Now we're having the sort of weather we normally get in the latter parts of November or Feburary. So many people in this part of the world are wondering whether or not we had winter.
Officially, Spring began about a week and a half ago. Of course, we all know that the beginning or end of a season hasn't much to do with an equinox. Or so it seems.
Some Irish people argue that Spring begins on St. Patrick's Day. Some old Sicilians say it starts with the feast of San Giuseppe (St. Joseph) on the 19th. (I don't think it does; however, it's a great excuse for eating a sfingi.) However, other Italians argue that the season commences with the Milano-San Remo race. In fact, the race is commonly nicknamed "La Primavera." Other Europeans think la primavera or le printemps begins on the day of the nearest one-day "classic".
One-day classics usually highlight a particular aspect of road racing such as sprinting (e.g., Milano-San Remo), climbing (La Fleche Wallonne) or the sheer ability to endure pain and torture (See the Paris-Roubaix, a.k.a., "L'enfer du nord."). As one might expect, the first ones are held in Italy and, from there, they move northward to France, Belgium and the Netherlands.
In times past, it was important for even the top racers to place well, if not win. Cycling, which until the 1980's was sponsored mainly by bicycle-related companies and other mom-and-pop businesses, didn't pay as well as other sports like soccer/football. Even Eddy Mercx built up his bank account--along with his muscles and his reputation--by winning more classics than any other racer in history. That is one reason why, Lance's seven Tour de France wins notwithstanding, Europeans still hold Mercx in higher esteem--more than three decades after his retirement-- than just about any other racer.
Ironically, Australians won this year's and last year's Milan-San Remo. In the native country of Simon Gerrans and Matt Goss, autumn was beginning when they won the race, as it was in 2009 when their countryman Mark Cavendish won.
I actually studied poetry with Allen Ginsberg. In addition to what I learned about my own writing, the experience furthered my appreciation for the poetry of Walt Whitman and--although he never mentioned his work--Pablo Neruda. They, and Allen, are poets who celebrated common things and people. So did Vachel Lindsay, but I never caught Allen's enthusiasm for his work.
Although Allen himself was never a cyclist, I feel that in some way, it was appropriate for me, as a cyclist, to have worked with him. After all, cycling brings us closer to the common things (and people) those poets celebrated. That is probably the reason why my bike tours of the French countryside are among my most treasured experiences.
However, even on a normal commute--or a wide to "unwind" after work, we can see beauty in the quotidian:
Last night, I managed to take a spin down to Sheepshead Bay after work. I arrived to find these regal and mysterious-looking swans.
And, just a little while ago, I was treated to this sight at the end of the day:
If cycling didn't help me to appreciate everyday sights, I don't know what could have!
Today's commute turned into a game of "playing chicken with the rain." Sometimes those commutes are the most fun because, when I do manage to dodge the rain, I feel like a kid who's gotten away with something.
The first half-hour of my commute felt like a ride across a big lawn lined with rotating sprinklers. It seemed that, as soon as dewy drops evaporated from my nose and hands, I'd get spritzed with another quick round of moisture.
However, about half an hour into my ride, heavier rain dropped from the sky. Suddenly, I could just barely see ahead of me. I ducked under a canopy in front of a store. What kind of a store it was, I wasn't exactly sure. The sign advertised photo finishing and passport service; inside I saw a jewelery case, a couple of fax/copy machines and a couple of desks. And, although the store appeared to be open, I didn't see anybody--not even an employee--inside. I wanted to thank somebody for providing such a good canopy exactly when I needed one!
Anyway, the rain stopped, but I saw lightning flash about a mile or so away. I trusted-- for that moment, anyway-- the wisdom in the old wives' (how sexist!) tale of how lightning never strikes twice in the same place.
Then it was back to riding in and out of the invisible rotating sprinklers. It wasn't raining when I got to work. About an hour later, the sun was shining and my students were staring out the window as I was teaching them the most important things anybody would ever teach them. Well, I probably wasn't, really, but I have to make them--and myself--believe that. Right?
