I live a block from the New York Botanical Garden and have visited several times during the eight months I’ve lived here.
About a mile (1.6 km) away is the Bronx Zoo. I went a couple of times as a kid but have no inclination to go there now: I don’t think I can bear (no pun intended) to see animals in cages.
I do, however, wonder how they might escape.
I have had many labels attached to me. Perhaps this is one:
After all, I have lived with more bikes than humans!
Some day—perhaps soon—I’ll believe that I’ve moved to the most wonderful neighborhood in the universe. As much as I love my new apartment (even if it is smaller than my old one), its views and its light, and as friendly as my neighbors have been, there are still things I miss about Astoria.
Those things include, of course, my friends—with whom I’ll try to stay in touch. Also, it had, if not the best, then some of the best, of New York: It’s about as close as you can get to Manhattan without being there, but it doesn’t have the self-conscious hipsterism of Williamsburg, Greenpoint or Bushwick.
Oh, and there was the food. I’m finding good eats here, but I still haven’t come across a bakery, let alone one that makes bread or cookies like Parisi’s or bagels like Lots o’ Bagels.
And of course, there are the rides. I could continue to do them, but I would have to ride (or take a train) to get to them. I’m just starting to discover some good routes here, but I’m still in the “It’s not the Fort Totten ride!” stage.
Finally, there are the characters. I’m sure I’ll find them here, but I still think of the ones I just left. They include the guy who hung out by the train station and the stores. He approached me and, probably, every other woman in the neighborhood, with this proposal: “Will you marry me? I’ve got food stamps!”
I have to admit, there are worse—or at least more bizarre—pickup lines.
Soon I will return to regular posting. I have been so busy—and tired—that it seems like a miracle that I actually managed to do two rides—about 25 miles each—that had nothing to do with commuting or errands.
Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!
Somehow, leprechauns look like they belong on bicycles. Maybe it’s because they always look happy, and bike riding makes people happy.
That said, should we admonish them to wear helmets?
No matter how strong your legs,
No matter how quick your reflexes,
No matter how wide your peripheral vision,
No matter how proficient a cyclist you are,
In, ahem, midlife you realize that you will never again do some of the rides you did when you were young!
When I was a child, I had a fever.
All right, I won’t sing the best-known Pink Floyd song. For that matter, I won’t sing: I don’t want to risk arrest for disturbing the peace!
So…when I was a child, there was a very popular toy. It was also popular in my parents’ time. So, playing with it might have been the last time I could enjoy such a thing without thinking, “I’ve become my mother/father*”
Mr. Potato Head, I’ve recently learned, was the first toy advertised on television. It’s still in production today and, perhaps not surprisingly, featured in Toy Story.
As I remember, there were all kinds of accessories available—including a little bicycle for him to ride. I don’t recall him, however, looking so stylish
unless, perhaps, there was a fin-de-siécle edition of Monsieur Pomme de Terre for the Burgundy countryside.
*—Early in my gender affirmation process, my mother had just heard a “great new singer:” Lady Gaga.
“She is great,” I affirmed. “She’s one of my new favorites.”
A pause.
“Omigod! I’ve become my mother.” We laughed.
Some of the most comic failures of my life have involved my efforts to be a vegetarian. Now, I don’t believe that no meal is complete without beef, chicken, fish or some other animal flesh. But my intentions of going to an entirely plant-based diet always seem to be derailed by some unforeseen event—like the andouille that found its way into the cornbread stuffing for the turkey I was, uh, cooking for other people.
Or a barbecue that presented itself along my ride. Because you know that I never, ever would intentionally ride to a feast of wings, drumsticks, sausages and patties singed on a hot grill.
And when I am riding to such a massive repast—unintentionally, of course—I am never tasting, in my mind, those succulent accompaniments to succotash. (Gotta eat a balanced diet, ya know?)
Sometimes I am visualizing those tasty morsels so vividly that I am, in my mind, grilling them as I ride.
The first time I heard of “electric bikes,” I pictured something like this:
For the 50th anniversary of hip-hop, the world needs….another Epic Rap Battle.
Just imagine how much more interesting the Presidential primaries would be if Nikki Haley and Ron De Santis rattled off rhymes…oh, never mind. I mean, even if either of them were capable of rapping (or if De Santis were even capable of being anything other than a psycho-sexual-spiritual black hole), I’m not sure I’d want to hear it.
But these guys might’ve been fun, whatever one might’ve lacked In versification virtuosity and the other might lose in translation.
Somehow I don’t think Kool Herc envisioned anything like it.
I don't drive. So, if Marlee has ever been in a car, it was with her rescuer.
And I've tried taking her on rides with me. If yo have a cat, you know how well that worked out.
Therefore, I have no idea of how she'd react to a pothole. But she might know a thing or two about how we, as humans, might respond:
(By the way, those photos are not of Marlee. She's been in other posts!)
In yesterday’s post, I recalled a bike I rode around the time the Notorius B.I.G. and Tupac Shakur we’re making their presence known.
I couldn’t help but to think about something else that was popular around that time. A sinuous profile of a woman interposed on an image of Sigmund Freud’s head appeared on posters and T-shirts with the inscription, “What’s on a man’s mind?” Sometimes the question mark was omitted, turning the query into a declaration.
So, in that vein, the flow of my thoughts turned to this question: What’s on a cyclist’s mind?
When I worked in bike shops, customers brought in bikes with problems I couldn't have imagined.
Note: "Mudguards" are, to the British, what we Americans call "fenders."
You've heard the expression, "like two peas in a pod."
Well, I dug into a bag of cherries. (Summer isn't right without them!) I pulled out two, attached to the same stem. And I wondered, "Is this possible?"
This blog is called "Midlife Cycling."
The reason for that is that as long as I don't know when I'm going to die, I'm in the middle of my life.
That, of course, isn't necessarily the same thing as being in middle age.
Once upon a time, I was a wannabe, unsuccessful, and then a manqué, racer. I wore jerseys—and sometimes shorts and helmets—that were veritable riots of color.
These days, most of the Lycra bike outfits I see are in carbon-bike hues: stealth black, carbon-neutral gray and the like.
Oh, I miss the good ol’ days!
