It Hasn't Been Easy

 It’s been nearly a week since I last posted.  I haven't felt well, physically or emotionally.  The latter is, at least in part, an effect of not riding much; the former is one reason why I haven't.

Even when the sky is bright and sunny, clouds seem to envelop everything.  The political and social climate contributes to the gloom:  Even though most of the people I encounter regularly treat me well, there just doesn't seem to be any escape from the hate and manufactured anger that fills the air.  Perhaps I'm noticing it more because of the time I spent in Japan, where it never seemed that bumping into a stranger might result in violence. 

Charlie Kirk's murder certainly didn't help to bring down the metaphorical temperature.  I know I'm running the risk of threats, whether on this blog or anywhere, simply for mentioning his name.  And as a transgender woman, I worry that I, because of my identity, will be seen as part of some problem or another that led to his assassination, simply because one--just one, mind you--of the hundreds of mass shootings this country has borne during the past few years was committed by someone born male who identifies as female. (Thank Faux News' Jesse Watters for claiming there was a "pattern" of trans people committing violence.)  I think now of Sam, my neighbor and sometime riding buddy, and his partner:  Because they are Black, people blame, shun and gossip about them because of something or another done by another Black person.

And then there is the hate, or simply disdain, shown to cyclists.  I can't recall another time when bike lanes, or even the line between parked cars and traffic, or between traffic lanes, was so often deliberately obstructed by debris, abandoned Lime eBikes or scooters, or by folks who saw me or other cyclists coming and decided to step into the lane and chat, embrace or, worse, lead their young children.  

Other cyclists, especially the young, aren't immune to not being mindful of other cyclists.  While crossing the Queens span of the RFK Bridge on Friday, an eBiker who was taking a selfie as he rode almost knocked me over; a couple of minutes later, I came as close as I have in ages to a fight when I almost became part of the guardrail when a cyclist coming from the opposite direction zoomed into a narrow turn.  When I yelled at him, the young punk claimed, "I'm a professional.  You don't know how to ride."

In other words, he--like the guy taking a selfie--thought that it was his bikeway and I happened to be on it.  When the pandemic struck, it seemed that people were becoming more mindful because, well, you and they survived. There was that same sense in the days after 9/11, the anniversary of which came last week.  But over time, that sense of community died:  It turned into icy disdain a couple of years after 9/11, and now pandemic empathy has turned into rage at everybody and everything.

My mood wasn't helped on Friday when, during the ride, I paid a "for old time's sake" visit to Tony's Bicycle Shop in Astoria.  Its founder died a few years ago; his son is raising his kids, so the head mechanic is now running the place.  He pointed to a wall:

"Look at this.  It's not what it used to be:"

Gianna Aguilar took the above photo about three years ago.   "We're not filling that wall again," Jose said.   "We can't get stuff or it costs twice as much as it used to," he explained.  "And there's no business--look!"

As if he were reading my mind, he continued, "Lots of stores are going out of business.  We might, too."

Pas de Randonnee

Today's only the first day of winter, at least officially. And I already have a case of the midwinter blues.

This year, we've had colder and windier weather earlier in the season than in any recent year, at least as I recall. But that doesn't usually affect my mood.  It is nearing the end of the semester and, as I told my brother, this time is for college instructors as tax season is to accountants. That means some sleepless nights and little time for anything besides work.

So, naturally, I haven't had much time to ride.  In times past, that's really gotten me down.  Tammy and Eva both used to say that they could tell I'd gone too long (for me, at least) without riding when I got annoyed with everything they said and did.  Of course, I annoyed pretty easily in those days anyway, and perhaps I still do.  But there was no denying that a lack of time in the saddle led to all sorts of moodiness.

In recent years, I've had two fairly lengthy spells without cycling.  One, of course, followed my surgery.  The other came during my first year of living as Justine.

The obvious answer is that I had so wanted to undergo my transition and surgery that I was willing to give up, at least for a time, cycling.  Actually, I didn't stop riding altogether during that first year: I simply did much less, mostly because of circumstance but somewhat out of choice.   I was, for the first time in a very long time, turning into a social creature and was mostly enjoying it.  As it happened, the people around whom I was spending a lot of time weren't cyclists.   And I made no effort to "convert" them.

For about four months after my surgery, I simply couldn't ride.  In the beginning, I couldn't have even lifted any of my bikes, or much of anything weighing more than a  couple of books in a bookbag or knapsack.  Before the surgery, I knew that my recovery would be spent off the bike.  So, I guess, I was menatally ready for it.  

You might also say that my work at the college is an extenuating circumstance.  Indeed it is.  But in some weird way, even though the end of the semester is almost here, it still seems even further away than getting on my bike again seemed the day after my surgery.

I'm not the only one to get the no-biking blues.  Back in my racing days, a fellow racer told me he felt became really depressed when an injury kept him off his bike for a few months.  At one point, the doctor told him that he would never ride again.  At that point, he said, he seriously thought about killing himself.

Recently I did a Google search and found that he's not only still alive; he's still racing in the senior category.  (He's about three or four years older than I am.)  And he's an independent businessman.

Dear Readers, do you get depressed when you can't ride for extended periods of time?