Yesterday I made a confession to my doctor.
Well, all right, he's not my primary care physician or gynecologist (yes, I have one of those), so my revelation wasn't as life-changing as you might expect. I was, you see, a little bit naughty.
I told the orthopedist about this:
The other day was one of those utterly glorious fall days that seems to exist in postcards and catalogues that peddle someone's idea of New England country life. (You know, flannel shirts, apple-picking and the like!) Even though I only had to wait one more day (actually, less) for my appointment, I went for a ride.
I pedaled only for an hour, along one of the easiest routes I could take: down the new Crescent Street bike lane to 36th Avenue and the bridge to Roosevelt Island, which I looped twice. I ended the hour with a ramble along a few side streets back to my apartment.
It was only an hour, but it was enough to lift my spirits. Maybe it had something to do with the softly smoldering late-day sunlight where the East River (misnamed, by the way) splits into Long Island Sound and the Harlem River (also misnamed) and separates Queens (where I live) and Manhattan from the North American mainland.
I did not feel separated from anything. Maybe that's why I felt comfortable in "confessing" it. The orthopedic doctor said it was fine; I am recovering well but I should "proceed slowly." Which I will, of course.
In fact, that's what I did today: another late-day, one-hour ride, this time along streets that wind along the shoreline between my neighborhood and LaGuardia Airport.
The Hell Gate Bridge is always a nice frame for the sunset at Astoria Park--especially with fallen leaves in the autumn light. But who knew a side street--26th, to be exact--in Astoria could seem like a gate of heaven?
Of course I want to go on the longer rides. But if one-hour rides can fill me with such light and color, I guess I can be a little bit patient.
