No Destination, But A Memory

Yesterday was a no-particular-destination ride. The morning sky was so clear and bright I could have believed that the previous night’s “Blue Super Moon” was helping the sun. The temperature—around 19c (66F) felt more like an early Fall than late Summer. The north wind rustled leaves and spilled cool waves against my skin.

Though I had particular place I intended to ride, I knew I wanted to pedal into that wind so that, depending on my route, it would blow at my back on my way back.

So my ramble took me up and down the hills, and past estates—some inhabited, others turned into museums, libraries and other monuments and institutions. That meant going first through the Bronx—and up the new Bruckner bike lane I rode on Sunday.

As I entered the lane from 138th Street, I had a flashback that caused me to stop at one of the pillars holding the highway above me.

The scene I recollected may have happened at that post. If not, it took place at one nearby. Whichever it was, realizing that the memory was from about thirty years ago made me feel, for a moment, old.  But I’m still in midlife. Really!

I was riding with some of my old mountain biking buddies. We all lived in Brooklyn and rode trails in nearby parks or took trains or rides with whoever could drive to places further from the city.

That day, if I recall correctly, we were pedaling home from Van Cortlandt Park. We prided ourselves on not having to stop for a traffic light—until that moment. 

As we waited, I saw a boy who looked about 12 or 13 years old facing the post, his hands cupped in front of his crotch. I didn’t judge him: After all, countless men and boys (and I, once upon a time) took care of their needs in a similar way when they (we) couldn’t find a toilet.

Except that he wasn’t taking care of that kind of business. I couldn’t help but to notice something longer and darker than the “jewels” a boy of that age would’ve had. And it was darker, and made of something that wasn’t human flesh.

He took one hand off it, reached into his pocket and brought his hand to his crotch.

The light changed. As we pedaled down the next block, I turned to my riding buddies. “Did you see what I saw?”

I didn’t need to ask. They nodded. “Yeah, he was loadin’ his gun,” Ray—“Crazy Ray” to us—deadpanned.

As I continued yesterday’s ride, I couldn’t help but to think about that boy.  Did he live to see a day like yesterday?  If he’s still around, he’d be even older than I was then.  Did he make it to midlife?

A Once-In-A-Blue-Moon Ride

 Yesterday was a Florida day I  reverse:  It began with rain that fell “fast and furious”: I don’t think it lasted more than 15 minutes. A curtain of clouds remained, sealing this city into a cauldron that became even steamier when the sun peeked out before filling a clearing sky.*

I took a late afternoon ride in that late-summer soup.  So, not surprisingly, what I wore—and I—turned into wet rags.  I needed to do laundry anyway, so after supper, I lugged my dirty, smelly load to my usual laundromat. 

It was closed for “maintenance.”  I figured there had to be another nearby, so I walked down to 34th Avenue, where I encountered this:

Whatever others (and a government agency or two) say, I aver that I am in the middle of my life.  I claim that status because I don’t know when it will end. That means I might not see, again, what I saw last night. Or I might see its next predicted appearance—in 2037–or the one after it.

The Super Blue Moon is one of the rarest celestial phenomena.  You’ve heard the expression “once in a blue moon.” There’s a reason for it:  The “blue” moon is the second full moon in a calendar month.  Because the moon’s cycle is 29.5 days, it’s “blue” only every three years or so.

The name comes from the ok hue the orb sometimes reflects back to earthbound viewers.  But last night’s blue moon shone as bright and silvery-white as a streetlight because it’s a “Super” moon: a full moon that coincides with the perigee, or the moon’s closest approach to the earth. That happens a bit more frequently than a blue moon, but still only three or four times a year.

Thus, seeing a “blue” moon so big and bright won’t happen again until 2037. Whether or not I get to see it, I saw last night’s Super Blue Moon in the middle of my life, after a late-day ride.

*—To anyone who happens to be in Florida (or Georgia, the Carolinas or Virginia):  I hope you’re safe in the wake of Idalia.

A Lane Along A Great Ride

 Bright sunshine, high clouds, temperatures gthat ranged from late-spring to early-summer from brunch time to early-dinner tine.  Those are the perfect conditions for a Sunday ride, right?

There’s no “but” or “however” in this story.  The cherry on top of this Sunday (pun intended) was that I pedaled into the wind on my way to the Greenwich Common in Connecticut—which meant that the same wind stroked my back (and stoked me!) on my way back.

At the Common, I watched folks in their most carefree moments strolling and sashaying in polo shirts tucked into navy or beige chino shorts, frilly dresses and skirts and college T-shirts over gym shorts whose wearers were trying not to show that they were showing that those shorts didn’t come from discount stores.

Was it all a great show?  Or had the ride and weather elevated my dopamine levels higher than someone who paid a visit to the local cannabis shop half an hour ago? All I knew was that I could’ve held the ride, the weather and the day, if not forever, then long enough to, well, write this post.

Oh, and along the way I found a good, if short, bike lane in the Bronx.

Built on a concrete island on Bruckner Boulevard, under the Bruckner Expressway, it runs for about two kilometers from East 138th Street to Hunts Point Avenue.  I saw some evidence that it might be extended further.  Even if it isn’t, I am sure to use it on future rides, as it will allow me to avoid the chaos of delivery trucks, tow vehicles pulling in and out of auto body shops, motor bikes making deliveries or simply trying to outrun young guys who really want to turn Southern Boulevard into their personal race track.

Finding a useful, safe bike lane during a blissful ride on a perfect day: Could a Sunday spin from Queens to Connecticut and back have been any better?