Getting Away, For This Moment

What have I done this week?  Woke, had breakfast, rode bike to work, taught classes, read papers, taught more classes, rode home, read lots more papers, went to bed, woke and started the cycle all over again.


At least I was able to ride to work.  Actually, I came to the conclusion that I had to.  Not to meet some training goal or to fulfill some egotistical desire; no, I had to ride, even if only to work, to keep even a pretense of sanity. And, it was the only thing that was allowing me to do my work.


You see, last week, I took the train and bus on Thursday.  The weather was cold, but not as bitter as it's been the last couple of days.  Rather, I thought I could use the transit time to get some work done.  But I was so tired that I couldn't focus.  Yet, at the same time, I was on edge:  Imagine that you can't keep your eyes open but an electrical storm is flashing inside of you.  Even if I could have concentrated my energies enough to read a few papers, I couldn't have:  Everything was crowded, so I had hardly enough physical, let alone mental, space.  


It also seems that my work load at the end of this semester has been particularly onerous.  I feel as if I never really caught up--in cycling as well is in my work; forget about my personal life!-- after losing a week to my eye infection.  


I apologize for the absence of photos or other images.  I just didn't get a chance to take any pictures.  I take that back:  My mind just hasn't been working in that direction.


But the riding has been good.  And I actually was accompanied, at least for the first two miles of my ride home last night, by one of the full-time faculty members at the second college where I teach.  She saw me pick up my helmet and one of those, "You ride, too?!," conversations ensued.


She may not be the most experienced rider.  But she's a more skilled rider than she realizes.  And, she wants to do it.  Plus, I have to admit that while she was praising the fact that I seemed "unfazed by the cold" (and you all know how good I am at seeming to be one thing or another, as I spent so much of my life at it, until a few years ago!) and that I was keeping up the kind of pace I was (which, actually, wasn't that great, but I didn't care) , I was noticing how good she looked riding her bike.  In my next life, I'd like to look as good as she does when she's riding.  Hey, I wouldn't mind it in this life!


Now, here's the one of the other things I do to keep some shred of sanity:  writing on this blog.  I needed to do this, too:  A couple of days away, and I really missed it.  Whatever its other merits, if any, this blog and my other let me do some writing that doesn't involve comments like "Society can't think anything" or that dyspeptic prose found in the academic world or the narcotic diction of education papers.


Now I'm becoming narcotic.  That's not too strange, though, given what time of year it is

Bikes Under The Tree

From Tree Hugger

For many people, a quintessential childhood memory is one of finding a bicycle under the  Christmas tree.  One generation dreamed of a shiny Schwinn balloon-tired bikes; the next yearned for three-speed "English racers."  Then there were those who lusted after slick-tired "Choppers" or "low-riders" or cruisers with sweeping curves--and, later, ten-speeds, which seemed as fast and exotic as sports cars.

If you've ever found a bicycle under the tree on Christmas morning, you know that nothing--not even getting that custom frame you'd been dreaming about--is ever quite as exciting.  Perhaps things are different for the current generation, but for mine, and those that came earlier, a new bike was the ne plus ultra of rewards Santa (a.k.a., Mom, Dad or other adult) bestowed upon you for being a good little boy or good little girl.  Not that I was ever either one... ;-]    In fact, as an adult, I was once given a bike for Christmas for being naughty, if you know what I mean!


So, dear readers:  I'd love to hear about the bikes you got, or gave, for the holidays.

A Cat Crosses My Path

They say it's bad luck when a black cat crosses your path.  How does that affect you if you learn that as a kid?  Well, I guess it could really screw up your race relations, or leave you with a pile of therapists' bills. The latter is a common consequence of being inculcated with just about any superstition.


For the record, I've paid all of my therapists' bills.  That is not to be confused with paying your dues, if for no other reason that if you think you've paid your dues, you haven't.  At least you know whether or not you've paid your therapists' bills.  Trust me: I know from whence I speak!


Now I've really digressed.  To get back to the subject of this post...which was?  Oh, right, a black cat crossing your path.  Well, one didn't cross my path today.  However, this one crossed in front of me when I was riding on Randall's Island:

She's feral, so she doesn't stand still for very long.  However, she did pause from her prowlings when I stopped.  She tiptoed to within a few feet of me, gazed into my eyes and, perhaps realizing that I hadn't brought anything for her to eat, took off.


There's been some material written about how to deal with stray dogs when you're on your bike.  But I have yet to see anything that deals with the subject of stray cats encountered when cycling.


I recall now the time I was pedaling up a narrow mountain road near Briancon, France.  The surface and the sides looked sunbaked, even though the day was overcast.  I'd just made one of those turns from which rocks tumble off the edge of the road when I heard--meowing?  Here?, I wondered.  There were no other animals and no vegetables, or so it seemed.  Well, at least I knew that my soon-to-be new friend (who seemed to be a Chartreuse cat)  didn't get skinny from smoking cigarettes and drinking black coffee.


I didn't have any cat food with me.  However, I did have some butter cookies in my handlebar bag.  I broke up a few and they seemed to end up in her mouth almost as soon as they passed through my hands.


From there, I cycled into Italy.  Ironically, on the way back, I rode down the same road and the same cat crossed my path.


As hard as her life must have been, at least she had a wonderful view.  So did the cat who came my way today: