Riding Again--And Discovering

 My energy is returning, if slowly.  I managed to ride over the weekend--including my first trek of more than 50 kilometers (just over 30 miles) since I returned from Paris.

About that ride:  I pedaled to Point Lookout on Sunday.  The wind blew at my face for most of the way out, and at my back on my way back.  I hope for that any time I do an aller-retour. But neither that, nor the length of the ride, were the only reasons why I was happy.

As I mounted La-Vande, my King of Mercia, the air was a bit warmer than normal for this time of year.  Still, I didn't peel off one of my layers:  I anticipated, correctly, a temperature drop--or, at least the feeling of one--as I approached the water.

  

As the sun played hide-and-seek, the wind, into which I'd been pedaling, blew straight off the ocean.  Even during such a mild winter, the water temperature falls to around 5C (40F) at this time of year.  That wind is a reminder that although the thermometer tells us "early April," it still is February.  It is probably the reason why the Rockaways boardwalk was nearly deserted.  I also encountered very little traffic along the South Shore streets and roads all the way to the Point.

That Sunday ride was sandwiched with two shorter rides.  I woke up late on Saturday, did a few things I didn't have the energy to do during the week and went for a late day ride to Fort Totten.  On the way home, I was treated to a celestial sketch of light, clouds and trees along the Malcolm X Promenade.  

And on Monday, a US holiday (Presidents' Day), I took another late day ride in which I found something that's been under my nose, so to speak.

The Sculpture Center is in Long Island City, less than two kilometers from my apartment.  I have pedaled up and down the streets in its vicinity, probably, hundreds of times.  But I bypassed the street--Purves--on which the Center is located because it dead-ends after only a block.  Also, until recently, there were no signs for the Center on nearby streets.

The young man at the front desk reassured me that I'm not the first person who's visited nearby PS 1--and any number of other museums in this city--but never knew about the Center.  The reasons, apart from its location, why it's not better known may be that it's open only when it runs the exhibit or two it happens to be running.  Those exhibits last a few weeks, then the Center closes for a few more before opening for the next exhibits. 

There is no admission charge to enter the Center.  Best of all, they let me bring Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bike, inside.

(By the way, on yesterday's date in 1965, Malcolm X was assassinated in New York City's Audubon Ballroom.)

Two Hours of Light Rides

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.