Today seemed chillier than it actually was because of the wind--and a cold and one of those headaches that makes it seem as if a vise was clamping and squeezing at my temples. So I didn't ride. I hope to feel better tomorrow.
Janine's death hasn't helped my mood much. Although she wasn't a cyclist herself, she did a nice series (Click onto "Serie des Cyclistes") of engravings with cyclists as her theme.
One of the wonderful things about cycling in France is eating at the end of a day's ride. If you've ever done a long or hard ride, you know that nothing tastes better than that roast chicken, pasta, ear of corn, salad, wine, pastry, fruit or anything you might consume afterward. That's true even if you're eating in some truck stop off a highway in the middle of some place God seems to have forgotten. So, imagine how good the bird, the grain, the soup are when your day's ride ends next to a chateau by the Loire--or in Paris.
It was even better when that meal in Paris at the end of a day of riding was made by Janine. I've spent enough time in France and eaten enough French cooking not to be impressed by all of it. But I'll rave about Janine's culinary work. So do her French friends, with whom I've shared some meals and other good times.
In recalling her, two words came up repeatedly: genereuse and vitale. As creative and independent as she was, I never had the sense that she was, or felt, alienated from the world in which she lived. Over time, I slowly came to realize how much the "cowboy" notion of creativity as the product of isolated, alienated individuals had crippled me as well as countless other people, particularly in America.
For a long time, I rode because I was, or thought I had no choice but to be, that "cowboy." I don't think Janine ever tried to teach or convince me of anything different. She simply was a light at the end of those journeys--including the one that brought me from Nick to Justine.
Marianela's ready for another commute:
She might be showing her age. But, like girls of any age, she likes new accessories--especially a new bag:
And she especially likes it if the bag is retro: real retro, like the OYB bag I described in an earlier post.
Down my street to start another day:
You can tell there's not much left of autumn. Every day, the wind sweeps more leaves off the branches. It leaves the trees more barren, and sometimes even a bit forlorn-looking. And it exposes them to the expanse of sky: a gray sky:
It's a bit like my morning commute: the road and the world open before me, if only for moments. But some days what unfolds is a Mercator Projection of concrete lines and angles puncuated by windows filled with the ashen sky.
At least, at the end of the days like that, I can ride away from it. That was always the second attraction of cycling for me. The first is to pedal into the open waves, whether they are in front of or within me.
The other day, I saw a tandem propped against someone's hedges
It's a Motobecane tandem from, as best as I can tell, some time in the late 1970's or early 1980's. I am always surprised to see a tandem, much less anyone riding one. But it was even more unusual to see one after the cycling season has passed its peak.
Anyone who drives in New York will tell you that parking is one of the most difficult things about life in this city. I think it's just as true for tandems as it is for cars. Actually, parking a bicycle built for two may actually be even more difficult than parking a car built for four. After all, tandems don't fit very well in spaces where people park regular bikes. And the spaces in which most New Yorkers live don't leave much room for a tandem.
I've ridden a tandem twice in my life. The first time was, in fact, around this time of year. I rode with a group that took rides to various ethnic neighborhoods in this city to sample foods and restaurants. A young blind woman wanted to ride with them, but she needed someone to ride the front of a tandem the Light House supplied. Enter me.
The bike was a single speed Schwinn: heavy, but not a bad bike. As I recall, it's what the bike rental places in Central Park offered. So, while it wasn't the most responsive thing in the world, at least it didn't "fishtail" in the rear, as some tandems are prone to do.
I think my story-telling skills were more important than my bike-riding prowess for that woman. I gave her a running narrative of the neighborhoods through which we rode and explained why we were riding them.
After a while, I found myself sad and frustrated because I had to explain all sorts of things most of us take for granted. For example, when we rode by the brownstones of Park Slope and Carroll Gardens, I realized she had no idea of what they looked like. She didn't even know about red, brown or any other color.
Unfortunately for that young woman, I didn't do quite as well as the narrator did at the end of Raymond Carver's Cathedral.
Then again, that narrator wasn't pedaling and balancing the front of a tandem!
