Another heat wave. Tomorrow will be even hotter.
I didn’t eat anything before setting out on an early ride to Randall’s Island. On my way back, I started to feel hungry about five kilometers from my apartment.
We’re the pangs in my stomach a result of the ride, not eating breakfast—-or seeing this?:
Every day except one (Monday) during the past week we’ve had daytime high temperatures in the mid-90s (around 35C). And our days have been, ahem, graced with our (in)famous East Coast humidity.
So I have been taking early morning rides, mainly to and near bodies of water, and getting back to my apartment or the Garden before the midday heat.
Today didn’t exactly go according to plan, but I’m not complaining. I started riding later than I intended, but an unexpected encounter added a couple of hours to my ride.
I had just done a “loop” around Randall’s Island and crossed the Connector (which runs under the viaduct for the Amtrak and Metro North trains) back into the Bronx. While pedaling along the Willow Avenue lane to 138th Street, I saw three people—a young man and woman and someone who looked about 15 or 20 years older—gathered around someone who sat leaning against a railing. As I approached, I also saw a bicycle—specifically a red and black BMC road bike.
As I got even closer, I saw blood streaked on his face. He lifted a towel to reveal its source: a gash on his head.
He’d struck something in the path, he said, and held out his arm as he fell. It hurt, he said, but he could still move it, so he didn’t think it was broken. We were more worried about his head.
The young woman—his sister —had already called an ambulance. The older woman, his mother, talked to him (in Spanish) and rubbed him. The other young man, his brother, had brought a bottle of water and the towel. Turns out, they live only a couple of blocks away and could come quickly when he called.
I couldn’t see what else, exactly, I could do. I offered my help nonetheless. Truth was, I didn’t want to leave the young man or his family until they got the help they needed: Having been in a couple of crashes myself, I was empathizing, if nothing else.
I made another call for an ambulance. Part of me thought simply that multiple calls would hasten its arrival; the cynic in me thought we might get a quicker response if the operator heard a Caucasian-sounding voice speaking English without a foreign accent.
I think the sister articulated one of the reasons why we waited so long—more than an hour. “Hay mucha gente mayor aqui”—there are many old people in the neighborhood. And the day’s heat was no doubt triggering or exacerbating their medical conditions.
Each of us made another call for an ambulance. Finally, in frustration, she called for an Uber. A driver arrived within five minutes. But, looking at the injured young man, he refused, saying he could be fined for taking him to a hospital.*
Finally, an ambulance showed up and took him and his sister to Metropolitan Hospital. A few minutes ago, his mother called to thank me and let me know that her son will be OK, although the prognosis was the opposite of what any of us expected: In spite of the blood that ran down his face, his head wound wasn’t as bad as anyone thought and he doesn’t have a concussion. He actually hurt his arm worse: There’s a fracture just above his elbow.
His mother told me that when he rides again “aseguare de que use su casco”: I will make sure that he wears his helmet.
*—None of us knew, until then, that such a law existed. But it makes sense: EMTs and firefighters are trained to move victims’ bodies. An untrained Uber driver (or anyone else) could cause further harm.
As I wrote this, at 3:33 p.m. (15:33), bright sunshine fills the skies and streets around the Botanical Garden, where the temperature has risen to 75F (24C).
It’s hard to believe that when I rode early this morning, I saw this:
and this:
and the temperature was 52F (11C).
Still, I enjoyed my ride on Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear, down the Hudson River Greenway into lower Manhattan. I wore shorts and a flannel hoodie over a stretchy black short-sleeved top: enough to keep me warm yet still feel the bracing mist.
You might say I had the best of both worlds. I would agree. Still, I’ll try to get in another, if shorter, ride after work. If I do, would that mean that I’ve ridden from the best of both worlds to the best of all worlds—or, at least all that are available at this time of year?
The other morning, I couldn't get back to sleep. So I went for an early before-work ride.
That's when I learned it's really Fall:
In other parts of my neighborhood, burgundy and orange leaves blaze against a crisply blue autumn sky. But in the hour before dawn, nothing could have been more dramatic than those yellow leaves.
Of course, those aren't the only colors I've seen on recent rides. Last week, I encountered this mural on 40th Avenue by the tracks, in a corner of Long Island City I don't often see:
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And there was this, just after the seemingly-endless rains we had last weekend:
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Wherever I ride in the Fall, I see colors, everywhere!
For my morning ride, I turned from Crescent Street to Broadway and crossed under the elevated train at 31st Street. I found myself in…Ukraine?
That’s what I wondered, at least for a moment. What would it be like to ride down a familiar route and encounter a military vehicle .
Of course, that truck had nothing to do with the Armed Forces. And its driver did nothing to menace me or anyone else. But I had to wonder about the motivation of whoever had that cement mixer truck painted in camouflage colors!
Ah, the joys of an early morning ride.
You can almost hear the overture from Sprach Zarathustra in the background
or, perhaps one of those early Infiniti TV ads.
Believe it or not, I chanced upon this scene along the Malcolm X Promenade—about half a kilometer from LaGuardia Airport,
From there, I pedaled out to Fort Totten and back—40 kilometers on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear. I’d say it’s a respectable “beat the heat” early morning ride.
After a perfect summer weekend, another heat wave has swept over this city.
Now, those of you who live in places like western Texas or southern Arizona might chuckle when folks like me complain about the heat in New York. I’ll concede that we don’t know (at least not yet) what it’s like when your nighttime temperatures are like ours in the afternoon. But our hot days come with humidity that turn our streets into saunas.
Anyway, knowing that we are heading for The Nineties (in Fahrenheit temperature and humidity), I went for a morning ride that took me back and forth between Queens and Brooklyn.
Street destruction (Why do they call it construction?) detoured me onto Hewes Street, one of the narrow, warrenlike thoroughfares in the part of this city that most closely resembles a pre-war stetl: the Hasidic part of Williamsburg, where it borders Bushwick.
One way you know a neighborhood is changing: You see “ghosts.” I can’t help but to imagine the lives that filled and voices that echo walls of bubbling, flaking bricks and shingles. But I also notice another kind of “ghost”: a long-concealed sign or banner from a business that served as past residents whom current residents will never know.
“Ghost” signs like the one I saw today on Hewes Street have led me down a rabbit hole or two. What kinds of “beauty preparations” did Nutrine make or sell? Who used them, and what image of “beauty” were they trying to achieve.
That image, I imagine, might have burned as brightly and hazily as a heat-wave afternoon in the imaginations of those in whom it was inculcated it—and those who inculcated it.
Another “beat the heat” ride. I must admit that I did something the nutritionists tell you not to do: I skipped breakfast. I rationalized it to myself because I wasn’t hungry and wanted to get on my bike early. I did, however, have a quick cup of coffee before taking off.
My ride took me into Brooklyn, through the quiet side streets of Greenpoint, some brownstone blocks of the Pratt Institute neighborhood and Park Slope—and a neighborhood just south of Prospect where the Victorian houses have wide porches and the streets have names that are even more English than anything the English could ever come up with.
From there, I rode down past Brooklyn College into a neighborhood with bigger, but more modern (1930s-1950s) houses that were once home to the children of Jewish and Italian immigrants who’d “made it” but are now occupied by Orthodox Jewish families who, no doubt, are prosperous even if their wealth has to be spread across large families.
From there, I pedaled to Sheepshead Bay and Coney Island where I saw the same blue heat I saw yesterday from Fort Totten Park.
Yesterday I recalled the long-ago science lesson about blue stars being hotter than red or yellow ones. Today I though about the oceans—including the Atlantic that churns under the Coney Island Pier getting hotter. Perhaps I will reveal my ignorance of science when I tell you, dear reader, that I wondered whether the ocean will turn bluer as it heats up.
Then more riding along the water—the Verrazano Narrows, under the eponymous bridge —and up to my apartment.
In spite of not having eaten, I didn’t “bonk.” I did, however, start to feel peckish after I crossed the Pulaski Bridge back into Queens. Even if my hunger was psychologically induced, I felt I’d “earned” the big lunch of asparagus, peppers, radishes and mushrooms in a vinaigrette dressing with baby Swiss (Emmental) cheese and corn (maize) tostadas.
We're in the grip of another heat wave. According to the weather forecasters, yesterday was the hottest day so far: 96F, or 35.6C. The humidity, though, is what makes it so oppressive: As soon as you step out, you feel as if you're wearing the air.
So, once again, I'm taking early rides on Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear. Yesterday I rode out to Red Hook, where an almost preternaturally blue (for that area, anyway) sea and sky provided a visual, if not visceral, relief.
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And they allowed me to fantasize about traveling to exotic, faraway places--even if I know, thanks to family members who worked the docks, how un-romantic it actually is to travel the world by working on ships.
Anyway, today's ride had an interesting twist: I crossed a pedestrian bridge over Hamilton Avenue, which is more like a highway than a city street. A construction crew was installing new guardrails. The foreman or supervisor, a fellow named Wallace who's a few years older than me, had to fill out some sort of report or form but didn't have a pen. I overheard him, stopped and said, "I'm pretty sure I have one." Which I did, and he was grateful. We talked for a while; he asked where I was coming from. "Astoria."
"Really? All the way from there?"
I nodded.
"You have a nice bike." He picked it up and accidentally kicked the pedal. "You rode a fixed gear all the way from Astoria?"
I said that, for me, it's not a really long ride and if he started riding, he probably could do it after a couple of months or so. He demurred. We got to talking about a lot of things--music, what life was like when we were teens, the state of the city and favorite foods. But he just couldn't get over the fact that I'd ridden from my place--about 17 kilometers--on my fixie, and that I would continue to the Red Hook waterfront and head home--about 40 kilometers, in all, before the worst of the day's heat and humidity.
Another heat wave has this city, and area, in its grip. That means, as in the previous stretch of serial "scorchers," I'm taking early morning rides. Also, I needed to get back in time for a lunchtime conference call.
Although my situation precluded a long ride, I was happy to be awake and on the road before the rush hour traffic. I rode early enough, in fact, that on my way back--which took me along the Malcolm X Promenade--I didn't see very much traffic entering or exiting LaGuardia Airport.
Also, I rode early enough to avoid an afternoon storm that was forecast, but never arrived. The seeming imminence of the storm was accented by two skeletal trees on the bay:
It's strange to see them in the middle of summer. I think they were just planted, along with other vegetation, to shore up a shoreline ravaged by Sandy and other storms. Or those trees might've been damaged during, and pruned after, one of those storms.
Those trees framed a grimly dreamlike skyline of tall buildings blotted by clouds behind masts of boats belying the seemingly-imminent storm.
That I can find, without even trying, a new view or other sensual experience on a ride I've done dozens, or even hundreds, of times is a reason why I take those rides time and time again. Some folks--friends--think it has to do with my innate "sensitivity." I say it's, if not the bike, then cycling.
Early yesterday morning I rode Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bike, along the waterfronts of Astoria, Long Island City, Greenpoint and Williamsburg. Another heat wave, like the one we had last week, was on its way. But that was just one reason why I took an early ride.
After showering and a cup of coffee, I pedaled my "beater" to Court Square, near the much-missed (by me, anyway) Five Pointz building. Riding there allowed me to take a more direct subway ride to Montrose Avenue in Brooklyn.
There, I met two old (OK, longtime) friends:
On previous trips to France, I've spent time with Jay and Isabelle who, I now realize, are my longest-standing friends. They came to town because their son has just begun to live and work in New Jersey, for an American branch of a company for whom he'd been working in France.
Meeting in Bushwick was Jay's idea. This wasn't his or Isabelle's first time in New York--Jay actually lived here for a time--but he was looking through the Guide Routard (a sort of French counterpart of the Lonely Planet guide) for something "different." So, as per the guide's suggestion, we started at the Montrose Street subway station, crossed Bushwick Avenue (the bane of Brooklyn cyclists) and wended our way through the back streets of a Bushwick industrial zone.
I have cycled through those streets, sometimes as a destination, other times en route to or from other places. While I've seen buildings torn down and built up, spaces opened and closed, people and organizations coming and going, I don't think there's any neighborhood or district that shows me how much this city changes over time. For one thing, some of the murals themselves change. Also, I remember when the graffiti on the buildings wasn't of the kind that people like Jay and Isabelle would take a subway ride, or people like me would take a bike ride, to see. About twenty years ago, people--mostly men--worked in the warehouses and workshops during the day. Anyone who stayed after business hours was too poor to live anyplace else. Young people didn't move to the neighborhood; they looked for ways out of it. And whenever I rode through it, I was the only adult cyclist for blocks, or even miles, around.
Of course, people change, too. After a morning of wandering through one of the most expansive displays of truly public art in this city, we went to Christina's (Was our choice influenced by the mural? ;-)) in Greenpoint. It's a sort of cross between a New York/New Jersey diner--complete with Frank Sinatra and '70's pop tunes playing in the background--and a working-class eatery one might find in Cracow. I think we were the only non-Polish people in the place. Over pierogis and blintzes, we talked about their son, Jules, and how he wants to "voyager a travers le monde"--see the world--just as we did when we were young. Actually, there are still places I want to see, and to re-visit. But the pandemic has postponed travel plans for the past two years. And, although I am fully vaccinated and take precautions, Jay reminded me of why I want to wait. He and Isabelle didn't plan on coming here until a week or so before they arrived, which meant that their flights were expensive. But, more to the point, he said that if, by some chance, he or Isabelle were to test positive and had to quarantine, or new restrictions were imposed--or a flight were abruptly cancelled--it could cost thousands of euros or dollars.
I told them that, if everything works out, I hope to return to France in January. Seeing them gave me hope for that. If nothing else, I felt as if I'd reconnected with what and whom I have known and loved, in all of changes and the ways they haven't changed.
After I send this post, I will take another early ride and get home in time for brunch.
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Yesterday: Another early-morning ride. Today: Yet another, after I publish this post!
About yesterday's ride: It turned into a pleasant ramble between Queens and Brooklyn, including a couple of what I've come to think of as New York Unicorns: working-class neighborhoods where people live in houses, some of which were passed on through a couple of generations--or that still have those generations living in them.
I am talking about the corners of Ridgewood, Queens and the parts of Greenpoint near the Kosciuszko Bridge that haven't been colonized by hipsters and trust-fund kids. One nice thing about them is that you don't encounter a lot of traffic on the streets. In fact, I saw fewer motor vehicles throughout my ride than I'd anticipated. There were a few spots where I had to navigate around traffic bottlenecks. In all of them, crews of workers from the city's Department of Transportation or Con Ed were tearing off layers of pavement and excavating the layers of rock that underlie them. I said "hi" to someone who appeared to be the foreman of one of those crews.
"Hot day for a bike ride?"
"Hot day for the work you guys do."
He demurred, "We're used to it. I tell the guys to drink lots of water and Gatorade."
For a moment, I wondered where they went when they had to pee. Then I realized that on a day like yesterday, they probably didn't have to go, just as I haven't had to take "potty stops" during my recent rides: Whatever I've drunk, whether on my longer rides or short morning jaunts, was sucked up by the sun and wind against my skin.
'Take care,' the foreman advised.
'Tell your guys to be careful." I pointed to the pit they were digging. "My exes are down there!"
He guffawed. "Have a great day."
"You too!"
Perhaps that somewhat-morbid joke was inspired by what I saw as I crossed the Kosciuszko Bridge. (I probably won't ever learn to speak Polish, but I can write that name without using spell-check!):
From morbid joke to morbid thought: The fate of all of us is, of course, can be seen in the foreground of that image. The journey, for some, includes what's in the background.
OK, now that I've given you my deeeep thought for today (to the extent that I'm capable of such a thing), it's time for me to ride. I want to get home before the temperature gets anywhere near the forecast high of 36C (96F).
Yesterday morning I kept with my riding plan for this heat wave, which is expected to continue at least until Sunday. Once again, I set out after quick breakfast--coffee and two English muffins pan-toasted with olive oil, fresh-ground black pepper and rosemary--early.
(I like butter as much as anyone does. But I feel that olive oil is more elegant. Maybe it has to do with my Italian heritage.)
My trip took me to Fort Totten and back, via the Malcolm X Promenade and some zigging and zagging through northeastern Queens residential streets. All told, I did about 40 km (25 miles) round-trip before 10 am. And, yes, I did get my fresh Greek yogurt from Kesso's: Their hours coincided with mine.
At Fort Totten, I could see how hot an humid the day would be--and, in spite of the clear skies at that moment, I could tell, from the haze on Long Island Sound, that the storm forecast for the afternoon would indeed drop lots of water very quickly and hard: the thunder almost seemed to be an echo of the rain pounding against the sidewalks.
I felt confident, though, that I would get to my place before the storm. Maybe it had something to do with riding Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear: I couldn't coast; I had no choice but to pedal. It felt really good.
Somehow I think she knew that house was officer's quarters when Fort Totten was still an active military base. (A small section, fenced off, is still used for Army Reserve exercises, and the Fire Department trains in another part.) My bikes have such good taste in their destinations!
What do you do when wake up and can’t get back to sleep? Take a bike ride, of course.
I hopped on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear, for a spin.
Into the sun
rising over the World’s Fair Marina
I know it’s not Antibes or Nice, but I thought it was pretty nice nonetheless. From there, I spun along the North Shore to Bayside and a couple of blocks into a Nassau County before descending through Flushing Meadow-Corona Park (and the (Unisphere) before heading back to my apartment.
Along the way, I was treated to the cutest pedestrian crossing I’ve seen in a long time. When I stopped for the red light at 83rd Street and 34th Avenue, the hands of a young Asian (Korean, I think) woman danced together as she bowed her head with a coquettish smile. A female driver stopped at the same light gave both of us a thumbs-up.
I really enjoyed my bagel and yogurt when I got home!
Apologies to George Harrison for the title of this post!
This morning I took an early ride. It was pleasant, if not challenging: a bit more than an hour in a loop that took me down to Sunnyside and Woodside, then up past LaGuardia Airport and Citifield, along the World’s Fair Marina promenade—on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bike.
As I pedaled the promenade, I was really glad that I took an early ride.
The haze in the distance was a harbinger of the heat that would blast us later.
I have to admit that I’m following the news about the heatwave in the western part of the US and wondering whether it will reach us. As hot (and humid) as it is here in New York, our weather is spring-like compared to theirs.
If that heat makes it here, I guess I’ll have to start my rides earlier.
