A Ride As The Sun Breaks

The days are growing shorter. So I should begin a multi-hour ride early in the morning, right? Did I? No. I took my time with breakfast and let Marlee cuddle me: I think he wanted it because I was wearing a sweatshirt I hadn’t worn in a while. 

I had another motive for starting my ride to Point Lookout later than I “should” have. Today was one of those bright, nippy, breezy days that practically defines October. Tomorrow’s forecast calls for wind and rain, courtesy of a hurricane that’s soaking the South. So I figured—correctly, as it turned out—that as I pedaled along the ocean, I would see light and cloud formations even more vivid than those of hot, shadowless summer days.

It was as if the sun were taking a break in the waves ahead of the approaching storm.  

Riding And Remembering

 Yesterday I pedaled to Point Lookout. The ride takes me from the Botanical Garden through concrete canyons to houses on small patches of land in Queens and, finally, a peninsula bounded by the ocean and bay that looks more like a New England seaside idyllic than part of suburban sprawl.

Today’s ride was very different, from the Bronx all the way downtown in Manhattan.  Ironically, I left my apartment without a set itinerary, in contrast to yesterday’s trip, in which I followed a route, with slight variations, I’d taken many times before.

Today started cool but turned summer-like as the afternoon progressed. High clouds drifted across a blue sky. Many streets were closed off for what I believe is the last of “Open Streets” Saturday, in which motor vehicles are prohibited, and for various street fairs. But everywhere I looked, streets teemed with pedestrians and cyclists.

Twenty-five years ago yesterday, hijackers crashed two passenger airliners into the World Trade Center. The day after, from what I’m told, areas of Manhattan removed from the scene were all but empty, the silence interrupted only by ambulances and other emergency vehicles.  I said “I”m told” because I was living in Park Slope, Brooklyn, and no one was except police, firefighters and other emergency workers were allowed to enter Manhattan.

It would have been difficult, I imagine, for people I saw today, many of whom weren’t yet born on 9/11, to imagine how different the city looked from the one they were enjoying today. And I guess some, like me, who witnessed it firsthand or were nearby and experienced the immediate aftermath, couldn’t imagine or not imagine it whether or not we want to:  smoke wafts and screams echo in our minds, in our nightmares.

The festive atmosphere along downtown streets where people’s worlds were shaken twenty-five years ago reminded me of the first time I visited Place de la Concorde: On that pleasant June day in one of the world’s most elegant public squares, it was difficult, though not impossible, to recall accounts of the square filled with blood (because the drains were to small to carry it away) from the 1100 people guillotined there during the Reign of Terror.

One important difference between today and my first time in Paris was that there were no living witnesses to the Reign of Terror. Anyone who thinks about it knows about it the way I do: from written accounts, art and perhaps what they were taught in school. The day will come when the same holds true for 9/11. For now, many of us still can remember, whether or not we want to—even during a pleasant afternoon bike ride.

Twenty-Five Years Later

 

Today I pedaled to Point Lookout and back. I wasn’t trying to forget what happened 25 years ago today: I couldn’t have, even if I wanted to. 

Ships were docked beyond the South Shore beaches. They are more than likely research vessels, but I couldn’t keep from wondering whether they were defending against some kind of “commemoration” or “celebration.” After all, while I didn’t see much traffic on my way out and very few other cyclists, or even casual strollers, along the Rockaway and Long Beach boardwalks, cops seemed to be everywhere. Some, of course, were on their way to or from 9/11 commemorations, as many fellow officers died that day.  But I wondered whether some were deployed as deterrents even though, I suspect, someone wouldn’t have launched an attack today: it would be too obvious. But, hey, what do I know about such things?

Riding today was a sort of commemoration for me. I didn’t know anyone who died in the Twin Towers, but I knew people who did. I can’t help but to think it changed the dynamics of, or ended altogether, relationships between those who lost someone and those who didn’t.  I have lost friends and relatives, sometimes in unexpected ways, but I don’t think they compare to someone going to work and never coming home.  Also, I believe there must have been a particular shock in knowing how those parents, siblings, neighbors and friends experienced their last moments: Who anticipates dying in that way?

Today I realized that, perhaps, 9/11 has been part of the changes in how I ride. While cycle-commuting wasn’t as popular in New York as it is now, some of the people who died that day took their last rides to their desks, tables or other work places in the Towers. Some were making deliveries. 

Perhaps as a result about the bikes that survived even if their riders didn’t, I don’t stress as much as I used to about a ride going “perfectly,” whatever that means. If my bike feels good under me and I’m enjoying the ride, whether I’m on a commute, errand or “joy” ride, that’s all that matters. If it’s not cold and raining at the same time, the weather is fine. (The planes that struck the Towers flew through the most preternaturally clear blue skies I, or many other people, had seen in New York City.) I don’t know whether the ride I take  tomorrow, or twenty or fifty years from now, will be my last. But if I can ride, and I can savor it afterwards, I have a gift, whether or not I deserve it, denied to so many other people on that terrible day 25 years ago.

Who—Or What—Is Next?

 It’s been said that the deaths of famous people come in threes. Within the past two weeks, we lost two of the most amazing women: Dolly Parton and Gloria Steinem.  Some (including me) would count Tim Curry, who died the same day as Dolly. Others might Robin Morgan, who passed yesterday, in the group. Perhaps we should make it four:  In Japanese and other cultures, the number is associated with death.

Strange times we’re in (as if we weren’t before). One of my neighbors, whom I usually encountered while smoking with other neighbors just outside our building, has kicked the habit. That’s a good thing, of course (unless you have stock in Philip-Morris), but the circumstances that brought him to that decision weren’t delightful:  While in a store, he started gasping and was rushed to the emergency room.  Oh, and someone else I know was ordered to the hospital immediately when tests revealed liver damage.

Somehow I knew change was gonna come (apologies to Sam Cooke) as I set out for Point Lookout, a ride I have taken many times. The weather was almost too perfect:  temperature-wise, more like a day later in this month or even next month, preternaturally blue skies and white, puffy clouds. Waves rolled in, echoing streams of flapping egrets’ wings. Perhaps it had to do with hearing, before I set out to ride, about a news item about an event to commemorate the 25th anniversary of 9/11. Like almost everybody else who lived through that day, I remember how beautiful it was right before the planes flew toward the towers: much like yesterday.

Movies and TV programs never show disasters happening on days like yesterday or, for that matter, 11 September 2001. But the times before, if not the disaster itself, then the loss of innocence, always seem to be idyllic, even Edenic, shown through a scrim, or perhaps a gauze, of dreamlike haze. Even the sunset, when seen through that mist, wispy clouds drifting about, does not seem to portend the coming of the moment when it all becomes a memory—and nobody in the scene knows what’s coming. The audience does, but they can’t tell.

A “Blockbuster” No One Wants To See

 Rain, rain and more rain. That’s a fair summary of the past two days. One local weather forecaster called this summer a “blockbuster storm season.”  Blockbuster? I guess storms can be spectacles, spreading  across the sky like a movie on a screen.

Ironically, I was most worried about rain the other day, I’d pedaled out to Point Lookout and was enjoying pane de casa from Addeo’s with Manchego cheese when a cumulus cloud with a face of shadows crawled across the sky. It passed, and I made good use of my sunscreen during the ride back.

And now I get to watch this summer’s “blockbuster “ when we were supposed to see a near-total lunar eclipse.

Two Women Riding In The Rockaways

 

Today’s ride to Point Lookout was pleasant in all of the ways one could hope: The weather was warm, but not overly so; I had to pedal into just enough wind on my way out to make things interesting and I seemed to have just beaten the summer weekend crowds. Pleasant and pretty unremarkable, except perhaps for two women I saw.

The first rode with me across the Veterans Memorial Bridge to the Rockaway Peninsula and then to the boardwalk, where we parted ways. I’d guess that she’s within a decade of my age. She rode a Trek road bike in, probably, the smallest frame size available in that model. But I wouldn’t describe her as petite so much as compact:  Her body seemed to concentrate not only strength, but also the effort and discipline she put into cycling and, I suspect, whatever else she does.

The second, whom I encountered—ironically enough—just before I entered the VM Bridge on my way back, seemed about as different from the first. Tall and lithe, she could be as much a model as an athlete.  If the first one concentrated power, the second extended it through her long limbs. She rode what appeared to be a flat-bar road bike, also from Trek. The young man, who seemed to be her boyfriend or fiancé, pedaled a bike that looked like hers, except for its dropped handlebars.

On reflection, I recall a striking similarity between those two women:  They seemed, each in her own way, very confident and in command of their bodies.  The petite woman on her road bike pedaled in deliberate strokes and perched herself forward in an unapologetic yet joyful way. The taller woman kept pace with her male companion and, perhaps, could have ridden faster. But something in her body language told me she wasn’t trying merely to be in sync with him, and a brief glimpse of her face led me to believe she wasn’t deferential to him.

I am glad to have seen each of those women riding confidently, competently and comfortably in her own way. And they remind me of what this administration, with its patriarchal religious and oligarchic allies, are trying to take from us.

(I apologize for not taking pictures of either of the women, or today’s ride.)

Screen and Shade on Midlife Rides

 

Yesterday I pedaled to Point Lookout and back. Today I trekked to Fort Totten. I have done both rides many times. But during the past two days I have noticed—or, perhaps, simply admitted—something.

We’ve had the best weather in weeks: Daytime high temperatures reached 27C (80-81F) after early-morning lows of 17-18C (63-65F). And smoke from Canadian wildfires has cleared, at least for now, and left blue skies full of bright sunshine.

That last quality has become both a blessing and a curse:  It makes me want spend all day riding but, I believe, also tires me out even more than heat. Perhaps my melanin-deficient skin has grown more sensitive in the (ahem) middle of my life.

 When I first started to use sunscreen—some time after I started my gender affirmation (what we used to call “transition”)—I used the least expensive ones I could find. Granted, some store brands have the same formulations as “name” brands. But I wasn’t paying much attention to those ingredient lists or SPF ratings.

That is, until my trip to Cambodia and Laos in 2018. I was much closer to the equator than I’d been before, or have been since. Before I left, someone advised me to get “the strongest” sunscreen I could find.  I brought a tube of 100 SPF lotion with me. It was more stronger than I needed even there and after I returned home, I went back to using the least expensive stuff—usually 30 SPF.

A few years ago, I “upgraded” to 50 SPF. But for rides along the ocean (e.g., much of my ride to Point Lookout) or other large bodies of water, I cover myself with 70 SPF.  Even so, I did something else yesterday and today I never would have imagined in my younger days: I stopped simply to sit in shade for a few minutes—even though I was near the end of each ride. Not so long ago, I would have thought, “I don’t have far to go” and continued to pedal.  

Did I “need” to stop? Even if I didn’t, I don’t regret that I did, any more than I regret using a stronger sunscreen. It just felt good: the same reason I continue to cycle in midlife!

At What Age?

 

After Saturday’s ride to Point Lookout, I was very tired. I thought it might’ve had to do with my age, but I realized that as beautiful as the day was, the direct sunlight was draining me. So was the wind I pedaled into for most of my way back. 

I got to thinking about age again today, after riding to a few errands—and to vote in the primary.  The election workers were great.  One, a sweet-faced Black lady a decade or so younger than me (or so I guessed), was impressed that I pedaled to the polling place: a nearby high school gymnasium.

Only one other person who wasn’t a poll worker was in that room at the same time I was.  I wondered what he was doing there. On our way out, we exchanged greetings. “I apologize if I was looking at you too long.  But you look very young.”

“I’m 22. But people tell me I look 16.”

“That’s exactly how old I thought you were,”

We laughed. Somehow I knew then he was mature beyond his years. “Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

“That would be nice,” I said.

Later, I thought about how looking so young must complicate some things for him.  He’s old enough to vote, drive and drink, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets passed over for dates, jobs or other opportunities, or if he’s simply not included in some circles because of assumptions people make about him.

When I was his age—and when I was 16, for that matter—people thought I looked older.  Now I am one of the youngest residents of my senior citizens’ building, and people tell me I look younger.

Actually, I’ve been thinking about age a fair amount lately, ever since I had a dream about a high-school classmate, only to find her name on the “In Memoriam” list of my class’s round-number reunion page. While some, like me, looked older and others seemed younger, nearly all of us were just to one side or the other of 18 years old on the day we graduated. I was one of the ones who hadn’t reached that milestone and was therefore not considered an adult in New Jersey (where I graduated) or most other places.  On the other hand, those who got to the big one-eight could join the military, open a bank account, sign a lease or do a myriad of other things without their parents’ or guardians’ permission.  And, of course, they could vote.

What’s even stranger is that those of us who went to college or university were perceived as adults, more or less, even if we had yet to turn 18.  Even on the day I first set foot on the Rutgers campus, I knew I wasn’t a very, if at all, different person from the one I was a couple of months earlier, when I received my high school diploma. That fact became more obvious as the years went by.

In recalling my encounter with the young man at the polling place, I can’t help but to think that the standards we use, especially ones like age, to confer one kind of status or another on someone, are so arbitrary. I can only imagine what the young man I met today experiences because of his very boyish appearance.

What Next?

 The semester is ending. Although my workload hasn’t been greater than in previous years, this has been a pretty intense time. Some of that has to do with the students themselves, though not entirely in a bad way. But I have also been experiencing things outside the classroom—or, more precisely, within me—that have made my interactions seem more fraught and rewarding at the same time. 

The ride I took to Point Lookout on Saturday and a Sunday visit to the Botanical Garden were what I needed: both invigorating and restorative. I will return to them again, barring some unforeseeable (for me, anyway) tragedy or disaster. Monday, on the other hand, included the last session of one of my classes. Students thanked me as I’ve never heard before. One stayed after to tell me that, for the first time, they felt confident about their future.

You may have noticed that I used gender-neutral pronouns. The student identifies themself in that way. I “outed” myself in that class: something I hadn’t done in any class in some time. “That made me realize the life I want is possible,” they explained. I urged that student, and another who identifies as non-binary, to stay in touch with me, and not only for a reference or letter of recommendation.

I told them a bit about how I began my gender affirmation process. Although I participated in support groups and was working with a therapist who helped other trans people through their affirmation processes and a clinical social worker who was a trans man, I didn’t have role models in my day-to-day life.  Some lesbians and gay men were supportive, but their journeys were, in some ways, very different from mine. For them, not to mention family members, friends, co-workers and other people in my life, I was the first person they knew who was making that “transition.” “Now I hope,” I told those students, “I am giving you what I didn’t have.”

I confided to them that I’ve been thinking about leaving the US. Sometimes I feel I need it for my mental health. Other times I feel I should stay because of people like them. “Well, whether you stay or go, you’ll offer the same thing you’re giving us,” one student assured me. “If you move to France or Italy or wherever, there are young people like us.”

Where, and how, will my midlife journey continue? Perhaps there is no right or wrong answer—as there is for so many of the questions I, and they, pose.

Red And Gray

It’s been a while since I last posted. The past two weeks have been busy. I finally did a long ride yesterday, to Point Lookout, Coney Island and into Manhattan via the Manhattan Bridge before hopping onto the D train at Grand Street, in Manhattan’s Chinatown. In all, I covered about 150 kilometers, or just over 90 miles.  It actually 130 km ride I did the previous Saturday because I had the wind at my back or side all the way from Point Lookout to Manhattan, whereas I was pedaling into the wind on my way home from the previous ride.

The weather has been strange, even for this time of year. On Wednesday and Thursday, the temperature reached 90F (32.2 C), which would have been the beginning of a heat wave in July or August.  While the weather had cooled down (70F/21C) by yesterday, it felt even cooler along the ocean. And although the sun didn’t feel intense—in fact, skies had grown overcast—I still managed to get sunburned,  (Use sunscreen even if you don’t think you need it!).

How is it that my limbs and face burned tomato red, yet steel gray cables and towers (in this case, the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge) were bathed in the even grayer mist and clouds?  The mysteries!

All I Cared About

 Yesterday I rode to Point Lookout. About an hour in, I chided myself for a late start: Since the end of Daylight Savings Time, it’s been getting dark around 17:00. But I stopped worrying once I saw this:

On my way back, I definitely needed my lights by then time I got to the stretch of Rockaway Boardwalk from about 38th to 52nd Streets:  It was unlit. To my right were undeveloped swaths of shrubs and sea grasses all the way to the elevated tracks;  to my left, the unprotected beach and ocean. 

The first time I went to that part of Queens, just on the other side of the tracks, I was leading creative writing workshops as an artist-in-residence at one of the schools. Teachers and pupils cautioned me against the stretch of boardwalk early last evening: Because of its relative desolation, strollers and joggers were beaten, robbed and worse.  

That was, if I recall correctly, not long after the Central Park jogger incident. You couldn’t escape the fear of crime. While, according to statistics, crime is way down from those days, the stretch might’ve been even more deserted than I’d been warned.  Before passing through that forlorn strip, the Boardwalk skirts an Orthodox Jewish neighborhood of Far Rockaway. Because the sun had set on Friday, the women in long skirts and flat shoes, the men with tzitzit dangling from their shirts weren’t riding or walking by the sea; they were at home, having lit their candles half an hour or so earlier.

I wasn’t worried; if anything, I felt more peace than I usually feel. Perhaps it was the knowledge that I was keeping up a good pace and, like a younger version of myself, could out-ride almost any danger.  

Some of that confidence may have come from riding my best bike: my custom Mercian Vincitore Special. But I wasn’t thinking about the bike which, some would argue, is a good sign: It fits and runs well.  Perhaps my confidence had to do with the fact that, in a stretch devoid of distractions, I could only ride, and I only wanted to ride. I had no reason to care whether anyone would be impressed (or not) with me or my bike. 

I wonder whether being in Japan and having spent considerable time in Europe, among people who simply ride, has something to do with my attitude. Or, perhaps, I have reached that stage of midlife I’ve heard about: when you stop caring about what other people think. (Hint: Many don’t think, or they’re simply not thinking about you.) Whatever the case may be, I had a great ride.

Would Agnès Varda Approve?

 Yesterday I rode LaVande, my King of Mercia, against 20-35 KPH (12.5- 22.5 MPH) headwinds,, to Point Lookout. My reward: I coasted along the coast to Coney Island and its culinary delights .

Maybe It Isn’t Abour Infrastructure Or Education

 The other day, I rode La-Vande, my King of Mercia, to Point Lookout. My ride started under a veil of clouds that didn’t entirely block the sun. So the day was bright enough to be cheerful without the sun bearing down on me. 

Later on, though, as the temperature rose,  clouds dissipated and the sea acted like a tanning mirror. That, or my skin is more sensitive than it was in my youth.

The ride was pleasant, except for a stretch of Cross Bay Boulevard near the Gateway National Recreation Area. The bike lane that parallels the Boulevard—really just the shoulder of the road with some green paint—gets turned into a passing lane by impatient motorists, of whom there are many:  The Boulevard is a long, flat road through residential and semi-rural areas that brings out the wannabe NASCAR champions in too many drivers.

Again, I got to thinking about Japan. There are extensive networks of well-marked and -maintained bike lanes. Many streets in Kyoto and Tokyo also have shared lanes for motor vehicles and cyclists. While riding in both cities (I didn’t get to ride in Osaka) I never was “nudged” out of a shared lane, let alone menaced in a lane set aside for cyclists.

I had long thought that the courtesy I experienced from drivers in France, Italy and other European countries had something to do with the fact that many of those motorists are also, or have recently been, cyclists. Such “dual citizens,” if you will, probably make up a larger portion of the population in those countries than in the US. That is one reason why, in earlier posts, I expressed my belief that educating American drivers, and the general public, about cycling —for example, why it’s safer for us to cross an intersection against a red light than to wait for a green if there’s no cross-traffic—would do as much as, or more than, “infrastructure” to make cycling safer and thus encourage more people to see it as a viable transportation option.

But the kind of courtesy, which at times bordered on deference, I experienced in the Land of the Rising Sun went beyond even what I experienced in Europe. It occurs to me that it has much to do with some basic cultural attitudes that, perhaps, can’t be taught in a country where one of the founding principles is individualism. I mean, how else can I account for the fact that the kind of motorist behavior to which I was subjected on Cross Bay Boulevard seems not to even occur to anyone driving along Higashikujo.

I Want To Go Back To Japan—Because Of My Best Ride In New York

 Lighter and fluffier than cotton candy, thin high clouds wisped over beaches not yet crowded with weekend throngs. Those clouds didn’t obscure the sun or sky; rather, they highlighted the almost preternaturally refulgent expanse crowning the unusually calm and blue waters.

If that sounds like a perfect day for a bike ride, your hearing (so to speak, pun intended) is true. And ride I did, on Dee-Lilah, my Mercian Vincitore Special. What better ride than the beautiful bespoke bike I gave myself as a gift on my most recent round-number birthday?

Oh, and the ride could not have gone better. I pedaled into wind (from the southeast, apparently) that at times “gusted” to 20 KPH  (12 MPH) to Point Lookout and let that same wind assist my ride along the ocean to Coney Island and along the Verrazano Narrows, passing under the eponymous bridge, into the Brooklyn neighborhoods of Bay Ridge, Sunset Park and Park Slope to Barclays Center, where I hopped on the D train home after a ride of about 145 kilometers (90 miles).

Even with my best planning (which may not be saying much) I could hardly have had a better ride. Yet…

Nothing could have done more than that ride to make me wish I were still in Japan, particularly in Kyoto. Although the weather was great, I felt good and Dee-Lilah practically sang under me, there is so much I miss already about cycling, and simply being, in the Land of the Rising Sun.

What I am feeling is not the same sort of yearning to be somewhere else I felt through my childhood and early adult life: When I was in high school, I dreamed of going to college, getting a job or doing almost anything else to get out of that school, that town, that state. Then I went to Rutgers where, I can say without exaggeration, everybody—students, faculty, staff—wanted to be somewhere else.(Some years back, someone did a survey to determine which college or university had the most unhappy students. Supposedly, Rutgers came in second, behind Brandeis.) And I had a series of jobs where I wanted to be somewhere else, doing something else.

But my current longing has nothing to do with youthful wanderlust or unresolved psychological issues. Rather, it has to do with having experienced a place where order doesn’t seem like an imposition. Instead, it’s what makes the place beautiful and vibrant—and safe to ride. Drivers aren’t using bike lanes for passing or parking (or, worse, picking up and discharging passengers); I never felt that any driver could kill me if they lost their patience.

For that matter, I never worried that the person standing on line in Family Mart or Lawson would pull out a gun if they were having a bad day.  Or that bumping into someone could lead to a fight. (I was amazed how infrequently people bumped into each other, even on crowded streets in the Ginza district.) Of course, that has to do with being in a country with real firearms regulation. I believe, however, it also has to do with something woven through the culture. 

It was remarkable, to me, that I sensed so little aggression, even among Tokyo business and tech people,who are in just as much of a hurry as their New York counterparts. Whether I rode or walked, I never had the sense that anyone was trying to push me out of the way. Whenever I crossed an intersection, turning cars stopped, even if they had the same green light I had.

Speaking of public spaces: The dirtiest I saw—a stretch near Doutonbori in Osaka—wasn’t as grimy or smelly as most public spaces in New York. People don’t use bike lanes or streets or train stations as trash receptacles or toilets. 

Even though I still have, I believe, a bit of my youthful rebellious streak, I found myself loving the order I saw in public spaces and the consideration people give each other. I am reminded of my first trip to Europe, just after I graduated Rutgers: For all that I professed to hating rules and formality, I really liked entering shops, bakeries, museums or any other public venue, and being greeted with, and greeting whoever worked there, with a light, almost sing-songy “bonjour” and that French, Italian and other European meals had their own protocols and rituals, from what is consumed when (and with what). Part of my love, of course, came simply from being truly away from home (I traveled by myself, on my bike). But I also sensed people’s appreciation for the things, however small, that made them who they are, as individuals and a society. 

I felt that sense on an even deeper level in Japan. Of course, because my stay wasn’t very long, I might be mis-perceiving it. Whatever the case, the general ease I felt in a culture completely unlike any other I’ve known, where I don’t speak the language (I at least knew some some school French and Spanish, and some very situational Italian, when I first went to Europe) made some sense to me after enjoying the gardens and visiting the temples, shrines, castles and other monuments.

The Gion district.

In an earlier post, I mentioned the Nijo Castle in Kyoto, where I learned about the Samurai codes of honor which, I believe, influence Japanese social morés. Interestingly, another experience in Kyoto revealed something about the ways people interact with each other and their surroundings: a visit to Gion, the “Geisha district “ of Kyoto, where I saw geishas on the street and saw a geisha show. There, I learned that, contrary to a common misperception, they are not prostitutes or concubines, but are rather like cultural ambassadors:  They are trained performance artists who dance, sing, have conversations and otherwise provide an elegant atmosphere for visiting dignitaries and guests at banquets and other events. The young women chosen for this profession undergo a process of training and acculturation as lengthy and rigorous as for just about any other profession you can think of. Oh, and while they are maikos—geishas in training—they basically have no contact with their families or anyone outside their okiya (Geisha house), which is strictly controlled by a kind of house mother. 

Oh, and they’re not allowed to have cell phones. Can you imagine any young American signing up for that? And, as long as they’re geishas, they’re not allowed to marry or have boyfriends. They’re “married to the profession.” Hmm…Maybe that has something to do with how diligent Japanese oil people seem to be about their work.

Another insight into what I experienced in Japan came during a visit to the Nonomiya Shrine. One of the exhibits mentioned that in ancient Japanese mythology, all things—even inanimate objects—have souls. I doubt any Japanese person believes that today. But knowing that such a belief was foundational to Japanese culture, I couldn’t help but to wonder whether that is a reason why the Japanese seem to take such good care of everything and keep public spaces so clean.

Or why none of their bike lanes are like the one on 4th Avenue in Sunset Park, Brooklyn—one of the worst in New York, if not all of the United States.

I want to go back to Japan—because of one of the best bike rides I’ve had in New York, not because of youthful wanderlust.

From One Connection to Another?

 Today, for the first time in a week, I took a ride that didn’t involve errands or some other purpose. I pedaled, into the the wind, to Point Lookout. That meant, of course, the wind pushed me on my way back.

As I munched on the chips and salsa (homemade—in my home) I brought with me, a lady asked whether I minded sharing the bench with her. “Of course not!” The man who accompanied her said, half-jokingly, “I trust you with her.” 

“You don’t know me!” I joked back.

Vera is a delightful conversationalist. After an hour or so, she invited me to her house—only a block away—for iced tea. Her dog Willie greeted me at the gate and she introduced me to her husband, sons and grandson.

COVID, it seemed, turned many people inward, or caused them to tune out. But Vera said it had the opposite effect on her: After seeing people die, she “came to appreciate “ that she’s still here—at 92 years old. I never would have guessed.

So I got home quite a bit later than I expected. I felt a little guilty about that because ‘it’s the first time I’ve left Marlee alone for a whole day since I brought her back from the hospital. Before I left, he was trying to rub his face on me but the “Elizabethan collar” got in the way. 

We will have our connection soon enough, I hope. But for today I made another connection—or, to be exact, Vera made one with me. We exchanged addresses and phone numbers and asked me to call the next time I’m out that way.

After The Ride

 So why, dear readers, have you not heard from me since the Fourth?

(You might also be wondering why I’ve started this post with a question that sounds like something from an 18th Century epistleary novel. But I digress.)

No, I didn’t spend the past two days recovering from a wild birthday bash. 

Saturday, the day after the Fourth, could hardly have been better for cycling : temperatures reached the low 80s (27-28C), the sun illuminated high cirrus clouds and moderate wind blew in from the southeast. And surprisingly little traffic claimed the roadway. 

So of course I rode. On such a day I expected to see more people than I saw on the sand or in the water at Rockaway and Long Beaches and Point Lookout. One section of Jacob Riis Park was full, but there was some sort of gathering or celebration in progress. I didn’t see anything like the crowds I expected (and feared) until I got to Coney Island, where it seemed that nobody went home after the previous day’s fireworks and hotdog eating contest (of which I never understood the appeal ).

As the day—Saturday, the day after the Fourth —had grown late, I knew that even if the volume of traffic didn’t grow, the level of alcohol consumption would . So I took the train home, happy with the 85 mile (140 km) ride I’d taken on a beautiful day .

My great mood ended when I got home and saw splotches—of blood?—scattered across the floor and Marlee lying in a small puddle, acknowledging me only with her eyes. No veterinary offices or clinics were open, so I left a message with Bronx Veterinary Center, the first to open yesterday morning .

After spending most of the day there, I got the prognosis: kidney stones and blockages in her digestive and excretory systems. She underwent surgery and will be there until tomorrow.

Last night was lonely: It was my first at home, in decades, without her—or any other cat.

An Inoffensive Mystery

 Yesterday I pedaled La-Vande, my King of Mercia to Point Lookout. On my way back, I hopped on a train in Arverne, near Rockaway Beach, when I saw a storm coming just beyond (or so it seemed) the Boardwalk. Still, I rode about 105 kilometers (65 miles).

At Point Lookout, I shared the sun deck with a couple who, not so long ago, I would have described as “older.” They most likely had only a few years, if any, ahead of me.

The woman had whiter-than-white finger- and toe-nails that could have drawn attention to, or deflected it from, anything else about her appearance. Otherwise she didn’t seem out of the ordinary except, perhaps, for her black and white swimsuit and flip-flops that we’re probably expensive but pretending to try not to look it. 

The man, on the other hand wore a T-shirt with a logo from some event at Notre Dame (the university). At least, that was on the back.  I didn’t see his front until he turned to me and asked, in an almost awkwardly- polite tone, “Is the music bothering you?”

“Not at all, thank you.”

His device played Frank Sinatra at a volume one might hear in the background of a small office. In that space, with a roof and no walls, the sound was even less intrusive.

I grinned to myself. People, mostly young men, play their music, full of heavy bass beats, loud enough to vibrate the walls of buildings they pass as they speed down “strouds” in their “pimped out” cars. None have ever asked anyone the same question I heard from that man in Point Lookout.

Perhaps more ironically, a couole of weeks ago a young man making Fed Ex deliveries boarded an elevator with me. Turned out, we were headed to the same floor. “So you’re Sinatra?”

He looked at me quizzically.

“Going my way?”

Blank stare.

“You’ve heard of Frank Sinatra?”

“No.”

I explained that “The Chairman of the Board” was perhaps the favorite crooner of a generation or two. “You’ve probably heard at least one of his songs-“New York, New York.”

There was a glint of recognition.

“It has the line, ‘I wanna wake up in that city that doesn’t sleep.’”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Well check out You Tube or anyplace else you listen to music. You can find more of his songs.”

I was happy to give that young man a piece, however small, of a proper education. But I don’t know which made me, a Midlife Cyclist feel old, if only for a moment: my having to explain “Ol’ Blue Eyes” to the young man or the older man asking whether 

Ride Into a Changing Season

 Yesterday I pedaled to Point Lookout via the Rockaways. This is an interesting time of year for such a ride: it’s almost or actually summer, depending on whom you ask, but the temperature difference between the “mainland” and beach areas still is, or at least feels, as pronounced as it is early in the Spring.  According to some reports, temperatures reached 85-88F (29-31C) around my apartment and in other central areas of New York City. But the lifeguard stations along the Rockaways Boardwalk indicated 72F (22C). It certainly felt that way, with wind blowing from 59F (14C) water.

I didn’t need to know the numbers, however, to explain something I saw: Many people walking or riding the Boardwalk but hardly anybody swimming. And those statistics couldn’t have explained the differences, however subtle, I noticed in the light and color of the sky and water.

Finding Another Path?

 I played hooky.

Well, technically I didn’t have to be at work. But I had some work-related stuff to do on an absolutely gorgeous mid-Spring morning. And my bicycles were calling me. (Is that a consequence of my naming them?)

So off I pedaled—to Point Lookout.

It’s funny that even on a ride I’ve taken dozens, or even hundreds, of times before, I can still see something I hadn’t noticed before:

Did someone carve a path into the dune? Could animals—or humans—have trodden it into existence?  Or did some unusual sequence of natural events—like the ones that cause rock formations to resemble dragons or even famous people—do their work ?

Plays of Light, Riding Through Seasons

This afternoon I took another ride from one season to another, though the change wasn’t quite as drastic as what I experienced last Saturday. 

Actually, when I began the ride, the temperature was 72F (22C), which would be normal about three or four weeks from now. But once I crossed the bridge to Rockaway Beach, the temperature dropped about 20 degrees F, which would’ve been normal about a month ago.

I

I didn’t mind: I got to enjoy plays of light through clouds and on waves along the south shore from Rockaway Beach to Point Lookout and back across the Rockaways to Riis Park, Sheepshead Bay and Coney Island.