In The Sun, With Arielle

Until the other day, June had been rather gloomy:  mostly gray, chilly and damp.  I did a little bit of riding, mostly for some other purpose or another.  The other day, however, seemed like a "breakout" day.

And Arielle, my Mercian Audax, knew it:

I had ridden her a bit this year, but Friday was her first long ride:  up to Connecticut, where she frolicked in the fauna and took me up and down hills. I somehow managed to make wrong turns wherever I could (Perhaps I could blame her: I think she was feeling as adventurous as I was) and entered Connecticut by way of "The Ridge" on the north side of Greenwich.  That is where you find all of those houses and horse farms you see in Architectural Digest and Vanity Fair spreads. 

None of the climbs are long, but a few are steeper than you expect if you're not familiar with the area.  And they are endless:  No matter which way you turn, you have to go up a hill. And I was riding into the wind most of the way up from my place.

One nice thing about all of that climbing is that when I got to downtown Greenwich and did a little people-watching at the Veterans Memorial (where Arielle ensconsed herself among the flowers), the pear I brought with me tasted exceptionally sweet, and the bottle of water I bought (something Italian, with essences of cherry and dragonfruit) felt like a spring coursing through my body.

However, if I thought I'd taken all the wrong turns I was going to take that day, I was wrong.  Instead of turning on to Glenville Road, I turned on to Lake Drive, where I saw the back end of all of those estates I saw from the front on my way in, and the front of all of the places I saw from the rear earlier in the day. Or so it seemed.  Buclolic it is.  And hilly.  

When I came to an intersection that kind of-sort of looked familiar, I turned in the direction I thought was home.  Instead, I found myself climbing more hills an by the time I finally realized where I was, I saw that I'd pedaled about the same distance (75 km) from the Ridge to my place--but in the opposite direction.  I was just north of Mount Kisco.

So I rode until I came to railroad tracks and followed them until I ran out of sunscreen.  By then, I think I'd gotten more sunlight than I'd seen all month!  When I find myself tiring out on such sunny day, it usually is a result of the sun.

Then I hopped a train from Hawthorne back to Grand Central, without guilt:  After all I'd ridden about 110 miles (170 km), against hills and wind.

That seemed to whet Arielle's appetite--and mine.  So, yesterday, we took a "recovery" ride--120 mostly flat kilometers to Point Lookout, with a bit of a ramble along the South Shore.  

I got more sun.  And Arielle got to work on her tan.

A Great Ride, "In Spite Of"

Sometimes we say that a ride was good or great "in spite of"...the rain...the wind...the cloud cover...the traffic...the flat or mechanical malfunction...the fill-in-the-blank.

Yesterday's ride was one of those rides.   I didn't experience any disasters or mishaps.  And while the temperature reached 28C (82F) in the middle of the afternoon, it never seemed that warm.  Heavy rains the other night dissipated the humidity, and the bright sunshine forecast for the day was muted, at various times, by a scrim--sometimes a curtain--of clouds.  As much as I love sunshine, I appreciate such movements of clouds, especially when they don't bring any threat of rain with them.   After all, one thing cycling--or anything else--will never cure is my, ahem, melanin deficiency!

Image by John Hart.  From the Centre for Sports Engineering Research at Sheffield Hallam University (UK).

Anyway...the one complaint I could have made was the wind.  In that regard, this year has been very strange:  March, supposedly the windiest month, didn't seem particularly so, but every month since then has brought us more steady streams, and even gusts, than the one before.

And so it was yesterday.  I decided to take, intead of an "out and back" ride, one in which the route away from home would be different from the one that brought me back.  It wasn't quite a circular ride:  If anything, if I were to draw it on a map, it would probably be shaped more like an almond or an eye socket.

That was interesting and rewarding.  And, for most of the way out, I pedaled against the wind, sometimes gusting to 50 KPH (30 MPH).  Normally, I don't mind that, for it means--in most circumstances--that I would have the wind at my back on the way home.

Except that it didn't happen that way.  You guessed it:  I spent most of the trip home pedaling into wind just as strong as what I encountered on the way out.  I know that sometimes the wind shifts direction during the course of the day.  I also know that in particular locations, even ones only an hour's bike ride apart, the wind can blow in a different direction.  (Believe it or not, in the NYC Metro area, we have micro-climates, even within Manhattan!)  So, the plan of riding into the wind so you can let it carry you home works, except when it doesn't.

Arielle

But I didn't mind.  All told, I rode about 130 kilometers (80 miles) on Arielle, my Mercian Audax.  With a name like that, you know she rides like the wind!  Now you know why I had a great ride, "in spite of"!

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.

What I Remembered On My Memorial Day Ride

I can't think of any bike ride I've taken, at any time in my life, that didn't leave me in a better state, in some way or another, than I was in before the ride.

Sometimes it's the exhiliaration of riding a particular distance, up a mountain or across some other type of difficult terrain. Other times, the euphoria can come from having braved rough weather conditions--or enjoying favorable ones.  Or we can be happy about something we've seen, someone we've met or a meal or snack we've eaten (or drunk!) along the way. 

I was happy I took my ride to Somerville on Memorial Day because, as I mentioned, I got to see a race and I pedaled my first (non-metric) century in three years. But, ironically enough, some of the happiness I felt from doing, and having done, the ride came from the moments of melancholy I experienced along the way.

You see, along the way, I rode along roads, through places, I hadn't seen in a very long time.  But I once rode them routinely, especially when I was a student at Rutgers and during the time I lived in the area after returning from living in  France.  

Sometimes I rode with the Central Jersey Bicycle Club, back when long-distance (or almost any adult) cyclists were still geeks of a sort.  In those days, most people who didn't live within a town or two also didn't know about the race, let alone the Tour de France or the Giro d'Italia.  And most motorists had no idea of what to do when a cyclist was on the road.  (Many still don't.) 

Much of what I saw, and experienced was familiar to me.  Road surfaces on Route 28 in and around Plainfield and Bound Brook were just as bad as I remembered them.  Of course, that added to the charm of Monday's ride.  Also, the towns I saw along the way hadn't changed nearly as much as I expected.  Sure, there were some new houses and office buildings, and the complexions of some towns' residents had darkened or lightened, but they--and everything around them--were unmistakably Central New Jersey.  In other words, they're close enough to New York that many commute to it, but far enough not to seem like a suburb of the Big Apple.  Also, even in an affluent town like Westfield--whose downtown has stores that rival those of other high-income enclaves--there is still the down-to-earth quality one finds in more working-class towns like Bound Brook and Plainfield, a quality I don't find, say, on Long Island.

Also, I found myself re-connecting with a rhythm of riding I didn't realize I followed through all of those years I lived and rode in the area.  New Jersey, of course, doesn't have the kind of mountains that Colorado or Vermont have.  But, when you ride in New Jersey, you can count on this general principle:  If you are riding north or west, you're going to higher ground.  So, you can expect to do some climbing.  Because many extant roads in the Garden State were created by simply paving over older roads (or even trails)--some of which date to the Revolution or even earlier--climbs tend to come more suddenly.  You climb mostly in short bursts because there's often very little to lead up to it.  More modern roads have more gradual (if longer) inclines and longer straightways leading to them mainly because modern road-building techniques made such things possible.

Also, if you pedal south or west, there's a good chance you'll be riding into the wind (if indeed there is any).  In thinking back to the days when I rode almost daily in that area, I realize that I often, unconsciously, rode in accordance with the terrain and wind patterns I noticed on Monday.

I guess some rides--especially if we begin them when we're young--never end.

The Wind And Back

When you commute, you think a lot about timing.  You know that leaving a few minutes earlier or later might put you into, or keep you out of traffic, on some stretch of your ride.  You may also notice a temperature difference.  In my case, I had completely different weather than I'd've had had I left fifteen minutes earlier than I did.

When I'd originally planned to leave, rain was falling and the temperature was about to fall below 45F, where it had been (give or take a degree or two) through the morning and the previous night.  And the air was still calm.

However, I misplaced a couple of papers and searching for them put me about fifteen minutes behind schedule.  By then, the rain had stopped and temperatures below freezing were forecast for my commute home.  I can live with such conditions, so I decided to chance the weather.

I hadn't counted on one other condition mentioned in the forecast: the wind.  I must have had a steady 15MPH (25KPH) stream at my back for the stretch from Woodside all the way to my job.  Gusts of at least double that speed turned my back into a sail by the World's Fair Marina.  So, in spite of leaving late, I arrived at work early.

I'm still there now, dreading/anticipating riding into the wind that blew me here.

A Season Ends With A Stranger In The Wind

The other day was unusually warm for this time of year:  The temperature reached 69F (20C) and there were wispy high clouds. I don't think we'll see another day like that until April or, perhaps, March.  I was fortunate enough to get home early and take Arielle for a spin.


I rode out to Rockaway Beach.  The ride seemed strangely arduous for one that is almost entirely flat. Have I gained more weight?, I wondered.  Is something out of adjustment? (A quick glance told me the answer was "no.")  Or should I have eaten something besides oatmeal cookies for lunch?


Well, I got my answer at the Rockaway boardwalk.  Another cyclist and I were playing tag along the long straightaways and bridges from Howard Beach into Broad Channel and Rockaway Beach.  I learned his name: Devon.  "Good workout riding into the wind, isn't it?"

He was indeed right:  The wind whipped flags like whitecaps.  I could feel it as I was riding, but somehow I didn't think of it as the reason I was (or seemed to be) riding slowly.  Perhaps I didn't think about it because, as bracing as it was, it was not a cold wind, as it came directly off the ocean to the south of us.  While the water temperature has dropped since August, it's still about twenty degrees warmer than it will be in February.  


As we rode back, I realized that we'd actually been keeping a fairly good pace.  Even in that wind, the ride down to Rockaway Beach didn't take much longer than it normally would; now, on our way back, we were practically flying.


It may be a while in coming, but I'm sure there will be another day, and another ride, like what I experienced the other day.  And perhaps I will run into Devon again.

In A Valley Or A Tunnel Of Wind?

Today I got out for a brief spin on Marianela.  I didn't go much beyond my neighborhood.  But it's nice to loop through side streets that are mostly free of traffic.  I was surprised at how clear they were:  Just a few days ago, there were patches of ice on even the more heavily-used thoroughfares.  


The temperature reached 40 F (5C), which is about normal for an afternoon at this time of year.  However, the wind made it feel a good bit colder.  According to a weather report I heard, we had wind gusts of 40 mph (about 65 kph). I don't think I was riding into, or with, anything so strong.  But I certainly did feel it.  


Usually, when most people think of wind, they think of open, flat areas.  I think of the creation stories and other lore of the Native American tribes who lived in the plains and the desert:  In them, "it is the wind that gave them life," as it did in the Navajo chant I've quoted. And in the places where they lived, when there was wind, there was no escaping from it.  On the other hand, if there isn't wind where you're pedaling, you're not likely to encounter any for a while.


On the other hand, the wind seems to be a more capricious part of urban cycling. Sometimes buildings can act as wind blocks.  However, long rows of the same buildings seem to create a "wind tunnel" effect.  At other times, they are a kind of "valley" of stillness among the relative turbulence.


Now, it's been at least three decades since I took a Physics course.  So I'm sure I've forgotten a lot.  Did the instructor, or the textbook, ever explain why the wind that's blowing in one part of town is stopped by one block full of buildings but intensifies in another.


Anyway...The ride was pleasant, if unremarkable.  My only complaint was that my camera's batteries were dead and I didn't find out until I tried to take a photo. Oh well.

Into The Wind; Into Life

Today I managed to get out only briefly.  I got up late and had a few errands and other things to take care of.  I wish I'd ridden more (Don't I always!) because it was a nice day, the cold and wind notwithstanding.


Actually, I wanted to ride more in part because of the wind.  Of course, there are two sides of it:  riding facefirst into it and having it blow at your back.  The former is the stuff that builds character and such, the latter is a reward for, I suppose, having your character built up.


Pedaling into the wind is, even among non-cyclists, a poignant metaphor for facing challenges. Not being pushed back is a kind of progress; moving forward is a victory in the same way as surviving another day of a struggle.  With these victories, with survival, comes the hope that accompanies the anticipation of a reward:  the wind blowing at your back.  


I did my first rides of more than an hour along the ocean in New Jersey. I would ride from Middletown, where I spent my high-school years, to Sandy Hook, which is exactly what the name says it is:  a spit of sand that somehow manages not to be submerged by the bay or the ocean that are on each side of it.  From there, I'd ride along Route 36 through Sea Bright and Monmouth Beach--both of which straddle strips of land even narrower than Sandy Hook--to Long Branch. (Later, as I gained more experience, I'd ride down to Asbury Park or beyond.)  

On the peninsula that forms the West End of Long Branch, the wind shifted direction about two o'clock every afternoon. On most days, I would be riding into the wind down to Long Branch.  That, of course, meant that the wind would blow me back home.  


Learning about that wind shift, and how to use it, taught me much more than almost anything else I learned in high school--or any school, for that matter. It took me a long time to learn how to use those lessons, but they are the sorts of lessons one doesn't forget.


Those lessons were even applicable to those times when I had to continue pedaling into the same wind from which I had no respite on the previous day.  There are times like that on most multi-day rides:  I recall now the second tour I took in Europe, from Italy into France.  Late one Saturday I checked into a small hotel in Brignoles, a place that was actually quite lovely and interesting (It is in Provence, after all.) but where I also hadn't any plans to stay.  I stopped there because, by the end of that afternoon, I simply couldn't pedal any more.  The next day was more of the same--wind and climbing punctuated by climbing and wind--but at least every pore, orifice and cell had been awakened by that previous day's ride.  


And, oddly enough, while I was pedaling through those lavender-tinged hills, I began to chant part of a Navajo creation song to myself:


It was the wind that gave them life.  It is the wind that comes out of our mouths now that gives us life.  When this ceases to blow, we die.  In the skin at the tips of our fingers, we can see the train of wind. It shows us where the wind blew where our ancestors were created.


Actually, now that I think of it, those words weren't so incongruous.  In the villages and countryside in which I had been riding, I'd had the sense that everything there was happening in some sort of circle that seemed to begin in the wind.  Everyone knew where their ancestors were created, if you will.  A few days earlier, I talked to an olive grower.  I told him that his trees were among the most beautiful things I had ever seen. While not prideful, he didn't seem surprised. "C'est aussi une cathedrale," he said.  "Il est leve pour longtemps" :  It has stood for a long time, like a cathedral.  Later, he told me, "Quand cet arbre est plante, n'est pas pour son moi; n'est pas pour son enfants ou petit-enfants; il est pour leurs petit-enfants":  You do not plant such a tree for yourself, for your children or grand-children; you plant it for their grandchildren.


At the tips of its leaves, one can also see a train of wind.  It shows where the others have grown and where their fruits have been picked, by the ancestors of those who planted it: The grower told me that an olive tree has to grow a hundred years before it bears fruit.  But, if cared for, it will continue to provide olives for a thousand years.


And it was given life by that same wind into which I would pedal a few days later.