Purple Reign?

Today I took Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bike, for a spin.

By some strange coincidence, she took me by this garden:

And I was wearing a purple top.  Is she more of a fashionista than I realized? Or am I more of a fashionista than I was willing to admit?

Lilacs On Lilac

Today I won't do a "Sunday funny."  Instead, I'll share something that is lovely, or at least charming.  

This house stands on King Steet in New Rochelle, near the Mercy College (formerly College of New Rochelle) campus.  I pass it almost every time I ride home from Connecticut, as I did on Wednesday.

Lilacs on a lilac house.  It's a visual respite from the gloom of pandemics and lockdown.

Rose, Thou Art Sick

Here's something romantic to tell your spouse, boyfriend, girlfriend, life partner, significant other or whatever you call him/her/them:

Of course, you would say it only if that person is also a cyclist.  If he/she/they are/is not a cyclist, you might witness aviation history in whatever space you share!

One Valentine's Day many, many years ago, I was riding my bike by the Rutgers campus.  I was flat broke, as I often was (and would often be on many occasions later).  What would I give, or do with, my girlfriend?  I could have made something, I suppose, but I wouldn't have felt right, knowing that I slapped it together in even less time than I wrote at least one of my papers.  And, at that point, my cooking skills consisted mainly of boiling and frying.

While pondering all of the things I couldn't give, or do for, her, I pedaled by the botany lab.  A blur of red, deep red, streamed into the corner of my eye.  Rose, thou art sick.  I'd read William Blake's poem at least a few times, but why was I thinking of it then--with a riot of deep crimson in my line of vision.

The dumpster outside the botany lab overflowed with those flowers.  Roses, redder than any in the Queen's garden--or any upper Madison Avenue florist. Rose, thou art sick.  They probably are not well if they're in that dumpster, I realized.  But they were so, so red, like the bloom of one who grows more beautiful while drawing closer to death. (I'd recently read a Japanese story like that.)  

Giving no thought to what might be keeping those petals redder than Mississippi in any election during my lifetime, I yanked my handlebar and made a beeline for that corrugated steel cornucopia of floral bounty.  I propped my bike and scooped as many roses--their stems still attached!--as I could handle.  I found a piece of twine lying nearby and used it to tie whatever I couldn't carry to my handlebars, top tube and seat tube.

On my way back to my apartment, I stopped by an art studio and appropriated some ribbon, and large vase from a conference room.  Then I pedaled to the language houses, where my girlfriend stayed.

One of her housemates answered the door.  Slackjawed, she darted up the stairs and summoned, it seemed, all the other girls in that house--and my girlfriend.  They watched as I handed her more roses than any of them had seen in their lives.  Oh, and those roses were redder--even if they were sicker.

About the only thing that's the same in my life is that I still ride my bikes.  I have a few more than I had then, not to mention the memory of that day, when I might have made someone happier (and a few of her friends more envious) than I've made anyone since.

I still wonder what kept those roses so red--for almost two weeks after I found them!  Rose, thou art sick.  A few years ago, I looked her up, worried that those roses may have made her give birth to sick children.  As far as I can tell, she remained childless.  Because of the roses?  

They don't seem to have affected me.  I still ride, after all.  

The Votes Are Here

Today I cycled into Manhattan for an appointment for an otolaryngologist.  It wasn't far--about 7 or 8 kilometers--and I rode even with the threat of snow squalls because I knew I could pedal there faster than the trains or buses (or a cab--or Uber, even!) could take me.

The office was located  Rutherford Place, just across from Mount Sinai Hospital.  The neighborhood, nestled between Irving Place and the East Village, is a real oddity in today's Manhattan:  Most of the Victorian, Greek Revival and Beaux Arts tenements and townhouses are still standing and the environs aren't really gentrifying because, well, they never fell into decrepitude.  

Some of those buildings, like others throughout the city, have names that are rarely, if ever, used, today.  Some of the names make sense, like those of people who are famous or simply have a connection to the building or neighborhood.  But there are some names are just confounding:

The US Senate? On Second Avenue between 14th and 15th Streets?

I thought of the tourists and newly-arrived expats from one place and another who walked by.  Did any of them wonder whether they'd gotten off at the wrong city?   

As I was about to write this, I looked for some information about the building.  Turns out, that building was built along with another named for W.M. Evarts, a well-respected Senator who lived in the neighborhood.  Before he became a Senator, he served as Rutherford B. Hayes' Secretary of State and Andrew Johnson's Attorney General.  That meant he had the privilege of representing Johnson during his impeachment trial in 1868.  That must have been interesting, to say the least!

So I guess the name makes sense.  Even if I didn't learn about the history of the building, I suppose the name could have been justified in one other way:  Early in the nation's history, New York City was its capital, if only for a year.

Given the demographics of the neighborhood and city,  residents of the building are more likely than members of the legislative body to vote for impeaching the current president. 

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! 

Fall Contrasts

I'll admit that I've spent time looking at dying leaves, I mean, fall foliage.  This year it seems late in coming--or, at least, a little less colorful than usual.  I'm seeing fallen leaves in bike paths, on sidewalks and in other spots, but the leaves still on trees are green.

More noticeable signs of fall came, for me, on my ride to Point Lookout yesterday.

The reeds on the islands, and the plant life on the shore, never fail to reflect the season's colors.

Even more reliable, to my eyes,is the light surrounding them--especially on overcast days.  Clouds gather and seem to take on the depth of the sea; the sea and sky darken without actually becoming dark.  Yet the reeds and grasses stand, even as they age and turn sere.

Each of them stands alone.

I took a brief ride the day before, between bouts of torrential rain.  Ironically, I saw more color on one corner in Harlem than on my longer ride.

Looking at this building, you might guess that it's a studio or gallery. The latter assumption would be correct:  All of the work on the walls is done by local artists.  But this building serves another function.  Can you guess what it is?

Believe it or not, it's a pediatrics office.  Pediatrics 2000, to be exact.  Two doctors, as well as nurses and other professionals who help children, practice there.

Kids actually enjoy going there.  Their parents seem to like it, too.  The art is one reason.  Another is this:

There are no stairs anywhere in the building.  Only ramps connect the levels.  So, no kid (or adult) is stigmatized for being in a wheelchair.

The best thing is that everyone seems to think as highly of the doctors and other professionals in that building as they think of that building itself.

The kids get culture while doctors take their cultures. It sounds good to me!

Gooooal?

The World Cup football tournament starts in a couple of weeks.

Perhaps even the US, which didn't qualify, is getting ready:

Will the "ball" go through the" posts"?  If it does, and Andres Cantor isn't there to announce it, does it count as a goal?

Interesting, what you can see on a bike ride in the Bronx!

How I Wandered Into Common Sense

If you're a regular reader of this blog, you have seen a few photos of me riding, and a few more with one or more of my bikes.

Now, if you are a truly committed and dedicated reader of this blog (translation:  if you are reading this blog when you should be riding), you might have wondered what I look like when I write these posts.

Well, today I am going to reveal all:

All right, so I don't have an outfit like that.  And if I did, why would I wear it while writing--or riding?

That is actually a figure of Thomas Paine writing "Common Sense".  At least, that's how someone remembers or imagines him writing it.

So, apart from the fact that he wrote one of the most important documents in American--and possibly human--history, why am I showing an image of him?

Well, this afternoon I snuck out for a ride.   I got done what I needed to get done and scarcely a cloud was besmudging the sky.  So, out I went, with no particular destination in mind--although I kinda sorta started on one of my routes to Connecticut.

But I took a couple of turns I wouldn't normally take and found myself pedaling up and down hills in unfamiliar parts of somewhat familiar towns.  After riding up a hill to avoid traffic headed for the Thruway, I came upon this:

Yes, Thomas Paine lived here.  No, he didn't ride that bike.

Thomas Paine lived in this house from 1802 to 1806.  It was originally one of several buildings on a 300-acre farm the State of New York gave him for his service to the state, and the cause of independence.  The State had seized the farm from Frederick DeVeaux to punish him for treason:  He worked as a spy for the Crown during the Revolution.

The house contains a number of artifacts as well as some charts and dioramas describing, among other things, the roles Jews and the descendants of the Huguenot settlers of New Rochelle played in the Revolution.  (The city was founded by Huguenots from La Rochelle, France, who were escaping the wars of religion.)  

One interesting fact I learned is that the Hessians weren't actually mercenaries, at least in the way we define that term today.  They were conscripted into their national armies, and the Landgrave (Prince) could basically use them as he saw fit.  In essence, Landgrave Frederick II of Hesse-Cassel rented those troops to King George III--whose grandfather, George II, just happened to be Frederick's father-in-law.  And Frederick pocketed the money.

Today the house sits in a part of New Rochelle with sprawling houses and lawns.  In addition to the old house, another remnant of the farm remains

one that suggests, if obliquely, one of Thomas Paine's occupations before he became a pamphleteer:

Yes, he was a sailor.  No doubt he guided boats in or out of another stop on my trip this afternoon:

Mamaroneck is just a couple of towns up from New Rochelle on the western end of Long Island Sound.  Not surprisingly, its harbor is a favorite spot for walkers and idlers, as well as a destination for cyclists.  And a wedding party or two has been known to be held there.

I can't help but to wonder whether Thomas Paine was looking out toward that expanse of water when he envisioned a new nation free from the rule of a king on the other side of the ocean.

I Wooon't Park There!

I confess...I haven't done a lot of riding since my latest trek to Connecticut.  That was almost a month ago!

Since then, I commuted until the end of the semester and, last week, took a ride to the Rockaways with Bill.  But for much of the week before that--including Christmas Day--I was languishing with a virus frolicking inside me.

I am feeling better now.  I started to notice improvement after that ride with Bill, last Thursday--before a snowstorm.

Today I took another, shorter ride before--you guessed it!--another snowstorm that's coming our way tonight.  The coming snow squall, like the one we just had, shouldn't leave us with a lot of white stuff.  But the weatherfolk are promising lots of wind and colder temperatures.

So I felt I just needed to get out today.  I wasn't going to stop for anything--especially after seeing this:

Noooo parking.  No, I woooon't park.  And I won't ride sloooow.  At least, I'll try not to!

Signs Of Other Times

The other day, I managed to sneak out for a mid-afternoon ride between classes and conferences with students.  It wasn't a long ride, and it didn't take me far from the college where I teach.  But it did, as rides often do, reveal some interesting and unexpected sights.

In both the "interesting" and "unexpected" categories was this:

One almost never sees a sign like that anymore in the New York Metro area.  For that matter, one rarely sees the kind of store that's attached to it, at least in this area.  

It's at the intersection of East Tremont and Park Avenues in the Bronx.  Yes, the Park Avenue you've all heard of--the one of Zsa Zsa Gabor--extends into the Bronx, hard by the Metro North (formerly New York Central) railroad tracks!

You wouldn't expect to find a store like this on Zsa Zsa's Park. But in this part of the Bronx reside folks not unlike some of my relatives, including two blue-collar uncles of mine who lived in Brooklyn and  went up to the Catskills and sometimes even the Adirondacks to hunt around this time every year.  Their ethnic origins may be different, but their lives and desires are, I believe, similar:  They need to live in an urban area and to get out of it every now and again.  

That is why, even though I've never had any desire to hunt, and have fished only a couple of times, I understand those who love those sports.  Of course, there are very practical reasons to allow hunting:  Deer and other animals that are pursued by hunters no longer have natural predators, so hunters help to keep their population in check. If they didn't, even more animals would starve and freeze to death during the winter.  Also, although I'm not too keen on guns (and support restrictions on access to them) I am not afraid of hunters and other sportsmen, such as competitive shooters, who use them. 

Anyway, the proprietor of the store caught a glimpse of me photographing his signs.  I think he knew that I don't hunt or fish and, barring the collapse of civilization, probably never will.  Still, he was polite and was pleased when I complimented his signs.  "You just don't see these anymore," I said.  He nodded.

The sales clerk gave me their business card.  I told them I'll be back:  I did see a jacket I really like.  And they have hiking boots as well as equipment for all sorts of other sports--but not cycling!

Who's Going To Make What Great Again?

Today I took two short rides: before and after having lunch with my mother and a friend of hers, of whom I am fond.

My rides took me through alongside creeks, swamps and woods, as well as through small-town streets lined with shabby houses and suburban subdivisions full of houses that are imitations or parodies, depending on your point of view, of structures built by Spanish, French and English settlers to this area.

Once again, the weather was delightful.  At one point, I even saw two frolicking fawns just yards away from me, and white herons that ambled even closer.  People seemed relaxed, even if they were doing home repairs or yardwork.  The kids were happy, of course:  They had the day off from school.

The reason is that today is the holiday to commemorate Martin Luther King Jr., who would have turned 88 yesterday.  He didn't live to see his 40th birthday, and many of the people for whom he fought had even shorter lives that ended as tragically as his.  A few years ago, a student of mine who is about a decade older than I am, and grew up in Jacksonville--about 105 kilometers (65 miles) from where I am now--told me about one of those victims: a relative whose flaming body dangled from a tree in Mississippi.  As a little girl, she saw that.

It probably wouldn't surprise you to learn that from 1882 until 1968, more black people were lynched in Mississippi than in any other state in the Union.  I don't think it would cause much consternation to say that the next states on the list were Georgia, Texas, Alabama and Arkansas.

Florida is right behind them.  The "Sunshine State", however, had the highest per-capita rate of lynchings among the states from 1880 through 1940.  In fact, Florida's lynch rate, in proportion to the population, was more than double that of Alabama and nearly four times that of Texas!

Today, as I rode through the subdivisions, and the ramshackle houses, I saw many "Trump:  Make America Great Again" campaign signs.  In fact, I even saw a couple in a trailer park.  I don't recall seeing so many campaign signs for any candidate still standing on lawns, or tied to signposts or windows, so long after an election as I saw today.  

Now, I am sure that some of those who voted for Trump--and, perhaps, a few who didn't--are resentful that King gets "his own" holiday: something no other individual  in the US has.  Or, to be precise, no other white individual has.

I can understand, even if I don't condone, what they feel:  that they are losing "their" place in society to "privileged" minorities (which, of course, can include LGBT people as well as any number of racial and ethnic identities--as well as "the 51 percent minority"). One thing my own experience has taught me is that privilege is something you don't know you have until you lose it, and the process of losing it is painful and can cause intense anger and resentment.

What are students learning these days?

What I can't understand, though, is something I saw on a news program this morning: People who claim that if King were alive today, he would have supported Donald Trump's election to the Presidency.  I tried to understand their arguments, but those of the Flat Earth Society  actually make more sense to me.

Of course, cycling and writing have made more sense to me than all of those things ever could.  So did those fawns and herons I saw.

Out Of Season, Again

Earlier today, I wrote about a "winter" ride in a place that doesn't have winter--at least, not in any way people in my part of the world--let alone places like Minnesota and Canada and Scotland and Finland--experience it.  In other words, I was writing about a warm-weather ride in January.

Well, I had the opportunity to experience such a thing.  If you've been reading this blog for a while, you might have guessed where I am.  

Yes, that is the ocean on the horizon.  Of course, there are places not far from my apartment where I can ride up the slope of a bridge and, at its apex, gaze out into an expanse of sea and sky:  the Veterans' Memorial Bridge from Broad Channel to Rockaway Beach, for example.  But yesterday I rode in a place where I could do it in shorts, sans jacket.

Here is another clue to where I am:

They don't sell fishing equipment in the Key Food or Stop & Shop supermarkets in Rockaway Beach--or, to my knowledge,anyplace else in New York.  For that matter, you can't buy a hunting rifle--or any other kind of firearm--from the Walmart in the Green Acres Shopping Mall, just over the city line in Nassau County. But you can get them in the "Wally World" about two kilometers from where I am now.

Yes, I am in Florida, for my more-or-less annual visit with my parents.  I got here this morning.  After the snow that turned to wind and rain during the past week, it is almost surreal to ride in bright sunlight and into a warm breeze that would later blow at my back as I spun and glided up Route A1A, beside dunes covered with sea oats and cacti that rippled and echoed the rustling hiss of the roiling tides.

Then again, it might be just as strange, or even stranger, to encounter unseasonably warm weather when I return to New York!

To Begin

I don't have a tradition of riding on New Year's Day.  I like to start my year that way, but it hasn't always been possible.  There were New Year's Days on which I was in one place but my bike(s) were someplace else.  Or, I woke up late or hungover, or there was snow or ice on the road.  And then there were the times I couldn't get myself out of bed.  I blame those who were in bed with me for that!

Anyway, today I woke up late, but felt fairly good.  The weather wasn't terribly cold, but it was windy (30MPH/50KPH gusts).  The forecasters said the wind would die down later in the day.  So I spent some time calling friends and family members, and doing a little work on my latest project.

Then, in the middle of the afternoon, I got out for an easy ride.  Parts of it, at one time, were part of my commute.  It includes a few short climbs that aren't really steep but can seem so if you had to stop for a traffic light or two, and therefore didn't build any momentum, before climbing.  Or if you're riding a single-speed, as I did yesterday.  Not Tosca, my Mercian fixie.  Instead, I took the LeTour, which has one gear.

I wound along some side streets in my neighborhood--Astoria--toward the East River, in the hope of seeing the whale that wandered into it.  No such luck:  Either it had wandered back out or was hiding in the depths.  At least, that's what I hope.

(By the way, the East River, which separates Brooklyn and Queens from Manhattan, is not a river. It's really a tidal estuary.  It was called a river because of a mapmaker's error.)

Anyway, I followed the bike lane along 20th Avenue toward LaGuardia Airport.  Just to the east of the terminals, I picked up the World's Fair Promenade along Flushing Bay and pedaled through Flushing to the North Shore.

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised that the streets, no matter where I rode, were nearly deserted:  Not only was it New Year's Day, it was Sunday.  And, although it was fairly mild, at least for this time of year (45F/8C) and the sun made an appearance, the weather didn't seem to entice many people to go outside.

One thing I love about cycling is that I can ride through an area I've ridden many times before and, by taking a turn, discover something new.  

I came upon this "entrance" to a park at the end of a street in Bayside, near St. Mary's Hospital.  I was ready to duck under that tree and, maybe ride on a dirt path or two--until I got closer and saw the fence behind it.

Actually, the entrance is on the other end of the park--not far away, but not as much of an adventure as entering under a tree!

I couldn't complain, though, about the way my first ride, on the first day of the year, ended:

So I didn't do a , as I did one New Year's Day during my youth. But I didn't have to.  

Another Ride: Another View Of The Season

Today was almost as unseasonably warm as yesterday was.  Somehow, though, it looked more like a day of this time of year, which can't be called "fall" because almost everything that is supposed to fall has already fallen.  The season is tipping toward winter.  The sky reflected it.

Yesterday, I saw lots of bare trees and sunshine.  Today, though, a curtain of thick gray clouds filled the sky and the air with the kind of shadowy light that induces a "long winter's nap".  And the bay and ocean, even during high tide, seemed as listless, almost as drowsy, as the sky they reflected.

Oddly, though, that light and air energized me.  I felt as full of verve, and my bike felt as lively under me, as on yesterday's ride.  Perhaps feeling good was making me feel good:  Even after a 140 kilometer (85 mile) ride that included some hills and a headwind most of the way to Connecticut on yesterday's ride--and cleaning my apartment afterward-- I felt as if I could have ridden forever.  

I didn't do that.  I did, however, ride 105 kilometers (65 miles) on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bike.  Granted, it was a flat ride.  But I was riding into a stiffer headwind on my way out--to Point Lookout--than I encountered yesterday.  That meant, of course, that my tailwind was also stronger on my way home.

Today I encountered almost no traffic for long stretches of Beach Channel and the Rockaway Peninsula and the south shore of Nassau County.  Part of the reason for that, of course, is that people aren't going to the beach.  But it seemed that even fishermen and surfers stayed home today.  And, even along the commercial strips of Cross Bay Boulevard and by the mini-mall in Long Beach, I didn't see as many motorized vehicles as I would expect to see on a Saturday.  Maybe people haven't begun their holiday shopping.  

Not that I minded seeing so little traffic, of course.  Or even the gray skies:  It framed both the bare trees and the bushes still sprouting their flowers and fruits with a kind of austere beauty different from what yesterday's clear skies and sunshine highlighted.  

Two days, two rides that made me happy.  On two different bikes through two different kinds of landscapes.  Autumn might be falling into winter--and we've had the worst election I can remember--but I am still blessed.

It's Not My Fault, I Think

Confession:  For a brief time in my life, I worked in market research.  

In those days, we didn't have what are now called "social media".  And only the computer geeks were using the computer networks that would later help to form the basis of the Internet.

So we did our work with paper and telephone surveys. The former were mailed or given to people, while the latter--then as now--reached people while they were eating dinner, or at some equally inconvenient time.

The money was decent.  So why did I leave it?  No, I didn't have any sort of existential crisis or moral pangs.  And I didn't get bored:  After all, in what other kind of work can you learn such interesting and useful facts as people's consumption habits?  At the time, interestingly, people in Puerto Rico bought more Cheez-Whiz and Hawaiians purchased more Spam per capita than anyone else in America.  And the average New Yorker--surprise, surprise--bought more Wonder bread than anyone else.

Egad!  Had I known that such data would be stuck in my cranium all of these years later, I would have quit even sooner than I did.  But I left market research, in part because I went and did other things that, I thought, were closer to my own talents (such as they are) and passions. The biggest reason, however, for moving on to other things was that I realized my MR job was the most profound waste of time in my life.  I still feel that way about it.

On that job, I learned that simply asking people questions wasn't the surest, best way to get accurate, much less truthful, information about people.  We all know that there are those loves, those passions, that dare not speak their names.  To this day, I don't know what led me--or anyone else with whom I worked--to believe that people would always tell us what they wanted, liked or felt.  Sometimes they wouldn't.  Sometimes they couldn't.

I found myself thinking about my MR experience after I heard the election results and the disbelief of the pollsters and pundits.  Surely, they told us, Trump hadn't a chance:  He was too vulgar, too sexist, too fill-in-the-blank.  He had no government experience; running a company or hosting a reality TV show isn't like presiding over a country.  As if people were thinking in such terms!

Their surveys and algorithms (Was that the theme music for a certain campaign in 2000?)  couldn't detect something I've noticed while riding my bike.  

From Regated

I wish I'd photographed the lines of "Trump" signs posted on front lawns along the Connecticut, Westchester and New Jersey streets I rode last Friday and Saturday.  Some of them stood next to signs calling for Hillary's incarceration.  

Through the past spring and summer, such signs sprouted, like fungi after a rainstorm, with increasing and alarming frequency, along my bike routes on Long Island and even in parts of this city, the bluest of the blue.   

Of course, being on the road, I saw plenty of "Trump/ Pence--Make America Great Again" bumper stickers.   And, let me tell you, they weren't all on pickup trucks:  I even saw one on a Prius, of all cars!   

But what if I'd presented some pollster or talking head with photos of Trump signs and bumper stickers, or other evidence of Trumpmania I observed?  Would they have paid any attention to me?  Somehow, I think they wouldn't have, any more than the market researcher I was would have listened to someone who actually spent time in clubs, dance halls and the like in order to determine what music people were listening to.  Or the store manager who can tell you what is selling and what isn't.  

So, even though I didn't take those photos or otherwise record the evidence of Trumpophilia I saw from my saddle, I guess I'm not responsible, after all, for his election.  Or so I'd like to believe.