Riding Until The Storm Comes

Many years ago, I read a tale--Japanese, if I recall correctly--about a young boy who is infected with terrible disease that will eventually kill him.  The really cruel part of his fate, however, is that he will grow more beautiful--and seem healthier--the closer he comes to his death.  So, of course, his parents cannot revel in the radiance of his youth, and nobody can understand why they are so sad.

Why was I thinking about that story today?  Well, Hurricane/Tropical Storm/Tropical Cyclone Hermine was supposed to strike some time  this afternoon.  So, after gulping down some green tea, Greek yogurt (from Kesso's , of course) with bananas and almonds, I got out for a ride this morning.  I figured I could get in a couple of hours of spinning, which would be a sort of wind-down from yesterday's ride.

The morning started off partly cloudy/partly sunny, just as the forecast promised.  The temperature was quite agreeable--19C (66F) when I started.  And the wind, while more brisk than what I encountered yesterday, was not an impediment to riding, even though I pedaled into it as I started down my street.

Anyway, I pedaled in the direction of Rockaway Beach, even though the ride I took yesterday included it.  I chose the ride because it's a good, safe bet for two to three hour round trip, depending on what conditions I encounter and how long I want to linger at the beach.  Also, I figured I could see the tides swelling, churned by the storm off the coast.

Well, the tides did grow--or at least seemed to--from yesterday, and during the time I was there today.  Still, some surfers and a few swimmers dared them, the Mayor's warning against rip tides and other dangerous conditions be damned.  I must admit, I was tempted to run into the water,  if only for a moment.  

It was easy to understand why people were in the water, on the beach and strolling, cycling and skating along the boardwalk:  The sun threw off its shackles (some of them, anyway) and shone ever more brightly through the morning.  Even as the sea grew more turbulent, it reflected the luminosity of the orb that seemed to fill more and more of the sky.

So, I continued along the boardwalk and Rockaway Boulevard to Riis Park and Fort Tilden, the tides rising higher and the sun shining brighter along the way.  I could even forget that at this spot

a dune once stood, until Superstorm Sandy swept it away four years ago.

After crossing the Gil Hodges/Veterans Memorial Bridge, I took a turn I didn't take yesterday, through Floyd Bennett Field and onto the path to Canarsie Pier. I wasn't at all surprised to see it ringed with men, most of them from the Caribbean, fishing.  I haven't cast a line in years, but I recall that some of the best fishing comes right before a storm.

Then I retraced my steps (tire tracks?) along that path back to Flatbush Avenue, where I crossed and continued along the Greenway that winds along the South Shore of Brooklyn to Sheepshead Bay, then to Coney Island.

And the day grew brighter and more beautiful.  I kept on riding but couldn't help but to wonder about the storm. Maybe it won't come this way after all, I thought. Or maybe it will strike later.  If it does, will it unleash even more power and fury than it otherwise would have?

By the time I wheeled my bike into my apartment, the sky was completely blue--or, at least, as clear as we can see it in New York. The sun glinted off my windows.  I turned on the radio, just in time for another weather forecast:  Hermine will come tomorrow.  Maybe.  Until then, we can expect clear skies.

The World Is About To End, Again, And I Decided To Enjoy The Ride!

The world is about to end, again.

So what did I do?  I went for a bike ride, of course.

All right...I wasn't as cavalier as I might've sounded.  For one thing, the situation isn't quite as dire as the end of the world, or even the end of the world as we know it.

But tomorrow the beaches will be closed.  Think about that:  Beaches closed on the day before Labor Day, a.k.a., the penultimate day of summer--at least unofficially.

Hurricane/Tropical Storm Hermine has plowed across northern Florida and Georgia and is in the Atlantic, where she is surging her way toward New Jersey, New York and New England.  Even if we don't get the wind and rain she's dumped to our south, forecasters say that the strongest riptides in years will roil in local waters.  So, as a precaution, Mayor de Blasio has declared that our beaches--Coney Island, the Rockaways and South Beach of Staten Island among them--will be closed tomorrow.

I decided to ride toward those littoral landscapes.  First, I took my familiar jaunt to the Rockaways and, from there, to Point Lookout.  

The view to the east was ominous--at least, in the sky.  Those clouds looked as if they could have solved all of my hydration problems for a while.  But, as the day was relatively cool (high temperature around 25C or 77F) and the sun wasn't beating down on my skin, I didn't sweat much.

People seemed to think the beaches were already closed (well, the Mayor's pronouncement wouldn't affect Point Lookout).  Not many of them were on the sand or in the surf--or even on the boardwalk--in the Rockaways.  With those skies, it looked more like a mid- or even late-fall day than the End of Summer.

And Point Lookout was deserted!  Even the streets were all but empty:  the few cars I saw were parked.  A long, wide sidebar surfaced in the water, belying the predicted storm surge.  Normally, people would walk themselves and, perhaps, their dogs, on it.  But today the seagulls and egrets had it all to themselves.

Vera, my green Mercian mixte, seemed to be enjoying it.  Or, perhaps, she was anticipating the ride back:  We had pushed into the wind most of the way from my apartment to the Point.  So, of course, it would give us a nice push going back.

Except that I decided not to pedal directly home.  The ride felt so good that as I approached Beach 92nd Street in the Rockaways--where I would normally turn off the boardwalk (where we rode today) or Rockaway Beach Boulevard for the bridge to Broad Channel--I decided to continue along the boardwalk to its end in Belle Harbor, and from there along the Boulevard to Riis Park and Fort Tilden.

Then I rolled across the Gil Hodges/Marine Parkway Bridge to Brooklyn, along the path that rims the South Shore to Sheepshead Bay, Brighton Beach and Coney Island.  

Along the way, fissures split the cloud cover.  By the time I got to Coney Island, the sun had reclaimed much of the sky.  And, when I got there, I saw crowds of the size one would expect on a summer day.  I wonder whether they had been there all day or if they started to stream in for their "last chance" as the sky cleared.

Sunlight glinted off the water as I rode the promenade from Coney Island to the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, where I once again saw the kinds, and numbers, of people one normally finds there on a summer Saturday:  cyclists, skaters, skateboarders, fishermen, young couples, older couples and Orthodox Jewish families enjoying their shabat.

Speaking of enjoyment:  Everyone has his or her own definition of that word.  Apparently, some Nassau County officials have their own interesting interpretation:

For the record, that women's bathroom in Point Lookout Park was filthy.  And the doors of the stalls didn't shut.  Nor did the front door of the bathroom.  I thought about calling Supervisor Santino, but didn't.  I was enjoying everything else about my ride and didn't want to interrupt it--especially since, if we incur Hermine's wrath, I won't be able to take another like it for a while!

The Wall

The other day, Donald Trump met with Mexican President Jorge Pena Nieto.  When I really wanted to know what they talked about.  I mean, I'm not a violent person, but if I were in Senor Pena Nieto's zapatos, I'm not sure I could be as civil as he was to someone who so publicly and viciously insulted his country and people.

El Donaldo claims they talked about The Wall:  You know, the one that the erstwhile casino mogul wants to build along the border between the two countries, and make the country that supplies, directly or indirectly, his restaurant and domestic help (and, probably, a good part of the rest of his workforce) pay for it.  After all, those folks south of the border have gotten so rich from all the money the fellow who made his taco bowl sent home that they can easily afford to foot the bill for keeping the country where the man makes his money safe.  Right?

Caballero Jorge very politely, but in a very manly sort of way, denied that his country is going to pay for any such structure.  Donald, trying to out-do him in the machismo department, reiterated his promise that not only will the wall be built, but that "they are going to pay for the wall, 100%.  They don't know it yet."

OK, Donald, I won't let out the Big Secret.  But please tell me: How thick will that wall be?  And more important:  How high?

I ask because no one really knows just how much is necessary to keep those thundering herds of taco trucks from rumbling across the border.  But even if Your Wall could keep out those hordes of enchilada chefs yearning to make a living, it can't deter another group of intrepid souls:

Seeing Dutch

They like to eat breakfast early!

That was one of the first things Alexis de Tocqueville noticed about Americans.  

In 1831, the 25-year-old lawyer came to this country with his fellow barrister, Gustave de Beaumont, to study prisons in the US.  They returned to their native France after a year and published their report, which seems to have been written mainly by de Beaumont.  

But the lasting legacy of their sojourn came in 1835, when de Tocqueville published Democracy In America.  In it, he offered what, to this day, are some of the most trenchant observations made by a foreigner looking at American society.   He expressed both admiration and criticism of the New World's ideals, customs, institutions (or, in some cases, relative lack thereof) and economy.  

What if he were alive today?  And what if he were a cyclist?  What would he think of the ways in which Americans ride--and of the environment for cycling?  

Those questions came to my mind when I came across this video in which a Dutchman offers his observations of cycling in the USA:

Early Morning On The Island

If you are looking to transcend the place and time in which you live, you can move out and away from them.  Or you can go inside them.

This morning, I did the latter, without even trying.  

Randall's Island sits in the East River, between Manhattan and Queens.  If you know that, but you've never been there, you might expect it to have a skyline like Manhattan's, if on a smaller scale--or, perhaps, dense residential neighborhoods, as you would find in much of Queens.

Instead, you would find fields--some of them open, others designated for baseball and other sports--as well as wetlands, clumps of woods and gardens ringed by a rocky shoreline.  The relatively bucolic landscape is shadowed only by the Hell Gate Viaduct, used by the Metro North commuter rail line and Amtrak, and the overpasses for the RFK Memorial Bridge. (The conjoined Wards Island, once separated by a channel that was filled in about 100 years ago, contains a water treatment plant, mental hospital and state police barracks in addition to ballfields and picnic grounds.)  Even when you look toward the tall buildings of Manhattan, the houses and apartment buildings of Queens and the factories and warehouses in the Bronx, it's easy not to feel as if you are in New York City.

Especially if you're cycling the island early in the morning:

The smokestacks you see in the background are on Rikers Island.  Even they don't look so menacing just after dawn.  (Still, I'm in no hurry to go there!)   Behind the trees to the right, and a few kilometers back, is LaGuardia Airport.  I'd much rather go there.  But riding on Randalls Island this morning was just fine!

Suspending Disbelief

I started mountain biking right around the time suspension front forks were becoming a standard feature of serious off-road machines.  Back then, it seemed that designs were changing every week, and that if you bought a Rock Shox Mag 20, or a Marzocchi or Manitou telescoping fork, a year later you could get something lighter, more durable and with more travel--whether from those brands or one of the new marquees that seemed to appear every month.

Suspension (telescoping) fork advert, September 1992

  

By the time I stopped mountain biking and sold my Bontrager Race Lite, in 2001, new suspension forks bore little resemblance to the ones I saw and rode nearly a decade earlier.  Moreover, bikes with suspension in the rear of the frame had become commonplace, with designs that changed as rapidly as fork designs had been changing.

Even with all of that design evolution, there were some ideas that, apparently, no one ever considered.  Can you imagine how mountain bikes--and mountain biking--would be different if the first suspension system looked something like this?:

To be honest, I'm not sure I'd want to ride such a bike, especially on rocky ground.  I'd guess that even when I was skinnier and more flexible than I am now, I wouldn't have been able to keep my feet on the pedals for very long.


 



 


Then again, maybe the bike isn't made for spinners or sprinters.  It's called a "Flying Bike" because, I believe, it's made for riders to pedal for a few rotations before lifting their feet and "flying".  But I have to wonder whether it would feel like flying if the bike is bouncing through potholes and over rocks.

If you think the "flying bike" is weird, check this out:

 Can you imagine what mountain bikes would be like today if that had become the paradigm for suspension?

For Hydration Purposes Only

This lady is riding a road that may or may not have been part of a Tour de France route.  And her preferred hydration substance is one that more than one TdF rider--as well as riders of other races--have used, whether on or off the bike.

Her name might give you a clue as to what she imbibed:  Madame Lily Bollinger.

Yes, that Bollinger.  And even though the bottles bearing her family name have never needed advertisement, she was not shy about extolling the virtues (or pleasures, at any rate) of their contents:

I only drink Champagne when I’m happy and when I’m sad. Sometimes I drink it when I’m alone. When I have company, I consider it obligatory. I trifle with it if I am not hungry and drink it when I am. Otherwise, I never touch it—unless I’m thirsty.

All things in moderation, right?  

A bottle of Bollinger is surely not the cheapest way to hydrate.  But it might be the most elegant--unless, of course, you prefer Piper-Heisdeck or Veuve-Clicquot.  (Don't ask me which is better!)  But for those whose tastes--or desire for social cachet--exceeds their budgets, there are alternatives--like beer.  Of course, if you're a hipster or live in Portland, you don't drink any ol' brew:  You have to down a "craft" beer infused with passion fruit and vanilla beans--or cacao beans, or Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee beans, or some other ingredient that never would have found its way into mugs of Bud' downed by denizens of a real "dive" bar.

(Curiously, given how such viticulturally rich countries as France, Italy and Spain have dominated the history of bike racing, wine doesn't seem to have flowed as freely from Specialites TA bidons as one might expect.)

But what if you do not heed the "last call for alcohol"--or the first, or any in between?  Well, as I've mentioned in earlier posts, countless cyclists--including yours truly--have partaken of "the pause that refreshes".  The great thing about Coca-Cola is that it also doubles as an energy-booster:  Back in the day, we used to call it "rocket fuel".  These days, I rarely drink it, and I never drink any other soda at all.  But once in a while, I drink the Mexican version because it's the same as the Coke I grew up drinking.

As a kid, I drank stuff that's even less likely to be found on training tables.  Hawaiian Punch is one such concoction.  When I was a NORBA member,  I knew of a few mountain bikers who also drank it.  A few even filled their Camelbaks with it--and stuffed Pop Tarts in their pockets!

Now, of course, we drank Hawaiian Punch and Coca Cola the way Madame Bollinger drank er, um, bubbly grape juice:  strictly for hydration purposes.  Just like people add Jim Beam to their hot tea for medicinal purposes.

Taking It All With You

Everyone has his or her own idea of what "camping" is.  Most people would agree that it is something done outdoors, or at least outside the confines of one's home.  Beyond that, it's hard to say exactly what it is.

For some, it means being in remote wilderness areas, be they mountains, virgin forests, glaciers or undeveloped coastlines.  To others, it can mean setting up a tent or tarp in a backyard.  Still other people think that camping is anything that deprives you of access to a mall. Someone, I forget whom, described those who "camp" in a trailer or Winnebago-type vehicle with all of the accouterments of modern life--you know, flat-screen TVs, microwave ovens and the like--as "out-of-car-doorsmen".

I'll confess that it's been a while since I've done anything that might be described as camping.  But I've gone on bike trips and slept under the stars (or, in a couple of instances, in rain and even sleet), with and without a tent or a tarp.  I've set up camp under a canopy of branches and on a bed of wildflowers; I've also unrolled my sleeping bag under bridges and in farmers' fields, cemeteries--and a golf course!  Of course, I didn't realize I was in a golf course when I called it a day (night) of cycling!

I'll also admit that I never went on a cycling trip during which open spaces, or even KOA-style campgrounds, served as my lodgings most nights.  I camped  when I was nowhere near (as far as I could tell, anyway) a hostel, hotel or pensione, or couldn't afford one--or, in the days before widespread ATMS, when I was nowhere near a bank or other place where I could cash a traveler's check.  I also sometimes camped simply because the night and landscape were beautiful, or because I wasn't confident enough in my skills in a local language to knock on a stranger's door.  So, I didn't carry what one might think is a full set of camping equipment.  I never toted a stove:  My meals consisted of raw foods purchased at the last market or store I saw that day, or from prepared foods that were lukewarm or even cold by the time I got around to eating them.

I have respect for all of those cycle-campers (perhaps you are, or have been one) who carry everything they need for a wilderness expedition on two wheels, without motorized assistance.  Moreover, I admire those who tow trailers full of equipment (and, in some cases, their child(ren) and pets) across long distances on their bikes, though I have never aspired to be one of them.  

What would those hardy cycle-campers make of the Bushetrekka Cycle-Camper trailer?




For your next adventure....

It comes with the oversized tent cot you see in the photo. For the modest sum of $849.95, you "can carry anything you need and catch a little bit of shuteye at the end of the day"  on your "overnight adventure", according to its maker's advertising.

According to the advertising copy, the trailer--complete with cot--weighs 55 pounds.  According to people who've actually bought it (Yes, such people exist!), it actually weighs about 10 pounds more.  Worse, according to at least one commmenter, the wheels aren't sturdy enough.  

When I saw it, I had this question:  What, exactly, can that trailer do that even the biggest, heaviest and most expensive tent can't do--at a fraction of the weight and cost?

Worst of all, it could never be used for any of the "stealth" camping of the kind I did in my youth. In other words, I couldn't have set myself down in any of those fields, cemeteries or golf courses--or under the bridges--and scampered off at the crack of dawn if I had to collapse or dismantle or do whatever is necessary to the trailer so I could ride with it.

A Sign For The Road I Was On

Today was warm and sunny, without much humidity.  So, of course, I rode--Arielle, my Mercian Audax, to be exact.

We took another spin to Connecticut.  I spent some more time on back roads that wind through farms where horses are stabled and, I assume, taxes are sheletered.

That last assumption comes from something someone pointed out while I was riding through Vermont years ago.  On a road near Killington, I passed three organic herb farms within a stretch of about three kilometers.  I wondered, aloud, what it was like to farm in such a place.  After all, late in the previous afternoon, the temperature dropped from 52 F to 15F  (from +11 to -9 C) and rain turned to sleet and snow from skies that, that morning, had nary a cloud.

The local who accompanied me on that ride said that those farms "most likely" belonged to "rich people from Boston or New York" who, he said, "probably lost money but wrote it off." But they "didn't care," he explained: "It's a hobby, a tax shelter, for them."

Now, one would think that anyone who could think of how to such a thing is pretty smart, and possibly has some education.  And, perhaps not surprisingly, Connecticut perennially ranks among the top five US states in the percentage of its population who hold college degrees.  By that metric, Greenwich is one of the most educated municipalities in the Nutmeg State.

As someone who's taught in colleges, I've spent lots of time with educated people--or, at least, people who've spent lots of time in school.  Let me tell you, they are not immune to saying things that make you wonder just how educated they are.  I'll confess:  I make such blunders, too.  But I make sure that nobody notices them! ;-)

At least, I've always been careful to make sure that my mistakes won't be seen by some smart-ass cyclist:

A "dismissal entrance"?  One has to wonder what is being taught in a school where tuition is $66,060 for the Upper and Lower Schools (and a mere $45,000 for the Foundations program).  

After passing that sign, I continued along Glenville Road, which leads to the Empire State.  Someone at Eagle Hill, I am sure, was quoting Groucho Marx: "There's the road out of town.  It's the one I wish you were on."

How Many Hipsters--Or Pimps--On The Head Of A Spoke?

How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?

That was, apparently, the question-of-the-day (or -century or -millenium) among medieval theologians.  If nothing else, it tells us that medieval theologians had lots of time on their hands.  Somehow I suspect that modern theologians do, too!

Apparently, some physicists have idle hours as well.  At least one took it upon himself to look for a possible answer to that question through a study of quantum gravity.  Now, I last took a physics class before most of you were born.  So, while I had a lot of fun reading the article, I can't tell you, exactly, what--besides its very premise--made it so amusing.

So now that I've waded into the territory of idle inquiries and can't get out  (a black hole,  perhaps?), I will plunge into another pointless probe.   

Here goes:  Is it possible to be a hipster and a pimp?

Such an inquest is not as impractical as it sounds.  It actually has profound implications for the bicycle world.  

After all, we really need to know whether it's possible to design a bike that will appeal to both a hipster and a pimp!

(Humor me and agree with the previous claim!)

A tiny company in Italy by the name of La Strana Officina may have given us the answer:

 At first glance, it might look like one of any number of "hipster fixies" you can find in almost any first-world city.  But the Cellini Uomo, to be fair, has touches won't find on very many other bikes.

As an example, the frame--made of TIG-welded from Nivacrom steel tubing--is bronzed before it is painted, in several stages.  Care is taken so that the dropout is not covered, and that the matte black paint does not completely mute the lustre of the metal.

The handlebars are 24-karat gold-plated.  So are the cable-housing ends! The handlebar covering on the right side is faux-python leather and the lever is, according to the company's website, of their own design, based on a joystick.

My favorite detail, though, is the gold anodizing on the pedals, which are built around titanium spindles.  The classic Christophe clips are great, but I'm rather surprised that those aren't gold-plated, or at least anodized.  That wouldn't be a deal-breaker for me (assuming, of course, I would buy such a bike).  However, this would:

Even if I were to buy the bike as a wall decoration (in what kind of space, I don't know), I would not want wheels with "bread tie" spokes.  They were a fad, mainly among mountain bikers, about twenty years ago.  I never saw the point of them--and I don't even like the way they look.  (Why they're on a "luxury" bike is beyond me.)  Both wheels of Cellini Uomo are spoked that way.  I guess if you were to order the bike, you could ask for a more conventional spoke pattern.


Somehow, though, I don't think a pimp or a hipster would care.   And either or both of them is the intended audience for this bike.  I'm not. 

Note:  The La Strana Officina website is only in Italian.  I interpreted it as best I could.
 

Wearing Your Message On Your Sleeve (Or On Your Chest And Back, Anyway)

I stopped wearing bike-specific clothing (except for gloves and helmets) years ago.  I just might start again, at least in response to folks like Peter King and Heath Evans.

Actually, I would have a whole wardrobe of cycling tops.   For rides in which the possibility of encountering homicidal drivers is relatively low, I might wear this:

For times when there's a greater chance of a brush with a drunk or simply inconsiderate motorist--I could slip into this:

On days (or nights) when there might be more careless drivers--and there is a chance that one might be somewhat homicidal--I could sport this:

Finally, when it seems every other person behind a steering wheel has regressed to the emotional age of twelve, this just might set the right tone:

These jerseys are on Active.com.

They're So Funny I Forgot To Laugh

If you have ever taught a remedial class, you know that none of the students in them are happy.  I can't blame them, for a number of reasons.  What used to bother me, though, was that they sometimes directed their hostility--usually in passive-aggressive ways, but sometimes more covertly--toward me, even though, as I would point out, I was doing everything I could to keep them from repeating the class.

One day, in one of those classes, a student remarked that he'd seen me riding my bicycle on the way to class.  "How do you do it?" he wondered.

"I get on my bike and pedal," I said, somewhat impudently.

Another student, in the rear of the class, chimed in, "I'm going to run you over."

I stepped out of the room and summoned a campus security officer.  (This was before cell phones were widespread.)  I told the officer what happened.  "He had no business saying that to you," he declared.  Then he came to escort the student out of the room.

"I didn't mean it!  I was only kidding!," the student squealed.  The officer took him away, and I never saw or heard from him again.

Nearly two decades have passed since that incident.  Apparently, some things haven't changed:  Some guys (Sorry: It is usually dudes who engage in such behavior!) still think it's a joke to talk about putting cyclists' lives in danger--or, worse, actually doing it.  Some even think it's funny, or simply their "right" to kill cyclists for taking up "their" roadway.

Even when I was more of a fan than I am now, I used to watch many sports events--especially NFL games--with the sound turned off.  Most sports have their share of television announcers and commentators who were star performers in their day but have never grown up.  It always seemed to me that American football commentators in particular had the need to pepper their chatter with the kind of "humor" that only frat boys of all ages find funny.

Just within the past two days, two such commentators openly expressed their contempt for cyclists.  One actually engaged in behavior that could have maimed or killed a rider--or a jogger or a mother or father pushing a stroller--while the other, who wears his "Christianity" on his sleeve, said that he wants to kill cyclists.

First, to the one who was reckless:  

NFL writer Peter King sent this tweet of his car speeding through a bike lane.  "I told driver Jenny Vrentas to get to Qualcomm as fast as she could," captioned the photo. 


That he thought he was being funny makes sense, I guess, when you realize that he writes for Sports Illustrated, a rag that, as Bike Snob NYC points out, keeps itself in business by publishing a soft-core porn issue every year.  I admit that a long time ago, I actually used to read SI (Someone gave me a gift subscription.  I swear!).  Then again, I also used to read Mad Magazine.  Point is, my tastes grew up (or, at least, I like to believe so)--and, to be fair, I made a major life-change.  Sometimes I think SI's readership never graduated from their junior high-school locker rooms.  So of course they would think endangering cyclists (After all, if you don't have a motor, you're not a man) is just good fun.

Speaking of locker rooms:  Heath Evans played in the NFL for ten seasons.  It's fair to assume that he took a pretty fair number of hits.  So, perhaps, we could chalk up occasional incoherence or silliness on his part to a concussion or some other injury his own helmet couldn't prevent---and, perhaps, another player's helmet caused.  But even the most brain-damaged of former players doesn't casually talk about killing people.  

Apparently, Evans is in another category.  

If there is anything amusing about that tweet, it's that he used the word "Respectfully" before declaring his wish to hit cyclists with his car.  Maybe he is brain-damaged.  Or maybe he was one of those "student-athletes" who went to college on a football scholarship and took classes in tackling and trash-talking for his major, whatever it was.

(I think now of the coach who said of one of his players:  "He doesn't know the meaning of the word 'fear'.  In fact, I just saw his grades, and he doesn't know the meaning of a lot of words.")

Now, if he couldn't see the incongruity of his word choice, it's understandable that he could profess to be a Christian, or adherent of any other faith that instructs its followers to do unto others as they would do unto themselves, or to love their enemies.  Lots of other people have the same gap in their cognition:  Countless kings and generals have led their minions into war "in the name of God."

(Interesting that the NFL has so many players who are adamant about their faith.  Why is it that the most violent sports have the most doggedly religious players?)

Anyway, both King and Heath have gotten a lot of backlash on the Twittersphere.  But neither seems in danger of losing his job, or anything else that matters to him.  As long as guys like them can get away with, essentially, pinning targets to cyclists' backs, building all the bike lanes in the world isn't going to make us any safer.

N.B.:  Thanks to Alan Snel of Bicycle Stories and the inimitable Bike Snob NYC for their reporting on King and Heath.

Impressionist Camouflage?

When you get to a certain age, you become more honest with yourself because, really, you have no other choice.  I think that it was the Spanish philosopher Jose Ortega y Gasset who said that at age 45, a person can no longer live in fictions.

One thing I've finally admitted to myself is that when I talk about what I "should" or "am supposed to" do, I'm actually just forestalling, even if only for a second, doing what I actually want to do.

And so it is that on days like today, I can tell you there were things I "should have" done--which, of course, I didn't do.  At least I managed, pretty early, to admit to myself that I wasn't going to do them.

It just took one look out my window--which was wide open (save for the screen, of course).  The morning was delightfully cool in a way it hasn't been in a long time.  Breezes were light and skies blue, full of sunshine.  

Well, it wasn't just any old mild, sunny day--with low humidity, to boot.  The qualities of that day seemed all the more vivid because it followed a long heat wave.  Something else made it truly unusual, though.

You see, the morning felt like early autumn and the early afternoon felt like one of those late-summer days we experience a week or so after Labor Day.  That made for delightful cycling weather.  The relatively cool air, however, was accompanied by the sort of refulgent summer light one sees in Impressionist paintings of picnics or other outings in the country.  Even the concrete canyons and brick-lined boulevards seemed to be bathed in the deep greens of the rippling leaves and the deep yellow sunlight.

I took a ride to--where else--Connecticut--where even the War Memorial in Greenwich seemed to camouflage itself in that light.

And the bike I rode--Arielle, my Mercian Audax. (Sorry about the poor quality of my cell-phone photos!) 

A Season In The Boogie Down?

My academic year begins on Thursday.  Today I rode to the college for a meeting and workshops.  

Through the Spring semester (which began a couple of days after a blizzard struck this city), I saw gradually-increasing numbers of cyclists on the RFK Memorial Bridge lane and on Randall's Island on my way to the college.  I saw a similar slow but steady increase in the number of bikes parked in the racks on the college campus, and along the streets surrounding it.  Those increases, of course, could be attributed to the warming weather.  

So, perhaps, it was no surprise to see more cyclists crossing the bridge than I've ever seen on a weekday.  Some looked like they were riding for fun or fitness, but others seemed to be on their way to work or some other obligation.  More than a few, I'm sure, were motivated by the the clear skies and mild temperature, and not deterred by the brisk wind.  Then again, that wind some of them across the island and bridge as I pedaled into it.  

It also wasn't a surprise to see only two other bikes in the racks.  No doubt there will be more once classes begin.  I wonder how many students, faculty and staff will continue to ride as the season grows colder, and possibly wetter.   Three subway lines stop right in front of the entrances of the campus's two main buildings, and four bus lines stop within a block.  So, I'm guessing that some of the bike commuters are "seasonal", if you will:  They use mass transit when the weather becomes less favorable for cycling. 



Perhaps the most interesting development I noticed is that on the South Bronx streets between the bridge (and Randall's Island Connector) and the college, I've seen more cyclists than I've ever seen before.   Some were riding the old ten- and three-speeds (Nobody calls them "vintage" in such a neighborhood!) in various states of disrepair--or with seats, handlebars and other parts that clearly are not original equipment.  You see people riding bikes like those all the time in low-income communities:  They have become basic transportation vehicles and, in some cases, beasts of burden that tow shopping carts or baby strollers piled with that day's shopping, or cans, bottles and other items that are being hauled to the recycling center.

I did notice, however, more than a few bikes that were clearly not being used for such purposes--and riders who almost certainly have never ridden their bikes in the ways I've described.  As we say in the old country, "They sure don't look like they're from around here."  I even noticed two people riding Citibikes, even though the nearest docking station is about 5 kilometers--and a world--away.

Will I see those non-utility cyclists in the South Bronx come November or December?  For that matter, I wonder how many of the riders I saw on the bridge or the island today will still be on their bikes as the season turns in "the Boogie Down". 

For The First Time, Again

It seems that every year I take at least one ride like the one I took today.

I didn't ride to or through anyplace I'd never seen before today.  Conditions were not at all challenging:  rather humid, but not oppressively so.  Probably the worst (or best, depending on which way I was riding) was the wind, but even that wasn't so bad.

Certainly, I didn't cover a lot of ground, at least compared to some other rides I've done.  I stayed within the confines of three New York City boroughs:  Queens (where I live), Manhattan and Brooklyn.  Then again, I hadn't really planned on doing a century--metric, imperial or otherwise--or a brevet, or any sort of ride with a name.  In fact, I didn't have any sort of plan at all.

I spun up and down major avenues, sprinted from traffic light to traffic light on 57th Street, made furtive turns into alleys and weaved among riders of Citibikes, skaters toting yoga mats and the self-consciously a la mode pushing strollers with the names of designers or athletic-wear companies emblazoned on them.  All of this was pleasant enough, even exhilarating at times.

One thing that seemed strange, even for a Sunday at this time of year, was that some of the streets were all but clear of traffic, whether of the motorized, foot or pedal variety, even though said streets weren't closed.  In fact, I could ride longer and faster in a straight line along those thoroughfares than I could on the bike and pedestrian lanes.

It seemed that almost all of the people--whether on foot, bike or skate--were in the places where one expects to find tourists:  around the Intrepid Air and Space Museum, the South Street Seaport, at the terminals for the ferries to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, on the Brooklyn Bridge. (I like to think that one of the signs I'm a "real" New Yorker is that I don't ride across the BB:  when I cross the East River, I take the Queensborough/59th Street, Williamsburgh or Manhattan Bridges, depending on where I'm going.)  In contrast, the shopping areas along 14th Street and Sixth Avenue (No New Yorker calls it "Avenue of the Americas"!) were all but deserted even though most of the stores were open.

As I cycled up First Avenue near the United Nations, I realized that everything I'd seen was a sign that it's almost the end of summer.  I realized that I take a ride like this one around this time every year:  a week or two before Labor Day.  This is the "last chance" for a lot of New Yorkers to leave town and for many tourists to come here.  And, of course, New Yorkers with lots of money and vacation time have been out of town for weeks already.  It'll be a week or two before they, and other vacationers, start trickling back in--and before the tide of tourists becomes a trickle.

It's at this time of year that I feel most like a "fly on the wall" in my own city.  I am not a tourist, but at the same time, I feel as if I am looking at familiar streets and buildings from the other side of a two-way mirror.  Although I live here, I feel as if I am not entirely here.

I don't mean any of what I've said as a complaint.  If anything, I find it interesting.  In a way, I am privileged:  Although I am far from rich (by the standards of this city and country, anyway), I was able to take a vacation of my own choosing, to a place of my own choosing and do it on my own terms.  And I have had little to worry about since I came back.

In fact, I realize now that since coming back from Paris--three weeks ago, already--I've spent a fair amount of time outside the city, with the bike rides I've taken to Connecticut and the more bucolic parts of New Jersey and Long Island.  So, in a way, I haven't been living like a resident of this city.  But I haven't been a tourist, either, because at the end of the day, wherever I've ridden, I've come back to my own bed and cats--and, as often as not, prepared my own meals.   

Could it be that this time of year--the latter part of August and the first few days of September--is a season unto itself?   Is this the season of The Outsider--and was today's ride my annual Outsider Ride?  

Perhaps no matter how often we've ridden a street or trail, seen a building or field, swum in a sea or opened a particular door--whether for the first time or the last, for a moment or a lifetime-- we are visiting:  We are coming in from the outside.  But we are coming in, and we can stay as long as our time, resources and imaginations allow us.  And one day we can come back.

And we can do the same rides, again, for the first time, from the outside.  At least, that's what I feel I did today.