After the rain stopped, and I'd downed a lunch special from Fatima Chinese Restaurant (a Halal Kung Po Chicken with Hot and Sour Soup), I hopped on Tosca.
My late-afternoon ride took me through some areas that are very familiar to me: the industrial areas that line Newtown Creek from the Queens side of the Koszciusko Bridge. Even on weekdays, there really isn't as much traffic as one might expect--and, because much of it is truck traffic, it's sporadic.
Railroad tracks rim the creek on the Queens side. Next to the tracks are warehouses and small factories that line Review Avenue. I've been trying to find out how that street got its name: It doesn't look to me like very many things ever got reviewed there.
Across the Avenue from those factories and warehouses is a cemetery. Actually, you can't see the cemetery from the street, as it's on higher ground. So, what you see is a stone wall.
What's interesting about the stone wall is the graffiti: It's from a more innocuous time, at least in terms of graffiti:
Also, it's much simpler, in composition and color (Do I sound like a pretentious art critic, or what?), than what we see today.
The style and the content of the graffiti tells you that it's older. Plus, I've seen the graffiti on that wall for the past 25 or so years. In fact, I even recall seeing some of it, including the piece in the next photo, during my early adolescence, when my family passed through the area on our way to visit relatives.
It makes me wonder where Joe is now. He's well into middle age, or possibly even an old man, if he's still alive. I suspect I could say the same things about Al. As for Marty and Janet: Did they stay together? Get married? Or did one of them go away to college, or war , and never see each other again?
I also wonder whether any of the people (men, mostly) who work in the area have ever noticed the graffiti on the wall. If they haven't, I guess the job fell to a cyclist. It makes sense: Cyclists, in my experience, tend to be curious people. I wonder why that's so.
Today I parked my bike in a place where I never before parked it.
The funny thing is that it was a place where I used to go almost daily for about two years. That was about a dozen years ago, at least, and I hadn't been back since. I had no bad feelings about the place; I simply hadn't been in its vicinity.
The reason I never parked there is that I never needed to. I worked just across the street from it and parked in a storage area of the building. So I never knew whether or not the place would allow my bike to accompany me.
And I found out that the proprietor would let me park there the same way R.J. Cutler, the director of The September Issue got to talk to Anna Wintour: he asked.
Actually, the proprietor is nowhere near as ferocious as the famous (or infamous, depending on your point of view) Vogue editor. But he is an intense man who seems not to have aged at all since I last visited the place. For that matter, the place hasn't changed since then--or, it seems, since the 1970's or thereabouts:
I mean, when was the last time you saw stools with Naugahyde in that shade of mustard-beige, and lampshades to match?
The menu seems not to have changed, either. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if it hasn't changed since the 1950's, if the place has been around that long. And most of its patrons--including yours truly--wouldn't want it to. It consists of the sorts of sandwiches and dishes diners in New Jersey and New England (away from the Route 128 corridor, anyway) would have served during that time: things like spaghetti with fish cakes, meat loaf, roast beef sandwiches and some Greek and Italian specialties.
Back in the day, I would buy a cup of coffee and a corn muffin on my way in to work. Sometimes I would go there for a sandwich. It was all really good. But today they had sold out of muffins and donuts and looked ready to close: apparently, on Sundays they stay open long enough only to serve people going to, or coming from, church and the ones finishing up the weekend shift and the nearby bus yard.
So, I had a baklava and cup of coffee. These days, I don't normally drink coffee, but this was one good time to make an exception. It was as good as I remember from back in the day. And the baklava was not soggy, as it is in too many places: The buttery texture of the flaky pastry really tied together the tastes and texures of the nuts and honey it contained, and the slight taste of cinnamon was the perfect "foil" for the rest of it.
The funny thing is that the proprietor was looking at me as if he were trying to remember where he saw me before. Finally, I said, "I used to work in this neighborhood, and I used to come here."
"When?"
"A long time ago. About twenty years ago." I stretched the facts a bit, but the truth is that it seemed even further in the past than that. It was, almost literally, another lifetime.
The proprietor's wife, who had been putting away dishes of butter and jars of jelly, overheard us.
As I left, she said, "Come back, will ya?"
I promised her that I would, next time I'm down that way.
After work today I flew to San Francisco and have been taking in the Bay Area hills and wind from my bike. And, yes, I rode by Stanford:
All right. So I wasn't in the Bay Area. I was really in Hollywood. Well, kinda sorta. I was actually in a neighborhood called Holliswood, which isn't far from where I work. But I had never been in it before. At the intersection of Palo Alto and Palo Alto, a car pulled up to me. A woman whom I would have guessed to be a few years older than me leaned out of her window and asked whether I knew where the Holliswood Hospital is.
"Sorry, I don't. Have a good day."
Well, I took a right at that intersection, and two blocks later, there was the hospital! I felt bad for that woman: For all I knew, she drove miles in the opposite direction.
Anyway, as it was an utterly gorgeous, if somewhat windy, afternoon, I just rode wherever Arielle took me. Much of the time, I didn't know where I was. I didn't mind, really: Along the way, I stopped at a drive-in convenience store for a drink and snack. Two men worked there: I got the impression they were the proprietor and his son, and they had lived in the town--Lynbrook--all of their lives. And they seemed especially eager to help me--even more so than the other customers, for some reason.
Then I took my Diet Coke with lime and Edy's dixie cup to a schoolyard/playground a block away. I went there because I saw benches in the shade: I'd been in the sun for a couple of hours and wanted to get out of it for a few minutes, even though the weather wasn't hot at all. There, another black woman a few years older than me started a conversation with me upon seeing Arielle. She started riding again "a few years ago," after having both of her hips replaced and back surgery. She says that even though her rides aren't as long as those of some of the cyclists she sees, it's "what I enjoy most in my life, apart from my grandchildren." I'll think about her the next time I'm whining (even if only to myself) about feeling subpar.
When I got on my bike again, I finally knew where I was when I had to stop at a grade crossing for a passing Long Island Rail Road (Yes, they still spell "Rail Road" as two words.) commuter train.
I had stopped at that same crossing, which was on Franklin Road, the last time I cycled there. That was eight years ago, at this time of year. Then, as now, I didn't get there intentionally, but I didn't mind being there.
I took that ride eight years ago at about this time in September, if I recall correctly. I probably do, because I also recall it as being around the time I started teaching at La Guardia Community College, which begins its Fall semester around this time of the month. And it was also about three weeks after I moved out of the apartment Tammy and I shared, and into a neighborhood where I knew no one.
Even though it was less than an hours' ride from where Tammy and I had been living (in Park Slope, Brooklyn), the block to which I moved--which is only seven blocks from where I now live--seemed even more foreign to me than Paris did when I first saw it. So, for that matter, did most of the rest of Queens, not to mention the Nassau County towns through which I pedaled then and today.
I think that day at the railroad crossing, I knew--or, perhaps, simply accepted the fact--that I was entering a new and very uncertain stage of my life. I knew what I wanted and needed to do: In fact, a year earlier I had the experience that taught me I really had no choice but to do it. And I also realized something I didn't quite understand at the time: that I wasn't going to be riding "as" Nick for much longer, and that also meant that I probably wouldn't be riding with the racers and wannabes.
Why didn't I know what all of that meant? Well, I did know one thing: that the difference between cycling as Nick and cycling as Justine would not be just a matter of wearing different clothes, having longer hair and possibly riding a different bike. But how else, I wondered, would they differ? I even asked myself whether I would continue cycling. After all, I didn't know any other cyclists who were transitioning, and I didn't know (or didn't know that I knew) any who were post-op. Would I even be able to continue?
Well, of course, I found some of the answers through my own research (This is one time I was thankful for the Internet.) and from women cyclists I know. And, since my operation, Velouria and others have given me some very helpful advice.
One thing hasn't changed: I often end up by the ocean even when it isn't my intent.
I was happy to go to there, though: Only a few people strolled the boardwalks, and even fewer were on the beaches. I didn't see anyone swimming.
And then there were the couples that remained after the summer romances ended:
Actually, I know nothing about them. I took the photo because I liked her skirt.
And, once again, I ended up in Coney Island, where I rode down the pier to take a couple of photos.
The young man who was just hanging out was the only other person there. He asked me what I was doing tonight. Now that's something I wouldn't have anticipated at that crossing eight years ago!
Tomorrow I'm going to do something I haven't done in seven years: I'm going to take an overnight bike trip.
Actually, I'm going to be gone for three days. Millie is going to take care of Max and Charlie. She's happy to do that, and she's happy to see them: She rescued them from the streets.
This will be not just the first "long weekend" bike ride in seven years: It will my first ride of more than a day since my surgery and since I started living as Justine. And it's going to take me to the Delaware Water Gap.
I'm actually kind of nervous about this. I haven't really done a lot of riding. All right, so I've done three 100 kilometer rides, on flat lands. My first and third days' ride will be much longer than that. It will also include some hills, which I haven't done.
At least I'm not going to carry a lot with me: Changes of underwear and socks, another pair of shorts and T-shirt (besides the ones I'll ride), a bathing suit, a light sundress (which will work as a cover-up) and a light sweater that I'm going to take from one of my twinsets. The night will be cooler where I'm going, and I could wear the sweater over the sundress if I really need to be somewhat presentable. And, of course, I'm going to take enough hormones, my dilator and camera.
At least each of those items is small. I'm going to try to fit it all into my Carradice Barley bag. When I went for my surgery, everyone marvelled that I had everything I needed for eleven nights in a carryall.
Some things I'm taking aren't so different from what I took on Nick's rides. But the bathing suit and sundress are things Nick never would have brought. As Nick, I also didn't have twinsets. And a dilator! Hormones!: As my old self might've said: "What's with that shit?"
If I recall correctly, that's what Eva said the last time I rode my bike to the Delaware Water Gap. We'd gotten into an argument--about what, specifically, I forget, but I think the mere fact that we were together got us into arguments--and I pulled my bike off the wall, rolled it through the apartment and slammed the door on my way out.
I had absolutely no idea of where I was going or when I would be back. Of course, that was part of the plan: Had I told her "I'll be back in an hour," or even "I'll be back in a while," it would have given her a more or less definite amount of time to cool off or to toss my belongings out of the apartment. Part of me never wanted to see her again, but I also wanted her to worry.
And she did. I knew that when I called her. I changed few dollars for a bunch of quarters in a diner somewhere and found a pay phone. (For all of you young people reading this: In those days, the only cell phones were on Miami Vice. And they were about the size of today's laptops!) I dialed; she picked up on the first ring.
"Where the fuck are you?"
"Pennsylvania."
"Penn Station?"
"No, Pennsylvania."
"Where?"
"The Delaware Water Gap--you know, next to the river, across from New Jersey."
"Shit! What the fuck are you doin' there?"
"Well, I got on my bike and this is where I ended up."
That's when she said, I think, "What kinda shit is that?"
It was late, but the air was pleasantly cool and the sky was so clear and the full moon was so bright that I could see my reflection in the trees. All right, I took considerable license with that, but you know what kind of full moon I'm talking about: the kind you never see in a large city.
I crossed back over onto the New Jersey side of the Delaware River and kept riding until I saw a motel. I paid something like thirty dollars, and I think I was the only person who stayed there that night. Having no clothes to change into, I figured it was pointless to take a shower. Besides, I was tired, so I simply flopped into the bed. It might have been the worst mattress ever made, but no queen (I'm talking about monarchs, not the kind that live in Chelsea.) ever had such a plush bed. At least, it seeemed that way. I guess it's an example of some corollary to the principle that anything tastes good when you're really hungry.
Now, of course, I don't expect this ride to be anything like that one. If anything, I'll probably be even more tired than I was that night because, for one thing, I haven't done as much riding within the past year as I did in a few weeks before that ride. Also, I'm about a quarter-century older. And, of course, there's one other change.
So why did I pick the Gap for this trip? Well, I have other memories of that place: I did a ride there with a club of which I was a member when I was at Rutgers. That was a shorter ride than this one will be, and I probably rode faster on that ride than I will on this one. Also, I did a hike there when I was a scout. (Yes, a Boy Scout.) So, I have pleasant memories of the place, and even though this distance is longer than anything I've done in a while, I don't think it's impossible even if it's a bit intimidating.
I had thought about going along the Jersey coast from Sandy Hook down to about Island Beach State Park, or the East End of Long Island or even taking an Amtrak to Boston and going out to Cape Cod. But I figure that any beach area is going to be trafficky--and expensive.
So it's off to the Delaware Water Gap for me. I'll try and post during my trip.
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