Obedience And Therapy

Yesterday I was such a good, healthy citizen, it was almost disgusting.

On Tuesday, my orthopedic doctor told me I'd healed enough to do anything my conditioning and endurance will allow.  And, in spite of what Governor Greg Abbott and other legislators are doing, anyone who knows more about epidemology, immunology, virology, microbiology or public health than I know is telling us to continue the practice of social distancing.

I managed to follow my doctor's, and other health professionals' orders, yesterday.  Late in the morning, I hopped on Negrosa, my vintage Mercian Olympic, and pedaled to Point Lookout.

Throughout my ride, I couldn't have violated social-distancing regulations if I tried, or wanted to.  I saw only three other cyclists and maybe half a dozen people walking along the seven kilometer stretch of the Rockaway Boardwalk.   I saw little traffic, and very few people crossing at traffic lights, as I spun through the streets of Queens, Atlantic Beach, Long Beach and Point Lookout. 

Even Point Lookout seemed as if it had never been visited by humans:  The tides had receded further than at any other time I can recall, leaving more sand, with barely any footprints, than I'd ever seen there.  The gulls and erns seemed curious at my presence.

As for the clouds that shrouded the sky throughout my ride, I was glad for those, too.  The day was cold and a strong wind blew out of the northwest:  I pedaled with it on my way out and into it on my way back. Perhaps the sun would have brought some cheer, but I'm not sure that's what I needed:  The subdued light, with no threat of rain, and the sea gave me a canvas, a slate, a stage on which to purge sadness of the past year and my hopes for what is to come. 

Call me selfish, but I was enjoying it all:  I felt as if I'd had those streets, the boardwalk, the beaches and even the ocean and sky all to myself.  So, not only did I follow the guidelines of Anthony Fauci, the CDC, the New York City Department of Health and any other real authority about the pandemic; I also did something for my mental health.  So did Marlee, who immediately curled up on me when I got home.

Sea And Sun--And More Sun

Yesterday I took another ride out to Point Lookout and back:  120 kilometers out and back.

The ride takes me along through the Rockaways and along the South Shore of Nassau County.  The day was hot and sunny so, even though it was a Tuesday, the beaches were full of sunbathers, swimmers and people just hanging out.  Others were hanging out on the boardwalk, where, interestingly, I saw more families (or, at least adults with kids) cycling together than I can recall from previous rides.  I guess it's not a surprise when not only kids, but their parents (or other adults in their lives) are home.

One way this ride differed, though, was the way I felt at the end of it.  My legs felt pretty good, and the pain in my neck and shoulders is dissipating.  When I got home, however, I felt tired in a different way from the fatigue at the end of my last Point Lookout ride.

I felt woozy and very, very warm.  Within seconds, it seemed, of sitting down, I fell asleep.  About two hours later, I woke, with Marlee in my lap.

Today I realized that not only the heat, but the sun, had worn on me.  Normally, at this time of year, I would be well-acclimated to both.  But my layoff, in the wake of my crash, kept me indoors most of the time.  And, of pedaling next to the ocean for much of my ride only magnified the sun's rays on my skin.  

Just about every year includes a ride like the one I took yesterday.  Usually, it's in mid- or late May, or possibly June.  This spring, however, was (or at least seemed) cooler and cloudier than usual.  I think I missed the first true summer weather when I was in the hospital, or during my time recuperating at home.

Oh, well.  At least I don't have COVID-19.  Not yet, anyway!

First Time To The Point

It's hard for me to believe now that on Saturday, I took my first ride to Point Lookout since December, or possibly earlier.

Also, it was my first ride to the Point with Bill--and his first ride, ever, there.  The tide was out, revealing a sandbar where, in warmer months, kids skip and dogs skitter.  We saw a couple of teenagers wade into the water, which reached just above their ankles, to the sandbar.  In my younger days, I might've done the same, or even joined them.  But the ocean water is still only about 8 degrees C (45F), and I know it will warm up fairly quickly during the next few weeks.  I can wait.

Instead, the pleasures of such a ride are the sun, wind and vistas--like the one we saw on the Marine Parkway-Gil Hodges Memorial Bridge:

The sky, as beautiful as it was, didn't look quite spring-like. But we were looking at it about two hours later than we would have in, say, January.

A Hurricane And A Guilty Pleasure

As Hurricane Irma churned up from Cuba to Florida, we enjoyed a weekend of perfect weather:  high temperatures between 20 and 24 C, and lots of sunshine.  But, as high cirrocumulus clouds drifted across blue skies, the tides spilled the distant storm's fury onto our shores.

Since I'm not a surfer, I heeded the warnings against going into the water.  So, of course, I cycled.  Specifically, I took Arielle, my Mercian Audax, for a "doubleheader":  a ride to Connecticut on Saturday and Point Lookout on Sunday.  

On my way up to the Nutmeg State, I pedaled into a stiff headwind most of the way.  That meant, of course, that it blew me back to New York.  En route to Point Lookout, I pedaled into what seemed to be the same wind to the Rockaways and it whipped at my side as I rode along the South Shore.  Then, of course, I had to pedal into the wind on my way home.

I'm not complaining about that headwind on my way home.  It's hard to imagine a more pleasant weekend of riding locally.  Is it still a guilty pleasure if you're grateful for it?

Playing Chicken With The Sunset

In earlier posts, I've written about "playing chicken with the rain".   On days when precipitation the clouds look ready to drop buckets, I might for a ride, all the while daring the sky to deal me a deluge.  I feel I've "won" the "game", if you will, when I arrive home (or wherever I'm going) just as the first drops plop against my skin.

Today there was absolutely no risk of rain.  It was one of those perfect fall days, with the kind of sunlight that feels as if it's trickling through leaves even though the sky is blue.  And the wind and the waves echo a softly crackling flame.  At least, they seem as if they should.

The waves...Yes, I took an afternoon ride to the Rockaways.  Although the water is still warm enough (at least for someone like me) to swim, the air was cool enough that nobody tried.  In fact, the only people in the water were a few surfers.

But I was playing chicken.   You see, I started in the middle of the afternoon and lingered on the boardwalk (actually, it's concrete now) at Rockaway Park.  A month or two ago, I could have lingered--or ridden--even longer than I did.  Well, actually, I could have done that today, too.  But I was also thinking about the time of day--or, more precisely, the time at which the day would end.

After lingering, I rode some more along the boardwalk and, after crossing the Veterans Memorial Bridge into Beach Channel and Howard Beach, took a circuitous route through streets of wood-frame houses--some with boats in their driveways--away from the ocean and bay and up the gradual climb to Forest Park, right in the middle of Queens.  From Forest, I rode streets I've ridden dozens, if not hundreds of times before as the sun began its descent just beyond the railroad tracks and the East River.

Yes, I got back to my apartment just as the twilight began to deepen into evening and the street lamps were lighting.  I had lights with me--  I always keep them in my under-seat bag--but I didn't have to use them.

In other words, I played chicken with the sunset.  And "won"!

The World Is About To End, Again, And I Decided To Enjoy The Ride!

The world is about to end, again.

So what did I do?  I went for a bike ride, of course.

All right...I wasn't as cavalier as I might've sounded.  For one thing, the situation isn't quite as dire as the end of the world, or even the end of the world as we know it.

But tomorrow the beaches will be closed.  Think about that:  Beaches closed on the day before Labor Day, a.k.a., the penultimate day of summer--at least unofficially.

Hurricane/Tropical Storm Hermine has plowed across northern Florida and Georgia and is in the Atlantic, where she is surging her way toward New Jersey, New York and New England.  Even if we don't get the wind and rain she's dumped to our south, forecasters say that the strongest riptides in years will roil in local waters.  So, as a precaution, Mayor de Blasio has declared that our beaches--Coney Island, the Rockaways and South Beach of Staten Island among them--will be closed tomorrow.

I decided to ride toward those littoral landscapes.  First, I took my familiar jaunt to the Rockaways and, from there, to Point Lookout.  

The view to the east was ominous--at least, in the sky.  Those clouds looked as if they could have solved all of my hydration problems for a while.  But, as the day was relatively cool (high temperature around 25C or 77F) and the sun wasn't beating down on my skin, I didn't sweat much.

People seemed to think the beaches were already closed (well, the Mayor's pronouncement wouldn't affect Point Lookout).  Not many of them were on the sand or in the surf--or even on the boardwalk--in the Rockaways.  With those skies, it looked more like a mid- or even late-fall day than the End of Summer.

And Point Lookout was deserted!  Even the streets were all but empty:  the few cars I saw were parked.  A long, wide sidebar surfaced in the water, belying the predicted storm surge.  Normally, people would walk themselves and, perhaps, their dogs, on it.  But today the seagulls and egrets had it all to themselves.

Vera, my green Mercian mixte, seemed to be enjoying it.  Or, perhaps, she was anticipating the ride back:  We had pushed into the wind most of the way from my apartment to the Point.  So, of course, it would give us a nice push going back.

Except that I decided not to pedal directly home.  The ride felt so good that as I approached Beach 92nd Street in the Rockaways--where I would normally turn off the boardwalk (where we rode today) or Rockaway Beach Boulevard for the bridge to Broad Channel--I decided to continue along the boardwalk to its end in Belle Harbor, and from there along the Boulevard to Riis Park and Fort Tilden.

Then I rolled across the Gil Hodges/Marine Parkway Bridge to Brooklyn, along the path that rims the South Shore to Sheepshead Bay, Brighton Beach and Coney Island.  

Along the way, fissures split the cloud cover.  By the time I got to Coney Island, the sun had reclaimed much of the sky.  And, when I got there, I saw crowds of the size one would expect on a summer day.  I wonder whether they had been there all day or if they started to stream in for their "last chance" as the sky cleared.

Sunlight glinted off the water as I rode the promenade from Coney Island to the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, where I once again saw the kinds, and numbers, of people one normally finds there on a summer Saturday:  cyclists, skaters, skateboarders, fishermen, young couples, older couples and Orthodox Jewish families enjoying their shabat.

Speaking of enjoyment:  Everyone has his or her own definition of that word.  Apparently, some Nassau County officials have their own interesting interpretation:

For the record, that women's bathroom in Point Lookout Park was filthy.  And the doors of the stalls didn't shut.  Nor did the front door of the bathroom.  I thought about calling Supervisor Santino, but didn't.  I was enjoying everything else about my ride and didn't want to interrupt it--especially since, if we incur Hermine's wrath, I won't be able to take another like it for a while!

I Thought I'd Caught Her Flip-Flopping

Today was an absolutely glorious day, weather-wise, and I didn't have to worry about spectacles of animal exploitation clogging area roadways.  In fact, given that it was Sunday, there was scarcely a cloud in the sky and little humidity, and the temperature reached 24C (75F), I was surprised to see as little traffic as I did anywhere I rode.

Even the beach areas were pretty quiet.  I rode down to the Rockaways, flipped a quarter and continued to Point Lookout. Some people were walking about on the beach and the boardwalks in the Rockaways and Atlantic Beach.  But they didn't seem to linger, surprisingly enough. The water is still a bit cooler than some people like for swimming.  That might be a reason why there weren't as many people as I expected.  Also, there didn't seem to be many events as there were last weekend or the weekend before, which included Memorial Day.

Of course I didn't mind.  I just rode and took a couple of self-indulgent shots of Tosca, my fixed-gear Mercian:

Actually, I took the photos because in the light of that beach, and the angle from which I was looking when I sat down, I could see the "flip-flop" quality of the finish:  It actually looked purple and green at the same time.  I don't think it came through in these photos.  Oh well.

I had a great ride with Tosca.  That's what matters.

Same Ride, Different Day--By Choice

Have you ever done the same ride two days in a row?

Back in my racing days, I sometimes did.  Ditto for the early part of my post-racing life, when I was still pretty young and training for…what, I didn’t know.  But, most of the time, I managed to find a different route every day for the hour or two or three I’d ride before or after work.

It’s rare, though, that I’ll follow the same itinerary two days in a row when I’m riding simply for pleasure.  Today was one of those unusual occasions:  I rode to Point Lookout again.

The sun shone as brightly as it did yesterday.  However, the wind blew harder and the temperature barely made it to 15C (60F) in my neighborhood, in contrast to yesterday’s 27C (80F).  That meant that though the temperature dropped considerably as I rode over the Cross Bay Bridge to the Rockaways, the contrast wasn’t as extreme as it was yesterday.

In addition to being stiffer, the wind blew almost directly from the south-south-east.  Yesterday, it came more directly from the southeast.  So, while I had headwinds, then sidewinds followed by more headwinds on yesterday’s ride, I pedaled into headwinds all the way from my apartment to Point Lookout.  On the other hand, I had a nearly perfect tailwind all the way home.  

One other difference: I rode Arielle, my Mercian Audax, for the first time this year.  I don’t know whether it was because I was so happy to ride her again, but the ride felt even smoother than I recall from earlier seasons.  Best of all, my ride out was faster than I thought it would be and I felt as if I were flying home.

Plus, if I do say so myself, she’s never been prettier.  Arielle always gets compliments; they seemed more common today.  Interestingly, of all of my bikes, it seems that Arielle and Vera (my green Miss Mercian mixte) get the most compliments for their looks.

Another reason why I was happy to be riding Arielle is that the gears sure came in handy when I was pedaling into that wind.  On my way home, I never shifted to anything larger than my third-smallest rear cog (on a nine-speed cassette) and I stayed in my large chainring throughout the ride.

So…I did 100K rides on consecutive days.  I guess that’s not bad considering how little riding I during the past winter, which seemed to end only when I went to Florida the week before last.

The Lives The Wind Gave Us

In previous posts, I've mentioned the Navajo creation song that begins, "It was the wind that gave them life."

It was running through my mind, again, as I pedaled into 30-35KPH gusts to the Rockaways and let the same winds blow me home.  And that chant grew even stronger, for me, when I saw the people who'd ventured outside on a chilly, windy but almost hauntingly clear day.

It didn't matter whether those people were families who lived there or were visiting--or whether they were the gnarled old men who seemed to have been deposited there by the tides and abandoned by the currents of time.  They all looked as if the wind had somehow shaped them, had somehow given them life:  the fact that they were alive and the lives they were living, whether in one of the clapboard houses or amongst the remnants of the boardwalk.   

 

The wind brushed the long fine strands and curls of childrens' hair around their faces, which made them seem even younger and dewier than they were.  That same wind turned those children's expressions and words from moments to memories for the parents and grandparents of those children.  And the wind stuttered the echo of old men shuffling through sand, across boards and concrete and asphalt broken by the very tides that returned to that very same wind.

And the wind defined my trip, my journey.  That is the life it gave me, gave them.

A Tale Of Two Beaches--And Rides

Compare and contrast Rockaway and Flagler Beaches.

Comparison #1:  I rode to both of them within the past few days.  Rockaway is a bit further from my apartment than Flagler is from my parents’ house.  But while neither are particularly long rides, I feel a sense of satisfaction, if not accomplishment, from either.

Contrast #1:  This one is obvious:  Flagler is in Florida, Rockaway is in New York—the borough and county of Queens, to be exact.  Flagler, on the other hand, shares its name with that of the county.

Comparison #2:  You have to cross a bridge to get into either one.  The SR 100 Bridge arches over the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway, while the Veterans Memorial Bridge spans Jamaica Bay.  After crossing either bridge, you find yourself on an isthmus that separates the body of water spanned by the bridge from the Atlantic Ocean.

Contrast#2:  Almost everyone who crosses the bridge to the Rockaways lives in Queens or one of the other boroughs of New York City.  You are as likely to encounter someone from just about any state in the US—or Quebec or Ontario—as a Floridian on the bridge as well as Route A1A, the road on the other side of the bridge.

Comparison #3:  You’re likely to encounter cyclists while crossing either bridge or riding along the roads that parallel the beaches.  Said cyclists could be riding anything from an old beach cruiser rescued from someone’s basement to the latest and most exclusive road and mountain bikes.

Contrast #3:  People riding high-quality bikes to or in Rockaway Beach are almost invariably residents of Queens—though not of Rockaway Beach or any other part of the Rockaway Peninsula—or Brooklyn or Manhattan.  If someone’s riding a really good bike to or in Flagler Beach, he or she is most likely from someplace else,  or lives in the area part-time.  Also, a high-end bike in Flagler is usually a Specialized, Cannondale or Trek and has a carbon-fiber or aluminum frame, while one in Rockaway could be one of those or could just as easily be a classic steel road or mountain bike.

Comparison #4:  You’re likely to pedal into or with the wind while riding to or from either place.  If you’re  lucky, you ride into the wind while going and with it while coming back.

Contrast #4:  The temperature might drop a degree or two when you cross the bridge into Flagler Beach.  The temperature could drop a bit more while crossing into the Rockaways, especially early in Spring, when the water temperature in Jamaica Bay and the Atlantic is around 5 to 8 degrees Celsius (40 to 45 F).   On the other hand, the temperature of the Atlantic where it meets Flagler Beach is around 15 C (60 F) at this time of year.

Why is there so much more rust on the right side of this handlebar than on the left?

Comparison #5:  Both beaches have their wizened, grizzled characters who live on the streets or beach, or who “couch surf”.  

Contrast #5:  Surprisingly, Rockaway has more such characters.  I say “surprisingly” because they are usually more common in larger beach communities where the weather is warm, or at least mild, all year round.  What that means, of course, is that more of those characters are living such a lifestyle by choice in Flagler (or Daytona Beach) .  In the Rockaways, there are now more of those characters than there were three years ago.  Many of them are living as they are as a result of Superstorm Sandy, where much of the devastation still hasn’t been repaired.  Seeing such people in the Rockaways makes me think of the film Atlantic City, in which the "busted valises", as Ring Lardner used to call them, were abandoned by another kind of tide that ravaged, then turned away from, them.

One final contrast:  Whenever I‘ve ridden to Flagler, it’s been on someone else’s bike.  I’ve never ridden to or through Rockaway Beach on any bike that’s not my own.  That includes today, when I took Tosca, my fixed-gear Mercian, out for the first time since the snowstorms buried and iced us in January.  She’s looking—and feeling—better than ever, if I do say so myself.