Their Side Of The Tracks

Most days, my commute takes me along an industrial stretch of East 141st Street that dead-ends at Park Avenue.

It is not, however, the Park Avenue that comes to most people's minds:  the one lined by canopied buildings to which well-dressed residents are escorted from taxis or limousines by white-gloved concierges.  Rather, it is the Park Avenue bound by the Metro North commuter railroad tracks after it crosses the Harlem River from Manhattan into the Bronx.

As I pedaled down 141st Street, I saw, those bicycles parked by the railroad tracks.

That, in itself, was unusual, as the few bikes one sees in the area are locked to light poles or sign posts.  But, in a move so cinematic it couldn't have been scripted, I turned to my right and saw this:

Those young men are living in that tent, by the tracks, and use the bikes to get around--just three blocks from the college.  At the end of a street where construction materials and chicken tenders are made.  Next to the tracks where trains, at that very moment, were ferrying commuters from Greenwich and Rye and Mount Kisco to Grand Central Station, where they would board subways and hail taxis to the places where they work and get paid.

Most likely, none of the passengers saw the bikes, the tent--or the men who ride those bikes in search of food and bottles, cans and other castoffs to sell.

Little Ricky Wasn't Afraid Of Me

No matter how well you know your route, you never really know whom or  what you'll encounter along the way.

During yesterday's commute, I encountered this:

"Ricky" (It sounds more gender-neutral than "Rocky") crossed my path, literally, under the Hell Gate trestle. If you've taken an Amtrak train between New York and Boston, you've ridden on that trestle.  The path leads to the Randall's Island Connector, which I take to the Bronx.

Since that path bisects fields and the connector crosses over the Bronx Kill, which connects the Harlem River with the East River, near the point where it meets Long Island Sound, it's not unusual to see animals, including the Randall's Island Salamander.  

What surprised me, though, is that when I stopped, little Ricky approached me.  Usually, when I see a raccoon, they dart away.  Perhaps nobody had taught Ricky to be afraid of humans--or to defend territory against them.

It took me too long to get my phone out of my bag, so I only captured an image of Ricky in retreat.  He/she was sooo cute (OK, how many baby animals aren't?) but I knew enough not to pick him/her up.  As the Parks Department reminds us, they're never too small to have rabies.

But, really, how can you associate someone so little and cute with something so terrible?  If I ever see little Ricky again, though, he won't be so little--and probably will've learned to be afraid.

She Lost Her Parking Space

When people ask you why you ride to work or school, you might say that it saves you money, gives you exercise or simply brings you to your office, shop or classroom in a better mood than you would have been if you'd had to fight traffic or the crowds in the train or bus station.

But, do you remember what got you pedaling to work in the first place?  Was there some specific event that caused you to dust off that bike you hadn't ridden in years and use it as your commuter?

Here in New York, some long-time bicycle commuters got their start during transit workers' strikes.  Here, and in other places, there are people who rode to class or work when they were poor students or low-wage employees and never stopped even after their economic circumstances changed.  Still others simply were trying to regain health and stamina they'd lost--or to gain such qualities after not having them in the first place.

For Amy Graff in San Francisco, the impetus was losing her parking spot at her job.  So, a month ago, she pumped up the tires on her 22-year-old Specialized Stumpjumper and started navigating the city's narrow streets and steep climbs.  She recounts her experiences in a SFGate article, "What I Learned After Riding My Bike For Three Weeks."

Some of the things she learned aren't surprising:  San Francisco is hilly, but biking is often the fastest way to get around the city. That second point could also be made about riding in New York, along with "getting doored is a real thing," "drivers are clueless about cyclists" and "people wear suits, even skirts, while biking."  

But my favorite "lesson" is this:  "the streets are cleaner than the sidewalks."  That's also something I could say about New York:  Even though we have a "pooper scooper" law; I've dodged (and stepped in) more doggie doo, vomit and other vileness left by blameless animals and clueless (or manner-less) drinkers. Let me tell you, those things are really difficult to clean out of your tire treads, which you certainly want to do if you want to bring a bike into a New York or San Francisco apartment!

Heading For The Kill

Most days, my commute takes me over the Randall's Island Connector, a car-free bridge that runs underneath the Amtrak trestle--and over the Bronx Kill.

Even though crime is at an all-time low in New York City, the Bronx Kill isn't the only "kill" in the Big Apple--or the Empire State. Before the English came in, the Dutch colonized this area, along with nearby parts of New Jersey and Pennsylvania, in the early 17th Century.  "Kill" comes from the Middle Dutch "kille", which means "riverbed" or "water channel".

So New York had lots of kills even before the Mafia started dumping their bodies in them.

Well, the organization J.Edgar Hoover didn't believe in probably wouldn't have left corpses in something so shallow as the Bronx Kill--even when it's full.  Sometimes the waters cover all those pebbly areas on the shore, and beyond.  One morning, the Kill actually flowed just a couple of feet (or so it seemed) below the bridge.

The Bronx Kill's flow has nothing to do with rain.  Rather, it's affected by the ocean currents, as are the other Kills in New York City.  The Bronx Kill connects the East and Harlem Rivers, both of which are misnamed because they are  tidal estuaries.   Like the Bronx Kill, they have no current of their own:  The direction of their flow is dictated by the tides.

Even with the water so low, I am glad the Connector exists.  My younger self might have ignored the junk revealed by the receding tide and hopped across while hoisting my bike. Or I might have gone looking for the Randall's Island Salamander.

Were They Entering Or Exiting The Gate Of Hell?

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you know that my daily commute takes me over the RFK Memorial Bridge, which gives me a perfect view of the Gate of Hell.

All right, it's Hell Gate, and the Hell Gate Bridge.  But it's fun to tell students that I pass the Gate of Hell on my way to class!

Anyway, this morning I saw the trail of a boat zigging and zagging to--or from?--the bridge:

I can't help but to wonder:  Was a boat skittering away from, or rumbling toward, the Gate of Hell...I mean Hell Gate?

A Room With A View, Without A Roof

You never know what you'll see on your way to work.

All sorts of things are dumped by the stairs to the RFK Memorial Bridge walkway.  I've even seen a stripped bicycle frame on that spot.  But I don't recall having seen anything in such usable condition, or as meticulously placed, as the bedroom furniture in the photos.

Was it left by a litterbug with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD)?  (Does such a person exist?)  Or did the person who abandoned those pieces display them to make them more enticing to someone who might want to take them away?

After I got to work, I had a darker thought about those items:  Perhaps a homeless person is setting up residence there.  I hope that's not the case! 

What Kind Of Clouds?

Is it fog?  Or is it smoke?

When it swirls around the arches of a bridge, I think most people would say it's fog.

But when it's at the Gate of Hell--or Hell Gate--it seems more like smoke.

But what about when it drifts over the city

or clouds the view of the prison?

Whatever you call it, I have pedaled through fog and smoke on my way to work.

Commuter's Eclipse

This morning, during my commute, the sun shimmered behind a gray scrim of clouds.  It was a white, almost silvery sphere that shimmered like the moon.

Then, as it drifted across the sky and, in the opposite direction, a curtain of grey clouds crept across its face, it seemed more like the moon.

This "eclipse", like a "real" one, ended not long after it began.  But it left the sky grayer and the sun dimmer, at times almost invisible.

Still, it made for a very easy last leg of my commute:  A slight, cool breeze tickled my back and the sun wasn't beating down on me.

A View During My Commute

One morning last week, fog hung low across the skyline.

To my eyes, it made the scaffolding on the building in the distance stand out all the more.  I wonder whether there is a purpose in that color scheme.  Or did the contractors just use whatever happened to be available to them?

I almost want the building to look like that when it's finished.  Somehow, it would fit in the industrial area surrounding it. 

How Much Are Those Lilacs On The Wall?

One way I know it's really spring is when I'm riding--whether to work or for fun--and my peripheral vision increases.

It seems that as the days grow longer and the air milder, I am less focused on my immediate space than I am when I'm exhaling steam and there's snow and ice around me.  Could it be that I simply have to notice more (ice patches and such) immediately in front of, and around, me during the winter?  Or does my scope increase when I remove hoods, balaclavas and such and have only my helmet on my head?

Maybe I've discovered a corollary to the material world:  Perhaps the human field of vision expands when warmed and contracts when chilled.

Hmm...Could I have made some discovery that, for once and for all, links the physical sciences with what we know about human consciousness?

All right...Before I get all grandiose on you (too late?), I'll show you a couple of things I saw while riding to work this week.  There's nothing profound here:  just a couple of moments I captured on my cell phone.


Make what you will of this, but the things that make me happiest about Spring are cherry blossoms and lilacs.  Both came late this year, which is probably why they seemed all the more vivid to me.  I paid ten bucks for a bouquet of lilacs that's on my table.  Perhaps I could have taken them from here:

With the money I saved, maybe I wouldn't have to ask, "How much is that doggie in the window?" 

 Instead, I'd leave it to Patti Page:

Queensboro Plaza Dawn

Having an early morning class means, as often as not, being sleep-deprived, both for me and my students.

There are rewards, though:  Students in such classes tend to be a bit more dedicated than those in mid-afternoon classes.  Also, riding to work early can be a very pleasant experience, especially when you're out before the rush-hour traffic and people are walking their dogs--or themselves--rather than rushing to the train or bus.

And then there are the air, light and the relative overall calm of the dawn (or, during the winter, pre-dawn).  Gertrude Stein once said that every great artist she encountered was up before dawn or slept until noon.  I can well understand the former when I see the play of the light of the rising sun on the colors and shapes of a landscape, wherever it may be.

Perhaps "Queensboro Plaza Dawn" doesn't have quite the ring of "Chelsea Morning".  But it offers a vista that, although grittier, is as vivid as the moment Joni Mitchell portrays in her song.  And both are equally transcendent and ephemeral.

The Day Begins; It Is Dawn--For Whom?

This semester, I've been teaching early morning classes.  When the term began, I was pedaling in bright, often shadowless, pre-dawn light.  But as the season deepened into fall, I was seeing sunset and, after Daylight Savings Time ended, I was getting to work just as the sun was rising.  

All of that has meant seeing what people don't.  You've seen some examples in some of my earlier posts.  Some of the sights were just lovely; others had their own grittier kinds of poetry.  This morning I saw an example of both:

Speaking of gritty poetry:  As I took this photo--with my cell phone, on Randall's Island near the Bronx spur of the RFK/Triboro Bridge--some verses streamed through my mind:

La aurora de Nueva York gime
por las inmensas escaleras 
buscando entre las aristas
nardos de anguista dibujada.

It's the second stanza of Federico Garcia Lorca's "La Aurora" ("The Dawn") and can be translated something like this:

The dawn in New York grieves
along immense stairways
seeking among the groins
spikenards of fine-drawn anguish.

Perhaps recalling those verses was a harbinger of what I would see as I descended the ramps on the Bronx side of the spur:

I've seen him before.  Actually, I've never seen him:  I've only seen the blanket and recognize the way he swaddles himself in it.  Once, I got a glimpse of his face poking out of his bundle.  I don't think he knows:  He was still sleeping, as he was today.


Usually, he's in the corner, curled up as if he were in the womb, his first--and, perhaps, only--home.  I had never seen him unfurled until this morning.  And, even though he was less than a meter from his usual spot, it was startling to see him there.  I can't blame him for moving there:  It rained heavily a couple of hours after midnight, and spot is probably the driest place he could find outside of a building that wouldn't allow him in.  

At least it wasn't difficult to see him.  So, I was able to stop, dismount, lift my bike and tiptoe around him.  I did not want to wake him, let alone rend one of the few shreds of dignity he has left.

Unfortunately, he's far from the only homeless person I see during my commutes.  He's just the one I've seen most often, I think.

A Day Begins With A Setting Cloud

Yesterday's post ended with a pot of gold over the rainbow.  Well, sort of.

Today's post begins--as my day did--with a cloud moving across the cityscape. 

From its path between these buldings, it "sets":

Then it recedes, eventually disappearing behind one of the buildings: