The Ride Of The Material Girl

In the latest issue of Harper's Bazaar, Madonna recounts, among other things, some terrifying experiences as a 20-year-old native of Rochester, Michigan living in New York.

OK, I'll admit it:  She's one of my heroines.  If I could have been born female, I would want to be like her.  Whatever you think of her singing, her "material girl" persona, love life or study of the Kabalah, you have to say this for her:  She follows the beat of her own drummer.  She's daring and, at times, courageous in ways I never could have been.

Anyway, I also know she's done some cycling over the years.  Here she is preparing for a ride in Malibu in 1989:

From About.com

And, more recently--this past August, in fact--she was seen pedaling with her adopted daughter on la Cote d'Azur:

From the Daily Mail

Somehow it doesn't surprise me.  After all, she and I are the same age, and we both come from similar milieux.  I continued to ride my bike as my peers abandoned theirs the day they got their drivers' licenses.  And she was, well, Madonna.  Neither of us could help but to be who we are; both of us ride bicycles.

Autumn Dream Ride

For me, one of the worst things about having worked in education for so long is that I've done much less autumn riding than I'd like.  If I had my way, I'd take an extended cycling vacation around this time of year.  For one thing, I love the weather and foliage.  For another, it's much less expensive to go to most places at this time of year than it is in summer.  

If I could take off for a week or two, I probably would do this guy's ride:

He's in Cotswalds, England.  I mean, for someone who rides Mercian bikes with Brooks saddles, what could be a better fall ride?  About the only other places where I'd like to spend October as much as I would in that part of England are the Vosges, Vermont and, perhaps, Maine or Quebec.

Sigh... 

(Both photos are from cyclinginfouk.co.com.

Another Bike To Work Month

Here in New York--as in other places--May is Bike Commuting Month.  And Bike to Work Week takes place during that month.

It makes sense:  In any given year, May is the first month with long stretches of weather most people find favorable for cycling.  Those who don't commute (or do any other cycling) during the winter usually resume pedaling in later March or April, but the weather is very chancy and people are as likely to ride a day here, a day there.

I have argued that there should be two Bike Commuting Months--one in Spring, the other in Fall.  If May is a good time for the former, I think the latter should be in October.  There might be a day or two of "Indian Summer", as we've just had, but the oppressive heat and humidity of summer are past.  On the other hand, it's rare to experience sub-freezing temperatures, even at the end of the month.  And, Interestingly, October is typically the driest month. 

http://www.atlantaintownpaper.com/2013/10/bike-work-challenge-october-long/

Now I've learned that in at least one city--namely, Atlanta--this is Bike Commuting Month.  It looks like the folks in the capital of the Peachtree State have some pretty ambitious plans for, as the month's organizers say, getting folks to trade steering wheels for handlebars'".

Shoppers

During the 1960's and 1970's, the "shopper" was a popular genre of bicycle in England.

Usually, it was a small-wheeled bike with a longish wheelbase.  This designed allowed it to be wheeled in and around marketplaces easily, and made it more stable than other small-wheeled bicycles when loads were carried on it.

People often mistook them for folding bikes as, to the untrained eye, they looked somewhat similar.  However, a shopper typically could not be folded.  More important, even when they are unfolded, "folders" are typically more compact than "shoppers."

Bobbin seems to be trying to revive the genre in Albion and introduce it to Americans.  I wonder how many Yanks, upon hearing the term "shopper", expect a bike like this:

 

Indian Summer Bike Parking

Some would have considered today's weather perfect for cycling:  The air was warm and the sky was clear.  Myself, I prefer it to be a tad cooler, but it was fine.  

When I was growing up, people called such weather at this time of year "Indian Summer."  Does anybody still use that term?  I don't, mainly because when I hear "Indian" these days, I think of someone from the South Asian subcontinent. I've never been there, but somehow I have a hard time associating any but the hottest and most humid New York weather with that part of the world.

Anyway, lots of people were riding today. I rode to work and, afterward, to my doctor's office, where I had blood drawn.  

I started going to that doctor in the fall of 2002.  For my first few visits, my bike was the only one parked in front of the office.  More recently, I would see one or two other bikes whenever I parked.  But, today I was greeted with this:

  
I am sorry for the less-than-stellar quality of the photo, which I took with my cell phone.  But I think you can see that the scaffolding in front of the building is lined with bikes, and nearly any other space that can be used to lock a bike has been taken.

Whenever I encourage people to ride to work or for errands, I tell them they "don't have to worry about finding a parking spot".  It looks like I might have to re-think that claim!

Lone Star Fall Cycling

If you've been following this blog for a while, you know that I will use the flimsiest of excuses to turn a post into a forum for an image I happen to like.

So, be forewarned:  That is exactly what I am about to do!

I wanted to take some good photos of fall cycling.  The weather has been right but, alas, in these parts (Has anyone else ever used "alas" and "in these parts" together?) the leaves haven't begun to change color.  As I don't anticipate a trip to Vermont in the next couple of weeks, I'll have to wait, I guess, to ride through a blaze of color.

So I went looking for images of fall cycling on the web.  As they say in the old movies, looky here at what I found:

From Fort Worth Bike Sharing

Folks like me always think of northern climes when it comes to fall foliage.  However, we musn't forget that points south and west also have autumnal vistas, and sunsets to go with them.

Plus, in the process of finding this image, I found out that Fort Worth has a bike share program.  I guess I shouldn't be surprised. As for cycling in that part of the Lone Star State, I imagine fall would be the best time: I simply cannot imagine riding through their summers!

The Season Changes And Everything's Right Again--For Now

 It just figures:  As soon as my by started functioning again, my computer stopped. 

What that's meant is that the other day, I did my first 100K+ ride in more than a month.  And I had near-prefect conditions for riding--but not for posting on this blog!

Anyway, it felt like my first fall ride. I know that it was, according to the calendar.  But everything about the sea, sky and their light made it seem, in the most sensual ways, that the season had indeed changed.

The sky,  though overcast, brought  no real threat of rain.  Rather, it spread like a quilt made of leaves grown sere if not heavy over a skin that has darkened as it remained translucent. Perhaps it is the reason why I felt comforted, but not tired, by the time I got to Point Lookout, even though I'd been pedaling into the wind and, as I mentioned, I hadn't taken a long (or even longish) ride in some time.

Riding home with the wind made me feel as if I were bringing the power of the muted and diffuse, though not dim, light the sea and sky spread with the new season. 

Flower Power And Memory

One of the great things about seeing more and more cyclists in New York is that good old bikes are being restored and repurposed. What that means is that, very often, people will do creative things to make a bike their own.

Such creativity sometimes extends to paint jobs, as with the one I saw on an old Cannondale hybrid:

I encountered this bike and its rider yesterday on First Avenue, near the United Nations.  A friend painted the frame for her, she said.  I touched it, so I know the flowers are indeed part of the paint job, not decals or other appliques.

She told me her name, which I've forgotten. Perhaps she'll see this.  

What does that say about me when I can remember a bike but not a name?

From The Neighborhood

Yesterday, for the first time in a couple of weeks, I felt decent and had a few free hours at the same time.  So I went, naturally, for a ride.

The sky was as blue as the air was crisp:  Fall had arrived, if not officially, and yet another summer, another season, had passed.  On such a day, I can understand how someone can be agoraphobic:  An open space--whether of land or sea or sky--can seem like a huge, yawning emptiness when there are no markers, physical or emotional.

So all anyone can do--or, at least, all I could do-- was to move through it.  That I did by pedaling, by pedaling Tosca, my fixed-gear bike.  I had a feeling I wouldn't ride a lot of miles, and that I'd ride them slowly, so I wanted to get some kind of workout from them.

As it turned out, I rode about 50 or 60 km, or a bit more than 30 or 35 miles, along the steel and glass shorelines and brick byways that have lined so much of the path of my life. 

A meander from the East River and the bay took me into the heart of Brooklyn, specifically to this place:

On the sidewalks in front, and across the street, from this building, careworn and harried, yet content, men and women prodded groups of pale but energetic children as their feet stuttered about the grid of concrete blocks.  Although those children looked different from the way my brothers, my peers and I looked, something was very, very familiar about the rhythm of their steps and their calls to each other.

Perhaps I should not have been surprised.  Although I had not been there in quite some time, I know that building, and that block, as well as any in this world.  In fact, I know it so well that I can tell you that nearly half a century ago, it didn't have the canopy you see in the photo.

Nor did it have the gate that now encloses the courtyard:

By now, you may have guessed that I lived in that building very early in my life.  Some of my oldest memories, for better and worse, are of those days.  

I think it's a co-operative now rather than the building of rental apartments it was in my childhood.  Also, as you probably have guessed, it's populated by families of Hasidic Jews.  In my day, nearly all of the families--of whom my family knew most--consisted of Italian- or Jewish (non-Hasidic)-Americans.  The men worked blue-collar jobs or had stores or other small businesses and the women stayed home and raised us.  In that sense, I guess we weren't so different from the people who live there now.

Then, as now, it was very unlikely that a woman--much less one like me--would have been riding a bicycle down that street--or, for that matter, any of the other streets I pedaled yesterday.  I turned, not quite at random, down a series of avenues and roads and other byways until I reached the southwestern part of Bensonhurst, not far from Coney Island.

I wasn't feeling hungry, but I stopped at a pizzeria--Il Grotto Azzuro--on 21st Avenue, near 85th Street.  From the street, it looks like one of many others of its kind.  But I went in anyway.

"Can I help you?"  The man's accent seemed even more familiar than anything else I'd experienced throughout my ride.

After ordering a classic Neapolitan slice and a white slice, he chimed, "You're gonna have the best pizza there is.   How did you know you were gonna find it here?"

"I followed my nose," I intoned, playing along.  "I always follow my nose when I'm riding my bike."

Somehow I sensed his claim wasn't hype.  Even if it wasn't the best pizza, the guy really believed that it was.  After finishing both slices, I ordered another Neapolitan, even though I was quite full.  "You're right!," I exclaimed.

Those Neapolitan slices were certainly the best I've had in a while.  Even though they were slices and it was five in the afternoon--near the end of the lull between lunch and dinner--they and the white slice tasted fresher than many I've had from whole pies.  

Sometimes, in the course of a bike ride, a slice of pizza or a bottle of beer can seem like the best you've ever had because you're tired or hungry. (I think now of the sugar and lemon crepe I gulped down after pedaling up Le Col du Galibier.  I've had dozens, perhaps hundreds, of other crepes in France.  But that one was the best.) However, I felt surprisingly good in spite of my recent illness and, as I mentioned, I wasn't hungry when I found Il Grotto Azzuro.

It's been there a while.  As I ate, another customer--a lifelong resident of the neighborhood--told me he'd been going there for more than 30 years.  I hope it's there for at least that much longer: The neighborhood is changing. 

So fueled, I continued down to Coney Island where, after thumping and clattering along the boardwalk (All of it is now open), a guard waved me into Sea Gate, which counts Isaac Bashevis Singer and Beverly Sills among its onetime residents.   I'd heard the area, not surprisingly, took an even greater hit than the surrounding neighborhood from Superstorm Sandy.  But, while the beaches were as eroded as those in Coney Island (though less so than those of the Rockaways or parts of New Jersey), most of the houses seemed to weather the wind and tides well.  Most seemed little different from what they were at this time last year; a few were still being repaired.  

At one of those houses, someone who didn't know my name called me:

  
Of course I stopped.

He capped his head with the palm of my hand and tiptoed along the rails, rubbing the side of his body through my fingers.  I think he knew I'm "from the neighborhood."

Everyone's Riding Except Me

"Under the weather" is such a strange expression.

But, for the past week, it's how I responded to anyone who asked how I felt.  That, even though my respiratory system remained murkier and even more toxic than the Gowanus Canal through the week's meteorological cycles:   the mid-summer-like heat and humidity that cooked us until Thursday, that afternoon and evening's storm, and the autumnally crisp air and clear skies that have reigned ever since.

All I've managed to do, apart from a few errands, is two hours on Tosca, my fixie, late this afternoon.

It seems as if everyone else in the world has been riding a bike.  I know I should be happy for them.  I just wish I could be one of them, even if I don't plan on riding with them.