The Latest Stop On My Journey

 OK. Now I am going to tell you about the life change which I’d been hinting about during the past couple of weeks.

As you might have guessed, it’s a move:  my first since December 2009.  And, for the first time since August 2002, I am not living in Astoria.

This photo from my 13 March post is one view from my new apartment: the Conservatory of the New York Botanical Gardens.

I am now living up the block from the Gardens’ Bedford Park Gate. If I look in another direction, I see the Fordham University and Prep School campuses and, in the distance, the Manhattan skyline.

The neighborhood seems to be a racially and ethnically mixed working-to-middle-class area, There are stores and restaurants nearby. Although they carry different items and serve different foods, they remind me of what I encountered when I first moved to Astoria. 

I must say, though, that I haven’t seen nearly as many cyclists—and, thankfully, motor scooters—as I would encounter on Crescent Street. That, I think, is a lesson in the sociology of urban cycling:  Astoria, like nearly Greenpoint and Williamsburg, has grown younger, whiter and more self-consciously hip. Perhaps I will—consciously or not—plant seeds of cycling culture as I pedal in and out of, and around, the neighborhood.

So why have I moved to Bedford Park, Bronx? Do you promise not to tell anyone? 

I am now in a senior citizens’ apartment.

If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you might’ve guessed that I was in or near the age range for such a thing.  For several years,’I’ve been applying for one and my name finally came up. 

Whatever my housing situation, I do not plan to change the name of this blog. As I’ve said in earlier posts, whatever my age, I am in the middle of my life as long as I don’t know when it will end.  And, as long as I keep on cycling, I don’t think I’ll be anywhere near the end of my journey.

Cycling Through The PTSD of History--My Own and This Country's

Spring arrived yesterday at 17:24 (5:24 pm) local time in New York, where I am.

At that moment, I just happened to be out on Dee-Lilah, my custom Mercian Vincitore, for an after-work ride.  I knew I'd have about an hour and a half of daylight from that moment on, and I intended to take full advantage of it.

The sun shone brightly; there was scarcely a cloud in the sky.  But the wind, gusting to 40KPH (25MPH), and the temperature, which barely broke 5C (40F), reminded me that winter would not loosen its grip so easily.  Still, the ride was delightful because of Dee-Lilah (Why do you think I so named her?) and because I'd had a full day of work- and non-work-related things.

Also, I may have felt the need to work with, if not out, the lingering sadness I felt:  Yesterday marked twenty years since the United States invaded Iraq.  If 9/11 was America's first step into the quicksand of a perennial war, on 20 March 2003, this country had waded into it, at least up to the waist. If I believed in karma, I would say that the trials and tribulations this country has suffered are retribution for that act of violence--which was precipitated by one of the more monstrous lies told by a public official.  (That so many people see such dishonesty as normal in political and official discourse is something else I might have taken as some sort of cosmic payback.)

US Marines in Kuwait, near the Iraq border, the day before the invasion.  Photo by Joe Raedele, Getty Images

I remember that time all to well.  For one thing, I marched in the massive anti-war demonstration a month earlier, where I was just a few bodies away from those horses NYPD officers charged into the crowd.  For another, I was preparing to live as the woman I am now:  I had begun therapy and counseling a few months earlier, and started taking hormones a few weeks before that demonstration.  All of the jingoism and drumbeats I heard in the lead-up to the invasion-- not to mention the invasion itself, premised as it was on lies--disturbed me because they showed how profoundly disrespectful some people can be toward other people simply because they are darker, speak a different language, worship differently (or not at all) or express their gender or any other part of their identity in ways that are not accepted by the society around them.

Sometimes I am called "over-sensitive:"  I have PTSD from a few things that have happened to me and sometimes I think I suffer it simply from having been alive when great evils were committed.  It's a good thing I have my bikes, and riding!

A Decade On A Mid-Life Ride

Ten years ago today, I wrote my first post on this blog.

Back then, I was less than a year removed from my gender-affirmation surgery.  I had just returned to cycling a couple of months earlier; if you look at the photos in some of my early posts, you'll see that I gained weight during those months off my bike. After a summer and fall of riding, I'd lost most of the weight, though I don't (and probably will never again have) the surfboard-shaped body of my racing and long-tour days.  

What is the point of that story?  Well, a point might be that, as the Tao Te Ching teaches, life is change.  That is what makes life a journey:  If we always know what's next, we are just passing through the same moment over and over again.  

Like most people, I learned to ride a bike when I was a toddler.  Unlike most Americans of my generation (or the previous couple of generations), I didn't stop when I was old enough to drive.  Cycling has been one of the few constants in my life:  I have continued to pedal beyond jobs (careers, even) I no longer work or even think much about, through places and people I've moved away from whether by choice or circumstance and, literally, from one life to another.

Of course, there are people and other living beings I miss:  my mother (who passed a few months ago), my friends Janine and Michelle and my cuddle-buddies Charlie and Max. (Yay cats!) Now I have Marlee and friends I didn't have in my youth, as well as a few who've been with me through my journey.  Marlee doesn't replace Max or Charlie any more than current friends take the place of Janine or Michelle.  But they hold places in my life that I discovered as I've continued on my journey.

Likewise, the ways I ride today aren't  substitutes or consolations for the way I pedaled when I was younger.  The journey changed me; I changed with the journey.  And it changed, just as the sights around you change as you ride from a city to the country, from a village to farmland, from the seaside to a forest or mountains to flatlands.

And, well, the world is different from the world of a decade ago.  This day began with my hometown, New York, under curfew for the first time since the Occupy Wall Street protests of 2011. The latest curfew began at 11 pm last night; tonight it will re-commence at 8 pm.  Those restrictions come as schools and businesses deemed "non-essential" have been closed for nearly two months and social distancing has been mandated.

Who could have foreseen any of those things--or, for that matter, our political situation? If life is a journey and a journey is, by definition, a procession of change, we can at least hope that the curfews, the pandemic and the current administration won't last.  And, as long as I continue to ride, I am on the journey.  As long as I don't know where it ends, I am in the middle of it.  So, even at my age, I am a mid-life cylist.

From Mexico City To Colorado, And A New Purpose

There are times when I believe that cycling is the only reason why I have anything that can be described as mental or emotional health.  I become sad, even depressed, when I can't ride for significant periods of time.  Also, I took two bike tours that were, at least in part, attempts to restore myself to some degree of sanity, and another led me to the single most important transformation I had to make.  

The latter ride took me up the Col du Galibier as well as other famed Tour de France and Giro d'Italia climbs in the Alps.  I started that tour in Lyon, France as a guy named Nick.  Two years later, I began my current life as a middle-aged lady named Justine.

The other two tours followed crises in my life, one of which culminated in a sort of minor breakdown.  In both of those rides, I spent weeks--actually, months on the first tour--on my bike in foreign lands, living on a student's wages or less.  Don't get me wrong:  I experienced all sorts of pleasures on both of those rides, as well as the one in the Alps.  But they also were power-washes, if you will, against the detritus of some past experiences that had been causing me even more internal distress than I'd realized--or, perhaps, was willing to admit.

So when I came across Rafael's story, I felt as if I'd met someone after my own heart.  Of course, I don't imagine that his ride from Mexico City to Colorado will lead him to the sorts of changes I made.  But he does talk about the restorative powers of his ride, and how it led him to a mission, if you will:  fixing bicycles for underprivileged people in his newly-adopted community.

The next time someone asks you why you ride, ask yourself (and that person):  What would your life be like if you didn't ride?

Nine Years: What Writing This Blog Is Teaching Me

Nine years ago today, I started this blog in much the same way I start many of my rides:  I had a general idea of the journey I was undertaking, but I had no idea of where it would take me along the way.

About all I really knew when I published that first post was that I'd be writing about me and bicycling.  And, I supposed, anything related to them--which, of course, is open to very wide interpretation.  

So, if you've been following this blog, you've heard me ramble or rant about any and all sorts of things:  history, art, architecture, literature, New York, Paris, food, gender and more.  If you'd told me, for instance, that I would try to explain how a certain molecule works, I might have wondered whether you were partaking of substances that have only recently become legal, and only in a few states!

The fact that I write such posts (however ineptly) might be the reason why I've kept this blog going.  While I never imagined writing a post like that one, or some of the others I wrote, I also knew that this blog could not simply be a recounting of my rides or a discussion of equipment.  

 I realize now that this blog has become a forum for my experience of bicycles and cycling.  Whatever I see when I ride, what I think about when I'm adjusting my derailleur, what I recall from rides past, and the things I've learned about everything from urban panning to music as a result of my rides, are all part of my cycling experience.  

Really, I can't think of much that doesn't relate to bicycles or bicycling.   At least, there aren't many things in my life that I can separate from my experience of cycling. So, I expect that as long as I continue to write this blog, it will take twists and turns I never expected.  

Thank you, dear reader, for taking the journey with me.  I'm not done yet!

A French Lunch With Old Friends

On this visit, I've ridden more than 20 kilometers on only two of the seven days I've been here.  But cycling lots of kilometers (or miles) wasn't the point of coming to Paris, though I didn't want to go without pedaling the pave (cobblestones) as well as the paths and paved streets.

Yesterday I didn't ride at all.  I did, however, visit two more old friends who had me to their house for one of those wonderful and inimitable French lunches.  In many ways, it was the best of all worlds:  the lunch was both civilized and leisurely, and they live in a house full of sunlight in a town that feels like the country even though it's only 15 kilometers from the center of Paris.

I met Michele about 15 years ago through my late friend Janine, who lived nearby.  Since then, she re-connected with Alec, whom she met when they met in Spain.  At the time, they've explained, they were living as hippies and hitchiking around Europe--much to the dismay of both of their parents.


Neither of their parents approved and each of them eventually married people their parents approved.  From the way I'm telling you this story, you've probably guessed that their unions didn't work out.  Well, Michele's didn't, anyway, and Alec's wife died.  So, nearly four decades after first meeting, they reunited and married four years ago.

Our lunch started around noon, when I arrived and lasted well into the afternoon.  I, of course, am on holiday, and they are retired, so we don't really know--or care--when the lunch ended. (Does it end when you stop eating or after you take a walk and come back for more cidre rose and coffee?) 

The food was uncomplicated but exquisitely prepared:  a starter of sliced sausage, followed by three different kinds of salad:  one of shredded red cabbage, another of carrots and onions, and still another of creamy cucumbers.

What followed was a rare steak and some wonderful roasted sliced potatoes.  Of course, it was accompanied by bread.  Alec had bought some before we met, but in following an old French custom, I brought a baguette which we ate.  (I also brought a box of fancy chocolates.) And, after all of that, chocolate and cafe creme eclairs, with espresso coffee.

Don't believe for a minute that the French--even Parisians--are not friendly. When I toured the countryside by bicycle, I experienced all sorts of kindness.  And here in the Paris region, people have treated me well. They simply don't make friends with people immediately, as Americans and other people often do.  They have to get to know you, or meet you through someone they know well. 

Somehow, though, I suspect that I might've befriended Michele even if I hadn't met her from Janine, just as I would've been friends with Isabelle if she hadn't been married to Jay.  

He did more bike riding than I did today!

It was also fun to spend some time with Michele's grandson, who was spending the day with him.  Now, you probably think a prototypical (or stereotypical) name for a French boy is Jean or Jacques or Yves.  But this three-year-old boy has a name only a French person--or someone who loves impressionist paintings--could have given him.  Are you ready for this?  Matisse.  At first, I thought it was a French pronunciation of Matthis or Matthew.  But I learned that he is indeed named for the Picasso's friend and rival.

Don't you just love this water pump in the local park?  It actually works!

I would love to see what he becomes when he "grows up."  Will he rebel against it and become an accountant or lawyer, or even a physicist?  Or will he live up to the connotations of his name?

Of course, that is not the only reason why I want to visit Michele and Alec again, or have them visit me, some time soon!

You're Not Lost!

Over the years, I have read many articles and posts that list reasons for riding a bicycle:  everything from saving the planet to improving your sex life.  Perhaps, as someone who loves cycling, I am biased, but I believe that I have yet to find a reason that isn't valid.  In the end, though, I ride for one reason:  I love it.

But I continue to read the lists.  A couple of days ago, I came across one in, interestingly, Forbes magazine.  The author provided 45 reasons to get on a bike in 2019. I've heard most of them before, but one in particular caught my eye--#10, "Get Lost":

It's stressful to get lost in a car--especially one with up-to-date stat nav--but it's generally less stressful to get lost on a bike.  It's easier to explore on a bicycle, following one's nose rather than following a hectoring voice taking orders from a bunch of satellites in the sky.

There's also something about a bicycle that lends itself to serendipity--ride a bike to explore more.

Here, Carlton Reid explains why folks like me get on our bikes with no particular destination or route in mind.  Sometimes I just want to see, hear and feel whatever may come, and the bicycle is the best way (that I know about, anyway) to do that.  

I know I've written about "getting lost".  What I meant is that I strayed from routes I planned or knew beforehand and was pedaling through unfamiliar territory.  I have been "lost" in my hometown at midday as well as in places where I couldn't even speak the local language--if indeed there were even beings that spoke--after night fell.  

Mr. Reid would no doubt understand this:  At such times, I don't feel lost.  In fact, I felt more certain of where I was (if not where I was going) than I did while commuting to at least a couple of jobs I've had.  I daresay that, really, I have never been truly lost on my bicycle. At least, I have never felt that way.

In The Middle Of My Third Millenium...

Last week it was a brand-new "dream" bike.

This week....a milestone!

You are now looking at post #2500 on this blog.  If you're here now, thank you!  If you've been reading for a while now, more thanks.  And if you've read all 2500 of my posts...well, you deserve something.  What, I don't know.  ;-)

Anyway, it's been a lot of fun and that has kept me going.  I hope to have many more rides and learn more stuff that will give me material for many more blog posts.

Thanks for taking the ride with me!

2016: It Never Ends

Now it is time to say "goodbye" to 2016.

A lot of people I know are glad to see this year end.  One reason is, of course, the Presidential election here in the US.   The day after the election, at the college in which I teach, a mournful, even funereal haze seemed to envelop the hallways and the surrounding neighborhood--which happens to be part of the poorest (of 435) Congressional District in the United States.  The atmosphere brought to mind the accounts I've read of the 1952 "Killer Fog" in London:  Students and faculty members, as well as people I saw shuffling along the Grand Concourse and 149th Street, seemed to have had the energy even to gasp for air sucked out of them.

But even Trump supporters (yes, I know a few of those!) seem happy to see this year end.  For one thing there were the deaths of great and merely famous people.  I haven't made a count, it does seem that more have left us during the past twelve months than in other years I can recall. Some, as sad as they were, weren't so surprising:  I'm thinking, for example of Elie Wiesel, who was an old (if still vibrant) man and Muhammad Ali, who had been deteriorating for decades.  But others, like Prince, George Michael and Carrie Fisher, took most of us by surprise.  Then there were the no-less-tragic deaths of people of whom we never would have heard save for the ways they died.  I am thinking, in particular, of Melissa Ann Fevig-Hughes, Suzanne Joan Sippel, Debra Bradley, Tony Nelson and Larry Paulik, all out for a late-day ride in Michigan when they were mowed down by an SUV driver who was charged with murder.

Also, even though many voted for Trump based on empty slogans and other rhetoric, misperceptions about what (if anything!) he actually represents or simply plain, flat-out lies they believed, they (at least the ones I know) are no less angry or disillusioned than they were before the election.  What I find interesting, and almost amusing, is that they sometimes talk about the "liberal" media lying to them about crime, immigration and other issues--and tell me (and probably others) that the "liberal" media disseminated lies and misinformation that, in fact, came from the lips of Trump or his troupe during the campaign.

Anyway, the election has come and gone.  So have some celebrated people.  But there was still much for which I am grateful and happy.  My work life has gone well.  I have been writing (apart from this blog!) and my students and I are moving forward (I believe) in my "day job".  As for my love life...Well, let's say I've had a semblance of it, without really trying.  I don't think I've met (or will meet) someone with whom I will spend the rest of my life.  But then again, I haven't been looking for anyone like that.

This year, though, has brought me reunions with a couple of old friends and the beginning of a reconciliation with an estranged relative.  And it--like the past couple of years--has brought me into contact with people, mainly through this blog, in other parts of the world.  Perhaps we will meet some day.

If we do, it might be on a bike ride.  Cycling, of course, has been one of the constants in my life for decades.  This year was no exception.  I did some rides I've done dozens, or even hundreds, of times before, and saw, heard, felt and thought what I couldn't have--or couldn't have even conceived--when I first started riding. I also did a couple of new rides I hope to do again and, of course, took a trip to Paris, where I spent many happy hours pedaling through valleys flanged by gray and beige stone building facades, and along pathways that cut through parks and line the canals.

Riding has been, this year and in others, not merely a means of escape or even transportation, although it has served those purposes.  It has, I now realize, taken on another interesting role in my life.  When I first became a dedicated cyclist, as a teenager in the 1970s, it was a kind of rebellion:  Other kids abandoned their Schwinn Varsities and Continentals, Raleigh Records and Grind Prixes and Peugeot U08s the moment they got their drivers' licences.  I continued to ride.  Then, in college, a lot of my fellow students rode their bikes to class or for errands, but not for any other purpose.  So, even though I wasn't consciously rebelling, I was seen as if I were--or, at least, as some sort of misfit (which I was, though in other ways).  

After college came a series of jobs and moves (including one to Paris).  I continued to ride, and the wind and vistas--whether of wide boulevards or narrow alleys, or of industrial soot turning to suburban sprawl and, finally, to orchards and fields of horses--or of seeing the ocean spreading itself before me after a couple of hours of pedaling--have all imprinted themselves on my consciousness.  In fact, I feel as if they are part of my body, intermingled with every ion and neuron in me.

In brief, my cycling started off as a kind of rebellion--conscious or not--but has become the very thing that has kept me from feeling alienated from the world around me and, most important, myself.  If I've learned nothing else this year, I feel that lesson--along with my riding, blogging, writing and experiences with people--have made this year worthwhile, even rewarding, amidst all of the pain and confusion in the world around me.

Like It's 1999

So why am I posting a video of Prince's Party Like It's 1999?

Well, I didn't say I wouldn't be self-indulgent in this blog.  Some might argue that the mere act of starting this blog--or any other--is self-indulgent.  Maybe that's how it should be.

That said, I'm glad you're reading this.  I'm lucky:  I get to write something because I want to write it, and for no other reason, and some people (like you) will actually read it!

You might say that I'm partying on this blog.  True.  But it's not 1999.  So, you might wonder, why the Prince video?

Well, today's "party" is number 2000.  Yes, that's how many posts are now on Midlife Cycling. 

And I am indeed going to "party like it's 1999".  In other words, I'm riding, writing and blogging  as if there's always something new to write about:  another ride, an interesting idea or story, a product past or present, another journey.  None of it ends.

So how did Prince himself "party"?  Well, here's a photo, and a link to a video, of him from the last days of his life:

Click here for video.

He looks relaxed and carefree.  If that isn't "partying", I don't know what is.

Following Bliss At The Beginning Of Fall (Apologies to Joseph Campbell)

Fall began the other day, though you wouldn't have known it from the weather.  Today was more like it:  cool and breezy, with bright sunshine showing, like the leaves, just the slightest hints of change in hue.

This also means the days are growing shorter.  So, if you want to ride the same number of miles or kilometers you were riding a few weeks earlier--in daylight--you have to leave earlier in the morning.  Or ride faster.

Today I woke up later than I anticipated.  Still, I decided to sit and enjoy a breakfast you won't find at very many training tables.  I blame the nice, warm baguettes I encountered in the bakery two blocks from my apartment.  (Well, now you know one reason why I'm not as skinny as I was!)  And I just happened to have a nice, ripe slice of Brie in my refrigerator. I took it out before I set out for the bakery.  When I got back, it hadn't started to run, but oozed flavor nonetheless.

Perhaps incongruously, I washed everything down with green tea.  I find, increasingly, that it's what I prefer to drink before a ride, especially since I've started to keep un-bagged tea (from Japan, no less) and an infuser in my apartment.  I'm going to keep those things in my office, too!

(Of course, while in Paris, I drank coffee before rides.  Why wouldn't I?  Who goes there to drink tea?)

Yesterday the weather forecasters told us that last night we would have rain and wind, which would bring in the weather we had today--which began with a heavy cloud cover that broke up through the morning.  Hearing that prediction, I planned on taking a ride to Connecticut.  But I wondered how realistic that plan would be, at least if I wanted to get home in daylight.  After all, it was nearly noon when I got on my bike.

And I started my ride in the teeth of a 30KPH wind. I realized that, if I wanted to return home in daylight, I had three choices:  push myself, ride to Connecticut and, if need be, take the train home from there or some other point on the way back, or just ride as far as I could in a couple of hours and turn back, whether or not I reached Greenwich.

Just about all the way up, I was pedaling into that wind.  But the ride wasn't as strenuous as I expected.  Perhaps it had something to do with the weather:  temperatures of 12 to 17 C (55 to 64 F) with muted but gradually brightening sunshine.  Also, I was riding Arielle, my Mercian Audax, which always seems to make me faster,  without trying.  And, hey, I was just feeling so, so good simply to be out riding!

Even though I took the long route up--which also happens to be the route with more hills--I got to Greenwich more quickly than I expected:  about two hours and forty-five minutes.  That meant about three and a half hours to sunset.  And I would have the wind at my back!

Mind you, I wasn't trying to better a personal record (I didn't) or prove anything to myself.  I simply felt so good today that I couldn't help but to have a great ride.  And, of course, Arielle gives such a smooth ride that I can keep on pedaling without pain, without strain and still get a good workout.

Oh...When I got home, I still had a bit more than half an hour to spare before the sun would begin to set, having pedaled 140 kilometers--and lounged for about half an hour in the public garden by Greenwich Hospital.  Most important, though, I felt so, so good! 

Brooklyn Heights: Another Reason I Am Not A Racer

Yesterday, I wrote about the things that caused me to realize that I am not, at heart, a racer, even though I pretended to be one for a few years.  In brief, I care more about the feelings and memories I have, or associate with, my rides than I do with how fast or how far I rode.

Well, today, I had another insight as to why, even after a third-place finish in a race, I couldn't have pushed myself to "the next level"--whatever that might have been--even if I'd had the talent, trained harder and simply wanted to win more.

This afternoon I spun Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear, through some Brooklyn and Queens streets.  Part of my ride took me through Brooklyn Heights, which today is--at least in the eyes of many--the very epitome of an urban "brownstone" neighborhood.

In 1965, the City's newly-formed Landmarks Commission--created in the wake of the outrage generated by the destruction of the original Penn Station--designated much of the Heights as the city's first Historic District.  Good thing, too:  During the two decades following World War II, Americans set their sights on modern houses in the suburbs, not historic buildings in the inner city.  As a result, those beautiful old houses began to decay, and Robert Moses thought they--and similar houses in nearby Park Slope--were simply obstacles to building the expressway he wanted to carve through Brooklyn.

I stopped to read the plaque on one of the houses that would have been razed--a Federal-style building on Middagh Street. No racer, I think, would have interrupted his or her ride in that way--or to look at other houses.  The fact that I had just a crappy cell phone with me--and, therefore, couldn't take good pictures--would have been enough of an excuse for a racer (or the racer wannabe that I was) not to stop and look at buildings.

And if I were training for the next Tour or Giro or whatever, I probably wouldn't have noticed that in a neighborhood full of Federal and Greek and Italianite Revival-style buildings--which brought the neighborhood its landmark designation--there was something that stood out:

The Cranlyn Building is beautiful, but it's not what people normally associate with the Heights.  If anything, it's practically a textbook example of Art Deco.  It would fit seamlessly on the Grand Concourse in the Bronx (though the Cranlyn is in be tter condition than most Bronx buildings) or even in Miami's South Beach.   But it's not just the visual contrast between it and the houses (and the Church of the Assumption) on Cranberry Street that's so interesting. 

To me, the Cranlyn has a different kind of energy to it. Yes, it is an apartment (condo) building with a chrome-zinc-and-glass Italian cafe on the ground floor on a street mainly of single-family homes.  More important, though, the building feels like jazz--just look at the pattern of those lines!--in a neighborhood that is, perhaps, more Mozartian.

The way those lines unite Art Deco with jazz reminds me of the relationship betwen graffiti, break-dancing and hip-hop. Just watch "Beat Street" (corny, I admit, but with great music from early hip-hip artists!).  Pay attention to the dancers and to the graffiti-covered subway trains as they rumble along Bronx viaducts:  Look at the way those lines of graffiti move, look at the dancers' movements and pay attention to the beat.  That relationship is, I think, something the movie captured brilliantly.

The funny thing is that, even though I was riding at a slow speed (for me, anyway!), I was still going about five times as fast as anyone walking the street.  Yet no one seems to notice the building, or its contrast with the rest of the neighborhood.  Even more ironically, as a pedestrian, I never noticed what I'm describing:  I first noticed it from the saddle of my bicycle.  

And, in the strangest twist of all, during my racing days, I had experienced the Heights only as a pedestrian:  I never rode through the neighborhood!

I'll Be Fine: I Went For A Ride

I once held a racing license.  And I actually rode in a few races.  Ergo (and you thought it was only the name of Campagnolo's "brifter"!), I was a racer.  Right?

Well, maybe not so much.  I fancied myself as one.  I even managed to convince a few people (and a couple of actual racers) that I was one.  I rode racing bikes, wore racing jerseys, shorts and shoes and ate and drank what I thought racers put into their bodies.  

And I actually placed well in a couple of races.  A third place, even!  For a time, I thought that if I rode just a little longer and a little harder....

(These days, it's difficult for me to think about doing things longer and harder.  But that's another story:  perhaps one for my other blog!)

Realistically, I knew I wasn't going to challenge Bernard Hinault.  But I thought that if I moved up a category every year I could become...a champion (of what?)...a pro?

So what, exactly, caused me to realize that I wasn't going to realize such lofty goals?  No, I didn't crash and break my leg and wreck my Colnago during my next race.  Nor did I admit that, even at the relatively young age I was, I didn't have much (if any) of a "window":  There were riders my age who, even if they hadn't won a major race, had at least been riding for years in the European peloton.  The pack in Prospect Park, as invigorating as it could be, simply didn't compare. But even such an admission would not have been enough to make me realize that I wasn't a racer.

I think I finally understood, today, for the first time, why I never  was, or could be, truly a racer.  It has to do with an observation someone I was trying to woo years ago made about me.  According to this person, I don't care about things or experiences so much as the emotions and memories I have about, or associate with, them.

To this day, it remains one of the most perceptive things anyone has said about me.  Of course, back then, I didn't want to hear it, because she was one of the many attractive women I tried to make my "arm candy", I mean companion, in order to convince the world (in reality, myself) that I was indeed a macho heterosexual guy--if one with a sensitive soul.

Anyway, today I took a ride that really was bits and pieces of other rides I've done, spliced together.  I packed a bag of tortilla chips and some salsa I made into the Ruth Works Randonneur bag on Vera, my green Mercian mixte.  I intended to enjoy a roadside picnic somewhere along the way.  But that is not the only reason I chose Vera:  Yesterday, we had heavy rains; puddles and even mini-ponds lined the streets and roads, not to mention the paths.  Vera has fenders, with a flap on the front.

A gray glacier of clouds crept across the sky; after riding along the World's Fair Marina and Flushing Bay to Fort Totten, drops of rain stuttered across my skin as I ascended Bell Boulevard to Northern Boulevard, where I turned left and rode across a roadway that slices through a tidal marsh to Nassau County, where I followed no planned route.

So I found myself pedaling through shopping centers, suburban subdivision, country clubs and a couple of parks that had something resembling nature in them.  Finally, I found myself on a road that twisted through a wooded area--not exactly a virgin forest, but green nonetheless:  actually, quite soothing under the cloud cover that seemed to follow me, even if it didn't spill any more rain.

From Cyclopology

I knew, generally--though not specifically--where I was.  That is to say, I knew I was somewhere in the middle of Long Island, probably heading south or east, but to where I didn't know.  If I was lost, it wasn't such a big deal: I could get only so lost.  If I rode south for a few miles, I'd reach the ocean; if I pedaled east, it would take me a good bit longer to reach the Atlantic. (That's why it's called Long Island!)  And if I went west, I'd be in the general direction of home; going north would take me back to, well, the North Shore, where I could turn left and head in the direction of my apartment.

The real reason I was riding, though, wasn't to explore or get lost--or to challenge myself. (The wind would do that for me when I pedaled into it on my way home!)  Instead, I was riding with the echo, if you will, of a conversation I had last night with someone I hadn't talked to in a few years.  There was no "falling out" or other rupture in our friendship; life had just taken us in different directions for a while.  

We actually worked together for a time; neither of us is at that job anymore.  She decided to return to school and is almost done with the coursework for her PhD and, luckily, found work that allowed her to support herself.  But, along the way, she broke up with the fiance she had the last time we talked.

I, too, ended a relationship I was in at the time.  But mine didn't end as amicably as hers; it couldn't have.  She knew that and asked, several times, how I'm doing.  Better than I was in that relationship, I said.  

"Good.  Don't look back."

"I don't."

The funny thing is, the tears that rolled down my cheeks as I descended from the ridges in the center of the island to the South Shore weren't for him, or for what knowing him cost me (two jobs and an apartment)--or about what it took to get him out of my life.  I am happier in my current job than I was in the ones I lost.  

And, to answer another question my friend asked, I am finally working, again, on a book I started writing years ago--even before I knew her.  "Great!  You're going to be all right!", she intoned.

I hope she's right.  No, I take that back.  I know she's right.  I have no idea of how that book will turn out, but I know I have no choice but to write it.  When I started it, I was a different person, living a different life--literally.   But I know I was carrying much of what's in that book--at least in its current state--long before I started to write it.  

She understands:  She is a writer, too.

"Just keep writing it.  You'll be fine."


That is how I felt while riding today.  I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I'd be fine.  Whether or not by design or choice, where I'd been had gotten me to where I was.  All of it:  All of my rides, all of my work, all of those days and years I lived a life not quite my own and, finally, in a relationship with someone who, just as I was claiming my own self and life, almost kept me from living it.

The road that had gotten me to today's ride: My old friend reminded me of it, and why I continue--even if I don't know where the ride, the journey, continues or ends.

Has any racer ever thought of his or her ride that way?

The Journey--And Destination--Of My Rides

When I first became a dedicated cyclist--during the '70's Bike Boom--a lot of new adult cyclists were folks who were, had been or did not want to stop being hippies.  In retrospect, it makes perfect sense:  cyclists of the previous generation, who kept the flame lit during the Dark Ages following World War II, were countercultural in their own way.  

During the '50's, much of the American landscape and culture were being carved up to better accommodate the automobile.  Developing an economy and society ever-more dependent on the internal combustion engine was seen as a sign of progress, much as many immigrants and their children saw acquiring an automobile as a sign of economic progress away from bicycling, walking or taking public transportation to work out of necessity.

Continuing to ride a bike--let alone taking up cycling as an adult--was almost a revolutionary act under such conditions.  That, I believe, is the reason why the hippies who rode bikes in the days and years after Woodstock are logical descendants of those who rode in the Dark Ages.    Ironically, it is also the reason, I think, why the new cyclists of the Bike Boom actually had very little truck with those who kept the fire burning during the decade or two before them:  by the '70's, adults on bikes who could afford to travel by other means were becoming a more common sight.  So, riding a bike--especially for a hippie--wasn't such an act of rebellion anymore. If anything, it was one of the more socially acceptable things a guy with long hair and wearing torn jeans could do.

Still, for many, riding a bike--especially taking bike tours or camping trips--was seen as a way of "getting away" or simply not joining the ranks of those who made payments on cars and houses.  On the other hand, those earlier cyclists, who were bucking cultural and economic trends to an even greater degree than Bike Boom riders were, didn't seem to ride out of any sense of rebellion.  Most of them had regular jobs or owned businesses; most were also not adverse to the acquisition of property and wealth.

I have long valued older, more experienced cyclists for their wisdom as well as their insights, and even for their sense of humor.  And, let's face it, they show us that we (most of us, anyway) have to get jobs or negotiate the capitalist system in some way or another, and then find time and ways to ride our bikes in the midst of the chaos.  But I realize, as I get older, that it's really the hippie in me that keeps me cycling:  I ride in order to be free (at least for as long as possible) and that I need my freedom in order to ride.  

So, if you've gotten this far, you might be wondering what prompted this rumination.  Well, I stumbled across a blog by someone who "some would describe... as the old hippy who doesn't know the war is over".    Fred Bailey, the "old hippy" in question, lives aboard the Seafire, a boat he is refitting for voyages far and wide.

Actually, I didn't stumble across the blog itself.  Rather, I found, by chance, a photograph included in Fred's latest post.  In that post, he talks about his annual "pilgrimage" to the Fisher Poet's Gathering in Astoria(!), Oregon.   It sounds like a wonderful event:  Maybe the next gathering will give me reason to visit an Astoria that, I am sure, is different from the one in which I live.  

He took the photograph--of "the most westerly bike rack in the USA"--during that trip:



Photo by Fred Bailey, from Seafireblog.

I don't think anyone could create a better visualization of my cycling spirit, if you will.  The colors, the sights and the overall mood are my destination, whatever my cycling journey happens to be.