Today, after classes, I had a physical therapy session. My therapist is literally down the block from Grand Central Station. I actually enjoyed the session, but I'm also happy to know that next week's session will probably be my last.
Afterward, I took a spin down to Bicycle Habitat. When I went there a couple of weeks ago, I got to chatting with the folks there and forgot why I went: for the free touch-up on a pair of wheels they'd built for me. Well, today I got that done.
While waiting for my bike, I wandered around Soho. About a block and a half from Habitat, I spotted this bike in the process of being locked to one of those Soho boutiques that operates from an old factory building:
The bike itself is a good, though not terribly unusual, one. However, I liked the way it looked on the railings and brick, and in front of that window.
Vishnu, its owner, was locking it up when I arrived on the scene. He was very gracious, if in a bit of a hurry. So he was happy to let me photograph his bike. However, he had already locked his bike before I asked whether I could photograph him. That's too bad: He's not a "hipster" or wannabe; he is a very handsome, youngish man who happened to be stylishly (though not self-consciously so) dressed. Oh well. I'm glad I got this photo, even if I could only get it on my cell phone.
Auburndale, in Queens, is one of those neighborhoods you've never heard of unless you've lived in it. It's also the sort of neighborhood people don't normally associate with New York City: Along its quiet, leafy streets, late-model sedans are parked in front of detached houses not unlike those found in suburban Long Island.
One thing that makes it even more unusual for a New York City neighborhood is that people actually let their cats roam free in their yards. As sometimes happens, one scampered across my path. However, this time I very nearly had black and white fur entangled in my spokes. I don't recall the last time a cat came so close to my wheel.
It got me to thinking about other "near misses" involving animals I've had on my bike.
Two of the scariest such incidents, as you might imagine, happened along mountain roads. In the first, Jonathan, with whom I took a lot of rides during my college years, and I had just crossed back into New Jersey, near Flemington, from Pennsylvania.
According to the US Geological Survey, there are no mountains in New Jersey: High Point, near the point where New Jersey, Pennsylvania and New York State meet, misses that designation by something like ten feet. Even so, in that part of New Jersey, there are some steep climbs--and descents. The reason for that, as I understand, is that many of the roads in those hills were built during the American Revolution and were simply paved over in macadam and, later, asphalt. Because roadbuilding techniques weren't as advanced, and because roadbuilders didn't have dynamite or modern machinery, in those days, they usually followed the path of least resistance when building roads.
Jonathan and I weren't feeling much resistance as we barreled down those old roads. As we were about to begin one descent, we saw a "Deer Crossing" sign. One of us--I forget which--said something like, "Wouldn't that be some shit if a deer crossed in front of us?"
Well, you can guess what happened. Worse, that deer crossed near the bottom of the hill--after we, of course, had built up speed. We must have been riding 50 MPH (80 KPH), or close to it: That was the speed limit and we passed two cars that were at, or possibly above, the limit.
That deer bolted a hair or two in front of the tip of my nose, or so it seemed. Those of you who are physicists can calculate the damage that would have ensued had a cyclist travelling at 50 MPH crashed into an animal that weighed a few hundred pounds more than my bike and I weighed. You don't have to be a physicist to know which party would incur the damage.
The next time I had such a close encounter on a downhill, it was a bit more exotic, and dangerous, to say the least. Earlier that day, I'd crossed the border from France, just southeast of Pontarlier, into Switzerland. It seemed that for the previous couple of days, I'd been pedaling up and down inclines, so I wasn't surprised when I did both immediately after crossing the border. And, because my bike was laden with full panniers and a handlebar bag--and I was a mile or so above sea level-- you can imagine how fast my wheels were spinning.
Well, about two-thirds of the way down, I flatted--on the front tire, naturally. Imagine your bike going "thump, thump, thump" at what seems to be twice the speed of sound. All you can really do is to continue riding in a straight line, as any sudden stop or sideways movement will send you into a nasty tumble!
And, as I'm trying to keep my bike in a straight line and my shoulders from flying apart with the vibration, what should cross my path but one of the world's rarest species: an Alpine Ibex. At least, I'm very sure that's what it was. That night, I described it to the hostel-keeper, who said it most likely was. Still, she was as surprised as I was: An ibex, from what she said, very rarely goes near a roadway because he or she usually sticks to the steepest rocks, which is where they find the herbs on which they subsist.
Somehow, I always imagined that Ibex going back to his Ibex buddies that night and having a good laugh: "Those silly humans think they're such good climbers." On the other hand, I don't think deer have such a sense of humor. In any event, I didn't hit either one--or the cat that crossed my path today.
Did a little bit more riding than I did the other day, without pain. I think I'll be ready to resume regular riding soon.
Yesterday, though, I didn't ride. I was welcoming the newest "addition" to my family.
Stephanie, who rescued Marley, brought him to my place yesterday. So, naturally, I spent the day home so I could welcome him and ease the "transition." Actually, Max is taking it pretty well.
Right now, my new family member seems to have two speeds: sleep and "charge!" As soon as we released him from his carrier, Max tried to play with him. And, all through the day, Max tried to make friends with him. It's been a bit more than a month since Charlie died, and Max seems to have been starved for feline attention ever since.
As my new friend is a "rescue" kitten, I can understand the nervousness and skittishness he felt yesterday. I can also understand his need for sleep.
When Stephanie kept him in her apartment, she called him "Charlie." Not only is that the name of my recently departed; it is also the name of a cat--also gray and white!--I had before him. So, I think I'm going to rename him. For now, I'm calling him Marley. I've read and seen "Marley and Me," but more important, I have recordings of just about everything Bob ever did. My new friend doesn't particularly remind me of him, but I figure neither of us can go wrong with that name. Plus, I like the sound of it.
Speaking of sound: I thought I heard a mouse squeak. Turns out, it was Marley crying. I've raised only one other cat from kittenhood--my first Charlie--and remember him crying that way, too. What do they say? Big boys cry because they are always, at heart, little boys.
I don't know whether I'll ever try to carry Marley in a basket. I never tried that with Max or my second Charlie because they were big when I adopted them. However, I took my first Charlie on a couple of rides when he was still small. When he got bigger, he wasn't too keen on riding in a basket. But, his being home was one more thing for me to look forward to at the end of every ride! That's how I see Max's presence now, and how I will most likely see Marley's.
