  But what I see in the oceans, on the shorelines, in the hills or anyplace else is part of my rides.  I can't help but to wonder what I will and won't see on future rides!

The World Is About To End, Again, And I Decided To Enjoy The Ride!

The world is about to end, again.

So what did I do?  I went for a bike ride, of course.

All right...I wasn't as cavalier as I might've sounded.  For one thing, the situation isn't quite as dire as the end of the world, or even the end of the world as we know it.

But tomorrow the beaches will be closed.  Think about that:  Beaches closed on the day before Labor Day, a.k.a., the penultimate day of summer--at least unofficially.

Hurricane/Tropical Storm Hermine has plowed across northern Florida and Georgia and is in the Atlantic, where she is surging her way toward New Jersey, New York and New England.  Even if we don't get the wind and rain she's dumped to our south, forecasters say that the strongest riptides in years will roil in local waters.  So, as a precaution, Mayor de Blasio has declared that our beaches--Coney Island, the Rockaways and South Beach of Staten Island among them--will be closed tomorrow.

I decided to ride toward those littoral landscapes.  First, I took my familiar jaunt to the Rockaways and, from there, to Point Lookout.  

The view to the east was ominous--at least, in the sky.  Those clouds looked as if they could have solved all of my hydration problems for a while.  But, as the day was relatively cool (high temperature around 25C or 77F) and the sun wasn't beating down on my skin, I didn't sweat much.

People seemed to think the beaches were already closed (well, the Mayor's pronouncement wouldn't affect Point Lookout).  Not many of them were on the sand or in the surf--or even on the boardwalk--in the Rockaways.  With those skies, it looked more like a mid- or even late-fall day than the End of Summer.

And Point Lookout was deserted!  Even the streets were all but empty:  the few cars I saw were parked.  A long, wide sidebar surfaced in the water, belying the predicted storm surge.  Normally, people would walk themselves and, perhaps, their dogs, on it.  But today the seagulls and egrets had it all to themselves.

Vera, my green Mercian mixte, seemed to be enjoying it.  Or, perhaps, she was anticipating the ride back:  We had pushed into the wind most of the way from my apartment to the Point.  So, of course, it would give us a nice push going back.

Except that I decided not to pedal directly home.  The ride felt so good that as I approached Beach 92nd Street in the Rockaways--where I would normally turn off the boardwalk (where we rode today) or Rockaway Beach Boulevard for the bridge to Broad Channel--I decided to continue along the boardwalk to its end in Belle Harbor, and from there along the Boulevard to Riis Park and Fort Tilden.

Then I rolled across the Gil Hodges/Marine Parkway Bridge to Brooklyn, along the path that rims the South Shore to Sheepshead Bay, Brighton Beach and Coney Island.  

Along the way, fissures split the cloud cover.  By the time I got to Coney Island, the sun had reclaimed much of the sky.  And, when I got there, I saw crowds of the size one would expect on a summer day.  I wonder whether they had been there all day or if they started to stream in for their "last chance" as the sky cleared.

Sunlight glinted off the water as I rode the promenade from Coney Island to the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, where I once again saw the kinds, and numbers, of people one normally finds there on a summer Saturday:  cyclists, skaters, skateboarders, fishermen, young couples, older couples and Orthodox Jewish families enjoying their shabat.

Speaking of enjoyment:  Everyone has his or her own definition of that word.  Apparently, some Nassau County officials have their own interesting interpretation:

For the record, that women's bathroom in Point Lookout Park was filthy.  And the doors of the stalls didn't shut.  Nor did the front door of the bathroom.  I thought about calling Supervisor Santino, but didn't.  I was enjoying everything else about my ride and didn't want to interrupt it--especially since, if we incur Hermine's wrath, I won't be able to take another like it for a while!

A May Ride In December?

I was riding in shorts and a short-sleeved top.

No, I didn't start my holiday visit to my parents in Florida early.  (Actually, in their part of Florida, there is no guarantee I'd have such weather at this time of year.)  Rather, I took a ride which I've ridden (and written about) a number of times:  to Point Lookout and back.

The temperature reached 20C (68F).  For some perspective, the old record for this date was 16C (62F), which was surpassed before 11 am.

Interestingly, it didn't feel as warm as I'd expected.  Some of that had to do with the wind, which, coming from the southeast, I pedaled into most of my way out. Also, riding by the sea, where local water temperatures are around 10C (50C) makes the air seem cooler.  For perspective, in early August, the water temperature reaches 23-24C (72-75F) and in early March falls to 3-5C (37-40F). 

On such a pleasant Sunday, I wasn't surprised to see more people than one would normally expect to see at the beaches.  They weren't swimming, but I noticed that some people weren't wearing much more than I was.  Also, a pretty fair number of young men (mostly) clad in wetsuits rode the waves.

I don't mean to boast when I say that even though I was pedaling into winds of 8 to 12KPH (14 to 20 MPH) most of the way out, I was pedaling rather effortlessly in my big chainring and on the sixth and seventh gears of my nine-speed cassette.  Am I starting to regain some of my old strength?  Or was it because I just felt so good to be on my bike on such a beautiful day?  I would be happy to accept either explanation, or no explanation at all.

Everything was so lovely that even seeing brown and yellow stems and leaves didn't seem so discordant with the spring-like warmth. 

Nor did the almost-winter light or the shortness of the day.

And I was riding Arielle.  Even a name like that is enough to make me feel as if I'm flying.  But, she's a great ride and, of course, the wind into which I rode on my way out pushed at my back and carried me home.

I really should have been grading papers.  Oh, well.



 

The Last Sunday

Americans regard Labor Day as the unofficial end of summer.   If it is, perhaps today--Thanksgiving Sunday, or the last Sunday of November--is the unofficial end of fall or the  beginning of the Christmas season.

Today felt like the end of a season of some sort.  The ride I took today was more than pleasant; the skies cleared of yesterday's rain and the crispness one could feel in the air a couple of days ago has given way to a bracing nip.

I rode to Point Lookout, in part because I hadn't ridden there in a while, but also because I figured that, since my route wouldn't take me anywhere near the malls or any other retail "magnet", I wouldn't encounter much traffic.  

Turns out, I was right.  In fact, the streets of Atlantic and Long Beaches--the first two Nassau County towns I encounter after crossing the bridge from Queens--were deserted.  I sometimes encounter that on Saturdays or High Holy Days, as a large number of observant Jews live in the area.  But to encounter hardly a car, cyclist or pedestrian on a Sunday, even when it isn't beach season, is unusual, to say the least.  

I did, however, notice that the bars were full, and it didn't look like the patrons were "doing" brunch.  When I glanced into one of the windows, I saw the reason why:  Most of the patrons, it seemed, were gazing at football (American-style) matches on wide-screen TVs as they munched on chicken wings and quaffed brews.

In fact, the largest congregation of people I saw outdoors were standing on line at an ice cream stand, open for the last time until, probably, March. (A handlettered sign read, "See you in the Spring!:)  Even the sorts of people one encounters along the beaches and Point Lookout in the Fall and Winter--bird watchers, philosophers and poets manques, fisher-men and -women--were gone, with a few exceptions:

It almost seemed as if the tide would have stayed out as long as that man and his dog trotted on the sandbar.  I wonder if these souls felt the same way:

Today I rode alone, by choice.  In other years, I have ridden on the last Sunday in November with people with whom I never rode--or even never saw--again.  Whether or not I continued to ride during the winter (I did in most years, though usually not as much as I rode during the other seasons), I wouldn't see them.   By the time the next cycling season began--in February or March or April, depending on that year's weather--they were gone, to new schools, new jobs, new towns (or even states or countries), new lives.

The mild weather we've enjoyed in this part of the world this fall may well continue through the next few months, and I may not cycle much less than I have ridden during the past few weeks.  Or we may be snow- and ice-bound, as we were for several weeks last winter, and ride very little.  Or there might be some other change in my life, for better or worse, that affects or doesn't affect how much I ride between now and the time lilacs and cherry blossoms start opening themselves to the furtive early-spring sun.

Whatever happens, today, like every last Sunday in November I recall, feels like the unofficial end of cycling season.  Any ride I take after today, and before the beginning of Spring or the new cycling season, will seem like an interlude rather than a normal part of the cycle. 

Somehow it seems fitting that I rode Arielle, my Mercian Audax.  Out of all of my bikes, she seems to most embody the spirit of my riding.  If I could only take one more ride, I'd choose her.  I doubt that today's trek will be my last before Spring.  Still, Arielle seems to be the right bike to ride at the end of the season.

(There isn't much to lean a bike against at Point Lookout!)

Pedaling Into The Wind--And Understanding Vincent?

On Sunday, I felt I had done a Fall ride, even thought the season hadn't "officially" arrived and the temperature felt more like early summer.  But the signs of the season were there, including fallen leaves on a trail.  And the wind into which I pedaled on my way up to Connecticut had an autumnal tinge to it.

Today, I rode into an even stiffer wind out to Point Lookout.  At least when I rode to Connecticut, I was pedaling Arielle, my Mercian Audax, and could shift gears.  On the other hand, I had to push my way through an even stiffer wind on on a fixed gear:  I chose to ride Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear, because the route is flat and, well, I felt like riding a fixed gear.

When I got to Point Lookout, I saw this

and thought, "I pedaled into that?!!"

I could feel the effort in my legs, but they didn't ache and I wasn't tired.  I just needed a little nourishment and hydration.  Best of all, I felt I was experiencing an elemental, intimate truth through my senses, as if an old wound had turned into a pore, an ear, an eye.

The wind seemed to be a form of light.  And that light was a motion, the "motion" part of "emotion":  a life force that illuminated and moved everything in a dance of the sprit--which I don't mean in a religious way.

Visions of Vincent Van Gogh's "Starry Night", "Irises" and "Mountainous Landscape behind Saint-Remy" flashed through my mind.  Of course, there is some visual connection between what I saw today and what Van Gogh painted from his asylum room.  However, I soon realized why I was thinking of Van Gogh, and those paintings in particular:  They, more than any others I've seen, render those transformations and transmutations of light, wind, motion, emotion and the life force I was seeing in Point Lookout.

I then realized that my favorite visual artists do exactly that, each in his or her own way:  The forces of nature and the forces of the human spirit--in other words, the very forces of life itself--become, not only manifestations or expressions of each other; they become each other and they seem to emerge from the canvas, paint, stosne, bronze or whatever the artist used.  

Now, you might think all of this is just hallucinatory rubbish resulting from an overflow of endorphins after riding into a 40-50 KPH wind.  If it is, well, what can I say?  It was still worth it.  The ride, I mean.
 

Should I Thank The Flat Earth Society?

Whenever I teach freshmen, I spend a class or two on research methods.  Of course, I mention Google, and how--and how not--to use it. 

I don't lecture them about "good" and "bad" sites or "reliable" and "unreliable" sources.  Instead, I show them examples.

At least I try to make the work fun.  As an example of an "unreliable" or "bad" site, I show them the Flat Earth Society.  They are invariably as amazed that such an organization and its website actually exist.

I can't tell you much about what FES does.  However, I could easily believe one of its members designed the route I rode today. 

It's one I've pedaled many times before, from my place to Point Lookout and back.  The only climb (bridge ramps don't count) is the one from Jamaica Avenue to Forest Park, near the end of the ride back.  It's not long or particularly steep, but if you stop for a traffic light at Jamaica, Forest Park Drive or any of the three intersections in between, it can take a bit of effort to re-start your climb. 

Especially if you're riding only one gear.  Especially if that gear is fixed.

I'm not complaining: As I've said, I've done the ride many times before.  And when I have to start thrusting again after a stop, doing so on Tosca, my fixed gear Mercian (which I rode today) is painless just because the bike fits me and rides so  well.

Anyway, because the ride is so flat--and tall buildings disappear behind me as I pedal south through Queens and east into Nassau County--vertical things stand out all the more.  They don't have to be tall:  They just have to be perpendicular to the expanses of water, shoreline and sky.

Also, I think the fact that today was as clear as yesterday was made those rocks, those sails, seem closer to the sky than they normally would. 

It was slightly warmer (a degree or so Celsius) than it was yesterday, but I hardly sweated at all--even while riding 105 kilometers on a fixed gear bike.  Of course, the levelness (Is that a word?) of the course had something to do with my lack of perspiration.  Perhaps I should thank the Flat Earth Society. ;-)

Past The Max

Today I rode to test a new electronic device and, well, ride.  It was a perfect day for both.

But I had to test the electronic device before I could out of the house, let alone get on my bike.  To be fair, Max has never given me as hard a time as former partners, roommates and others (including an ex-spouse) have about going out without them.


He didn't say "Vous ne passerez pas!" mainly because he doesn't speak French (though he understands some).  But he insisted that my first photo on my new camera would be a portrait of him.

Anyway... Today was another near-perfect day for a ride. The temperature reached 30C (86F), but it dropped as I neared the water.  The humidity was low and the clouds were high and sparse.

Actually, I didn't take a direct path to the water:  I wandered through various parts of Queens and Nassau County before heading toward the southern bays of Long Island.

For a moment, I wondered whether those folks might be in trouble.  I couldn't see what, if anything, was propelling their watercraft.  (I'm not sure of whether to call it a boat or something else.)  From my admittedly limited perspective, they didn't seem to be in any distress.   

One thing about the ocean: It's pretty easy to tell whether the tide is in or out, and its clock, if you will, is fairly predictable.  On the other hand, the bays and inlets from East Rockaway to Freeport can ebb or swell in an instant, and the tides and currents seem to have even more random effects than those of the ocean.  You can see the results of what I'm talking about in the waterfront residential areas:  One home seems to have been untouched by Superstorm Sandy or any other natural phenomenon, while a house next to it looks, nearly three years after the storm, as if it's being held up by the boards nailed over its windows and doorways.

On this day, however, almost nothing besides those houses even hinted at one of the worst natural disasters this area has experienced in its recorded history.  Looking at the sky and the sunlight, such a catastrophe doesn't even seem possible, let alone probable.

Vera knows all about those things, but she rode like a magic carpet.  She almost always does.

P.S.:  I bought the camera because of something I'm going to talk about a couple of posts from now.

 

Two Stops, Two Conundrums

Today I rode to Point Lookout again.  It was not a perfect day, by most people’s definitions, but more than good enough for me:  clouds moved across a sunny sky, seemingly carried by the wind that I rode into on my way out to the Rockaways.  The temperature didn’t seem to rise above 25C anywhere I rode—the ocean water was only a couple of degrees cooler.  That might be the reason why I didn’t see very many people on the beaches or boardwalks, and the Point, like Jones Beach, across the cove, was deserted.  

The ride made me happy, even if it didn’t include any great developments or epiphanies.  I felt as if I got into a good rhythm while riding Arielle, my fixed-gear Mercian.  Most important of all, I didn’t feel achy or fatigued at the end of my ride:  I just felt as if I’d gotten a good workout and had a good time.  I really don’t ask for anything else.

Probably the most unusual things about this ride happened at two traffic stops—one in Atlantic Beach on my way out and the other in Sunnyside on my way back.

At the first stop, the light had just turned red.  I had about another half an hour—maybe forty minutes, given that I was riding into the wind—of riding to get to the Point.  Not that I was in a hurry:  I wasn’t worried about any commitments or even about the coming of night.  But I had, as I mentioned earlier, gotten into a good rhythm, and was trying not to stop. 

The light had just turned red and a man who looked like he had a decade or two on me was crossing the street.  Some guy in a Lexus tore through the intersection, against the red light.  Fortunately, the old man hadn’t gotten very far into the street, so he was in no danger of being struck.

What I found strange about the encounter, though, was the man kept on staring at me.  I wasn’t sure of whether he was surprised that I, and not the driver, stopped for the light. Or, perhaps he’d been directing stored-up anger over other cyclists who’d ignored traffic signals—or, maybe just stories he’d heard about them.  Whatever his motivations, he kept his head turned toward me until he stepped onto the curb on the other side of the street.

At the other stop, I was about two kilometers from my apartment.  Sunnyside is, like Astoria, an old blue collar-to-middle class neighborhood that never really deteriorated and is becoming home to increasing numbers of young professionals and creative people who work in Manhattan.  It’s also one of those neighborhoods where, at one time, I wouldn’t see anyone else on a bike but, over the past few years, I have been seeing more and more cyclists every time I ride through it.

Anyway, I stopped at an intersection of 48^th Steet, one of the neighborhood’s main arteries.  Trucks often come barreling down 48^th, coming from or going to the factories and rail yard that separate the neighborhood from Long Island City, so I don’t take chances when crossing it.  Neither do most people who live in the neighborhood.

A woman who looked like she was thirty, at most, crossed in front of me, with her son and daughter—neither of whom looked more than four years old—in tow.  She seemed like a nice person; we exchanged smiles.  “I’m sorry,” she simpered.

“For what?”

“For stopping you.”

“You didn’t stop me.  The light did.”  I pointed to the signal; it was turning yellow. She and her kids scampered to the curb.  “Have a nice day,” she shouted.

“You do the same.”

As pleasant as she was, I am still as puzzled by her reaction to my stopping for a light as I am to the man for his.

Photo by Darryl Kotyk