A Good Girl Crosses The Bridge

I was a good girl yesterday.  Really!


So how good a girl was I?  Well, I actually obeyed this sign:

All right.  You might argue that I wasn't really such a good girl; I was motivated only by thinking about what I'd have to give up in order to pay a 250 dollar fine.  Or you might say I thought about the other things I could do with those 250 dollars.


Truth is, yes, I did think about those things.  I really was a good girl.


OK...I'll admit it:  I'd just passed by two cops in a patrol car when I snapped the photo of that sign.  They were lurking right by the toll booth, and it looked like they were actually watching us.


And they weren't just any old cops.  They were Nassau County constables.  I'm not so sure they're better or worse overall than members of the NYPD.  (As a matter of fact, some NCPD officers got their training from, and worked for, the NYPD before moving on to Nassau.)


I can't say that they become stricter or change in any other way when they cross the county line.  I have heard, though,that many of them don't like cyclists or people from the other side of the county line.  So, I don't want to think about what might happen if I have to show them my ID.


I should also mention that the bridge indeed lies entirely in Nassau County.  I used to think that it connected the Far Rockaway area of Queens to the town of Atlantic Beach on the other side of an inlet.  However, someone pointed out that the city/county line actually lies at the bridge entrance.


In any event, I entered, and left, Nassau County as a model citizen.  And I didn't have to pay 250 dollars!

Arielle in the Picture

The day began with a fine mist and remained overcast.  I don't think the air temperature rose above the water temperature.  


But the day was actally better than it sounds for cycling.  And Arielle wanted to go to the beach.

She got into a coy and flirtatious mood:

And she simply demanded that I take some close-ups. 

And another:

And she simply had to show some leg:

For the record, we did about 65 miles together:  to Point Lookout and back, via Rockaway Beach.  It felt really good.

A Cyclist's Senses At The End Of The Semester

It's probably just as well that it rained almost nonstop for the past week. I suppose that if I were more religious, or at least more willing to take wonders for signs or signs for wonders, (or, for that matter, was still a college sophomore with a copy of The Waste Land--you know, the old paperback with the grey and black cover--in my hip pocket) I might've thought this week's weather was some sort of prelude to the Apocalypse.  But the rain kept me indoors when I would've been anyway.  


So, not being the superstitious sort, and no longer owning any garments with hip pockets, I just took the weather for what it was and read from that pile of papers that seems to grow no matter how much time I spend reading them.  This is one of those two or three times of year when, if you're a college instructor (especially in any sort of writing or writing-intensive course), you simply have no life beyond those papers.  


But late this afternoon, the weather was so beautiful (or maybe it just seemed so in comparison to what we've had) that I took Tosca out for a ride.  We were out for a bit less than an hour, but it made me feel so much better.  And, of course, I was more productive when I got back to work.  Isn't that the point of recreation--at least in a capitalist economy, anyway?


And I find that even on such a casual ride as I took today, my senses are sharpened.  I'm thinking now of the day last week when, a few blocks from my main job, I passed someone who was selling fresh fruit from a cart on the sidewalk.  Even with a lane of parked cars between me and that cart, I could smell how fresh the fruit was--especially the strawberries. I was going to buy a one-pint carton until the guy offered me two cartons for three dollars.  


Today, when riding near PS 1,  I thought I smelled cat fur.  And I just happen to have a good sense of smell:

As you may be able to tell, Mojo is a shy kitty.  And she's big.  I mean, huge.  People often comment on how big Max is, but Mojo has to be at least half again as big.  


Woodside Animal Rescue was offering her--and a few other cats--for adoption.  I would have taken all of them.  Maybe I really do have to buy a farm some day.


The representative from Woodside said that Mojo had gotten so big because she doesn't get any exercise. That came as no surprise, but the reason the rep--I didn't catch her name--gave me wasn't what I expected.  "She's afraid of the other cats.  So she doesn't play with them; she hides."


Hey, if she came home with me, she could hide behind that pile of papers that just keeps on growing.  That same pile of papers makes me want to take off on my bike and not come back until Memorial Day, at least.