Rides On Both Sides Of Daylight Saving Time

We’ve just had a whole weekend…without rain! Saturday brought us skies overcast with silver, gray and white ripples, but none of the dark clouds that are harbingers of rain. I pedaled up to Greenwich, Connecticut. It was the last such ride I could start as late as I did—11 am—and return in daylight: At 2am Sunday, we set our clocks back by an hour.

The end of Daylight Saving Time meant that I’d have to start my Sunday ride—to Point Lookout—earlier.  I did, and when I arrived I was treated to a seascape of broken clouds and rippling sails that felt like an Alfred Sisley painting.  As I munched on my bagel sandwich, a lady named Ann, who probably is about a decade older than me, asked if she could sit by me.  

We chatted about one thing and another. Turns out, we have more than a few parallels in our pasts—including bike tours.  But she hasn’t been around the Point, where she and her husband live part-time, because “the bike I had here got wrecked by Sandy,” referring to the 2012 Superstorm. “And I never got around to replacing it.” I gave her a bit of a pep talk about getting another one. “Perhaps we’ll bump into each other again.”

That would be nice. I didn’t mind that she threw a wrench into my plans—the last 10 kilometers or so of my ride, from Forest Park, were in the dark. I had lights, but the reasons I didn’t mind included, not only Ann, but what I saw in Long Beach on my way back:

A Gap At The End Of The Day, The Beginning Of The Year

How did you begin your New Year?

How did I begin mine?  Not by asking annoying rhetorical questions.  Seriously, I stayed awake for the Times Square ball drop and the fireworks that followed. I didn't drink, sing or dance or do anything scandalous. (Trust me, my singing and dancing are scandalous!)  Still, I slept late, talked to friends and family on the phone and went for a late day ride.

On the Long Island City waterfront, a few meters from the iconic Pepsi-Cola sign, people walked alone, with each other and their dogs.  I stopped for one utterly adorable three-year-old spaniel-poodle mix who caught my glance.  That led to a conversation with their humans.  Actually, one of said humans was taking care of the pooch for her parents.  She and her partner looked like they were taking good care of each other. 

We watched the sunset over Manhattan.  What I captured in the photos isn't exactly "Manhattan-henge."  The light I saw caught my attention, however, because it struck me, and the two women I met, how unusual it is to see a gap in the Manhattan skyline--or, for that matter, in the Long Island City colony of towers behind us.  I recalled, for them, when LIC was an industrial area (part of it still is) and blue-collar workers lived with their families in the small row houses that are disappearing from the neighborhood.

Now, I know that nobody comes to New York to see a gap: If that's what you want, you go to the Grand Canyon.  I wonder whether we will be the last people to see the sun descend into an urban canyon, as it seems that developers are filling every vacant space they find. I know this city is "always changing," but I don't recall any other time like the one I'm witnessing.

Then again, according to Heraclitus, the only constant is change.  Perhaps it is the only certainty for the coming year, or any other.  

 

"You Rode All The Way Here?"

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. 

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.

Journey To The Sea In Another Country

Yesterday, after visiting the Acropolis and Acropolis Museum, I rode the bike I'd rented to the sea.

Technically, that's true.  But not in the way I anticipated.

Manos, the co-owner of Athens by Bike, gave me a paper and "app" version of a route to ride to the Saronic Gulf, a.k.a. the Gulf of Aegina, which is part of the Aegean Sea.  I am sure he has taken that ride in the recent past.  But, as a New Yorker, I know that road conditions can change on any given day, without notice.  So I don't blame him for my ride not turning out quite as I'd planned.

I did indeed get to the Saronic/Aegean, more or less the way I'd planned. But I didn't quite see the coast in the way I'd expected.

Following Manos' directions, I followed one of the few bike paths in Athens.  For most of its length, it parallels a line of the city's Metro system to Piraeus, the port that serves much of the area.  From what Manos showed and told me, the path goes underneath a highway before reaching the shoreline and, at the shoreline, there's a bike/pedestrian path that follows the highway and sea.

Once I got to that highway, though, it seemed that there was no way to cross--except through an underpass with a side lane barely wide enough for most people's feet.  I took it, and found myself at the Athens Marina.  While it's not meant for folks like me, there is an area where couples stroll and (I assume) poor Athenians and immigrants fish.  I rode out to it.  The views from it, I must say, were pleasant enough.

As I returned to the path along the tracks, another delightful young Athenian woman called out to me.  "Excuse me, do you know how to get to the sea?"

Turns out, her nearly-flawless English came from her study augmented by a trip to the United States.  I guess I shouldn't find that so unusual.  What struck me, though, was that she was, in essence, asking me for directions--only two days after arriving in this city, and country.

She was trying to do exactly what I'd wanted to do--get to, and ride along, the sea on her bike.  She said she'd found the lane blocked.  Hmm...Maybe I'm not such a rube, or so hopeless at navigation, after all!

So, having been stymied, we decided to ride back together.  In another odd coincidence, she lives in the same neighborhood where I'm staying.  En route--about 12 kilometers--we shared a bit about our lives.  While she is an esteemed professional here in Athens, she shares many of the same struggles as other people in her native city and country--and of her age and gender.  

Since I was a somewhat-chauvinistic guy in my previous life, I promised to help her.  At least, I'd promised to help her in one specific way she requested.  When I told her I planned to take a trip to Delphi, I promised to ask the oracle what she should do about a particular dilemma she faces.

How could I do otherwise?  This might not be the best cycling country or city--at least, not yet.  But my limited cycling experience here has brought me into contact with two very intelligent women with whom I enjoyed riding and conversing.  I am perfectly willing to return the favors, however imperfectly!

Oh, and her name is Virginia--as it happens, the name of my beloved maternal grandmother.

The Best Place In The World For Ducks

I didn't see any other cyclists.  But I wasn't the only one who went to Point Lookout today. 

I mean, who wouldn't have wanted to be outside on a day like today?  Skies were clear and the temperature reached 15C (60F).  

Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear, was also happy to be out for the ride, even if she got spattered with mud and wet sand.  Most of the snow from last week's storm was gone, but the sand and road salt weren't.  At least, with only one gear, she's easy to clean--though I think I might ride one of my bikes with fenders tomorrow.  Still, it was great to spin that gear again!

I was stretching my legs, and they were spreading their wings.  A woman with two small boys watched them.  "I've never seen so many ducks here," she marvelled.

"Nor have I."

Then the older kid--about four or five years old, with eyes as bright as the sky--chimed in.  "They're here because it's the best place in the world for ducks.  Isn't that right, Mommy?"

She said nothing.  He turned to me.

"Lady, don't you think they're here because it's the best place in the world for ducks?"

"Why else would they be here?"

"So this really is the best place in the world for ducks."

I nodded.  "Do you know what makes this the best place in the world for ducks?"

He shook his head.  His mother gazed at me.

"Here there are a lot of things they like to eat."

He gazed at me, fascinated.  She looked puzzled.

"Well...Don't you like to go where there are good things to eat?"

"Yes, ma'am.  What do they like to eat?"

"Clams, oysters, you know, the creatures with shells on them. The ducks love those.  And seaweed, too."

Now, for all I know, I may have given him nothing but misinformation.  But I figure he's no worse-informed than anyone is after one of our current President's press conferences.

What did I just say?  Hmm...It's probably a good thing I've never been a parent!

Seeing Them Again

Days like today induce cognitive dissonance.  The temperature would have been right a month or more ago: about 17C (64F).  Not that I was complaining:  of course I went for a ride.  

What I saw, though, reminded me that fall is tipping toward winter.   Not that I was complaining about that, either:  Some of the sights were quite lovely in sensual as well as more austere ways.

I pedaled to Connecticut, for the 20th time this year.  There, the signs that fall is leaving us were even more visible.  

This memorial to Greenwich residents who died in World War II, Korea and Vietnam seems even more like a memorial with the bare trees behind it than it does during the spring or summer, when everything is budding or in bloom, or during early or mid-fall.  I am willing to visit such monuments, not to celebrate victories, actual or perceived heroism or other exploits, but to remember what a tragedy it is that people die--and others' lives are ruined--over conflicts that are never resolved, no matter how many young people sacrifice themselves to the siren call that echoes Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. 

Anyway, my ride was most satisfying.  It might be the last Connecticut ride I take this season.  If it turns out to be so, I would be satisfied:  I felt good, and the bike--Arielle, my Mercian Audax--glided over the roads and paths.  

While I was sitting by the memorial, a woman walking by stopped to admire my bike.  Then she got a glimpse of me. Omigod, how are you doing?   She was a student of mine last year; now she is working, ironically, at Greenwich Hospital.   And, near the end of my ride, I got a glimpse of a young guy who, it turned out, is a current student of mine.  It took a moment for us to recognize each other because, I guess, we were "out of context".  I was not in the sort of clothes I wear to work, and he had shaved his goatee since I last saw him--yesterday.

Funny thing is, I chastised him last week about something.  I never had to do that to the my former student whom I saw today in Connecticut. But they were both happy to see me, I think.  Maybe it's because I was having such a good ride.

What Makes Her Think She Can't?

After eating a tasty, thoroughly unhealthy, Original Stromboli--one of those foods you live on when you're a twenty-year-old student precisely because it's so tasty and unhealthy, in addition to filling and cheap--I managed to ju-u-ust miss a train back to New York. 

It was nearly dark by that time, and riding back would have meant pedaling another 40 kilometers or so (I'd already done about 120).  I didn't mind the distance, but the last part of that route would have taken me through desolate industrial and post-industrial areas near Newark-Liberty Airport.  

I seriously wonder whether the lights on the streets in those areas are turned off after trucks make their last deliveries--or disappear into one of the potholes in those streets.  Seriously, those craters can make the Ho Chih Minh trail seem like a magic carpet.  I've cycled those streets in the dark.  If some of my Catholic school education had stuck, I might've been fingering a rosary strand (what we used to call "worry beads").

No, she's not me.  From San Diego Magazine

The time-table indicated that another train would arrive in bit more than half an hour.  I didn't want to wait that long, and I could've wandered around New Brunswick and discovered other old haunts that have been turned into sushi restaurants or ice cream parlors.  But I figured that doing so would cause me to miss another train.

So what to do?  Well, I knew that if I crossed the bridge over the Raritan and continued up Route 27--something I did many times in the old days--I probably could catch the next train a little further along the line.  

The next stop is Edison, a small station that the trains skip sometimes.  Besides, it wasn't very far:  I could make it in ten minutes without trying.  After that, there was Metuchen--"the Brainy Borough".  I knew I had plenty of time to get there and that, if I channeled the inner racer I never had, I could make it to Metro Park, the station after that.  Along the way, I'd burn off at least a little of the mozzerella cheese, cappicola, salami, peppers and onions stuffed into Italian bread dough (I told you it was unhealthy!)  I downed before missing the train in New Brunswick.

I played it safe, getting to Metuchen with about ten minutes to spare.  The train I boarded was nearly empty.  At the next station, a friendly black woman boarded and sat across from me.

She wanted to charge her smart phone.  I pointed to what looked like--turns out, what was--a port.  She admired my bike and asked where I'd been riding.

"You can actually ride a bike that far?" she wondered.

I assured her that it's not only possible, but that I've done even longer rides, and other people have done rides that were longer still.

"I couldn't make it around the block, let alone do what you did."

I explained that nobody rides that long on his or her first ride; you build yourself up to ever-increasing distances.  And, really, if you keep on riding, you don't even have to plan on building yourself up; it just happens as a matter of course.

She explained that she'd "have a hard time riding" because her legs were "shot" from years of playing racquetball.  I pointed out that if she has a bike with gears, she can shift to a lower gear and get as much exercise as she gets from racquetball or any other sport, without the stress on her knees.

"I don't know how you do it!" she marvelled.

I find it interesting that people who engage in all manner of athletic pursuits simply can't fathom the idea of riding a bike more than a few blocks.  Even long-distance runners I've talked to don't believe they can ride a bike as far, let alone further, than they run.

But the woman I met last night was even more astounding than any of them.  Not only was she a racquetball player, she is, from what she told me, an accomplished medical researcher.   I don't doubt it:  I mentioned that my sister-in-law is a microbiologist and she was familiar with, not only the kind of work she does, but the institute in which she conducts it.

I don't know about you, but I think that if I were involved in cutting-edge research and could play racquetball, I'd be pretty confident in my ability to do just about anything--including a bike ride!

We disembarked at Penn Station. ("Lead us not into Penn Station"?)  She was going to meet her boyfriend.  I wonder whether she told him about the crazy cyclist she met on the train, and whether he believed anyone would ride as much as I did. 

Portrait Of A Chance Encounter On My Way To Painters Hill

Yesterday I did a shorter ride (about 50 km) than I did the other day (Daytona Beach) or Saturday (St. Augustine).  But I planned it that way so I could linger along one of my favorite stretches of Route A1A, in the very aptly named Painters Hill:

Well, all right, the Painters part is apt.  The hill, not so much.  But it's a feast for the senses.  And, oh yeah, I went swimming.  You could tell I--and the other swimmers--aren't from around here.  Natives wondered how we could "stand" water that's "so cold".  I'd guess that the temperature was somewhere around 13 to 15 C (55 to 60F).  At Rockaway Beach or Coney Island, it's probably not much higher than 5C (40F) right now.

Perhaps the best part of the ride is that I might have made a new friend and riding partner for future trips down here (or perhaps even for later this week!)  I met her at a convenience store-gas station just west of the bridge from Palm Coast Parkway to Route A-1A.  The bichon frise in the front basket of her Diamond Back cruiser gave that ever-so-friendly look bichon frises give and, of course, I stroked his head.  If dogs are a reflection of their owners, that bichon frise perfectly mirrored her personality.  

Before I crossed the bridge into A1A, we rode trails that crossed ponds, cut through swamps and rimmed the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway.  She apologized--though she had no reason to--for her riding:  It was her first time out this year, she said.  I didn't feel that she was slowing me down, as she feared.  I must say, though, that I astounded her when I said that I rode the borrowed clunker to and from St. Augustine and Daytona Beach.  "Just thinking about it gets me tired," she exclaimed.

After about two hours, she had to go back to her house to meet a client.  I thanked her:  Even if I hadn't continued down to Painters Hill and Flagler Beach, I would have felt I'd had a good ride.  After all, encounters like that remind me of some of the reasons I ride.