A Season In The Boogie Down?

My academic year begins on Thursday.  Today I rode to the college for a meeting and workshops.  

Through the Spring semester (which began a couple of days after a blizzard struck this city), I saw gradually-increasing numbers of cyclists on the RFK Memorial Bridge lane and on Randall's Island on my way to the college.  I saw a similar slow but steady increase in the number of bikes parked in the racks on the college campus, and along the streets surrounding it.  Those increases, of course, could be attributed to the warming weather.  

So, perhaps, it was no surprise to see more cyclists crossing the bridge than I've ever seen on a weekday.  Some looked like they were riding for fun or fitness, but others seemed to be on their way to work or some other obligation.  More than a few, I'm sure, were motivated by the the clear skies and mild temperature, and not deterred by the brisk wind.  Then again, that wind some of them across the island and bridge as I pedaled into it.  

It also wasn't a surprise to see only two other bikes in the racks.  No doubt there will be more once classes begin.  I wonder how many students, faculty and staff will continue to ride as the season grows colder, and possibly wetter.   Three subway lines stop right in front of the entrances of the campus's two main buildings, and four bus lines stop within a block.  So, I'm guessing that some of the bike commuters are "seasonal", if you will:  They use mass transit when the weather becomes less favorable for cycling. 



Perhaps the most interesting development I noticed is that on the South Bronx streets between the bridge (and Randall's Island Connector) and the college, I've seen more cyclists than I've ever seen before.   Some were riding the old ten- and three-speeds (Nobody calls them "vintage" in such a neighborhood!) in various states of disrepair--or with seats, handlebars and other parts that clearly are not original equipment.  You see people riding bikes like those all the time in low-income communities:  They have become basic transportation vehicles and, in some cases, beasts of burden that tow shopping carts or baby strollers piled with that day's shopping, or cans, bottles and other items that are being hauled to the recycling center.

I did notice, however, more than a few bikes that were clearly not being used for such purposes--and riders who almost certainly have never ridden their bikes in the ways I've described.  As we say in the old country, "They sure don't look like they're from around here."  I even noticed two people riding Citibikes, even though the nearest docking station is about 5 kilometers--and a world--away.

Will I see those non-utility cyclists in the South Bronx come November or December?  For that matter, I wonder how many of the riders I saw on the bridge or the island today will still be on their bikes as the season turns in "the Boogie Down". 

For The First Time, Again

It seems that every year I take at least one ride like the one I took today.

I didn't ride to or through anyplace I'd never seen before today.  Conditions were not at all challenging:  rather humid, but not oppressively so.  Probably the worst (or best, depending on which way I was riding) was the wind, but even that wasn't so bad.

Certainly, I didn't cover a lot of ground, at least compared to some other rides I've done.  I stayed within the confines of three New York City boroughs:  Queens (where I live), Manhattan and Brooklyn.  Then again, I hadn't really planned on doing a century--metric, imperial or otherwise--or a brevet, or any sort of ride with a name.  In fact, I didn't have any sort of plan at all.

I spun up and down major avenues, sprinted from traffic light to traffic light on 57th Street, made furtive turns into alleys and weaved among riders of Citibikes, skaters toting yoga mats and the self-consciously a la mode pushing strollers with the names of designers or athletic-wear companies emblazoned on them.  All of this was pleasant enough, even exhilarating at times.

One thing that seemed strange, even for a Sunday at this time of year, was that some of the streets were all but clear of traffic, whether of the motorized, foot or pedal variety, even though said streets weren't closed.  In fact, I could ride longer and faster in a straight line along those thoroughfares than I could on the bike and pedestrian lanes.

It seemed that almost all of the people--whether on foot, bike or skate--were in the places where one expects to find tourists:  around the Intrepid Air and Space Museum, the South Street Seaport, at the terminals for the ferries to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, on the Brooklyn Bridge. (I like to think that one of the signs I'm a "real" New Yorker is that I don't ride across the BB:  when I cross the East River, I take the Queensborough/59th Street, Williamsburgh or Manhattan Bridges, depending on where I'm going.)  In contrast, the shopping areas along 14th Street and Sixth Avenue (No New Yorker calls it "Avenue of the Americas"!) were all but deserted even though most of the stores were open.

As I cycled up First Avenue near the United Nations, I realized that everything I'd seen was a sign that it's almost the end of summer.  I realized that I take a ride like this one around this time every year:  a week or two before Labor Day.  This is the "last chance" for a lot of New Yorkers to leave town and for many tourists to come here.  And, of course, New Yorkers with lots of money and vacation time have been out of town for weeks already.  It'll be a week or two before they, and other vacationers, start trickling back in--and before the tide of tourists becomes a trickle.

It's at this time of year that I feel most like a "fly on the wall" in my own city.  I am not a tourist, but at the same time, I feel as if I am looking at familiar streets and buildings from the other side of a two-way mirror.  Although I live here, I feel as if I am not entirely here.

I don't mean any of what I've said as a complaint.  If anything, I find it interesting.  In a way, I am privileged:  Although I am far from rich (by the standards of this city and country, anyway), I was able to take a vacation of my own choosing, to a place of my own choosing and do it on my own terms.  And I have had little to worry about since I came back.

In fact, I realize now that since coming back from Paris--three weeks ago, already--I've spent a fair amount of time outside the city, with the bike rides I've taken to Connecticut and the more bucolic parts of New Jersey and Long Island.  So, in a way, I haven't been living like a resident of this city.  But I haven't been a tourist, either, because at the end of the day, wherever I've ridden, I've come back to my own bed and cats--and, as often as not, prepared my own meals.   

Could it be that this time of year--the latter part of August and the first few days of September--is a season unto itself?   Is this the season of The Outsider--and was today's ride my annual Outsider Ride?  

Perhaps no matter how often we've ridden a street or trail, seen a building or field, swum in a sea or opened a particular door--whether for the first time or the last, for a moment or a lifetime-- we are visiting:  We are coming in from the outside.  But we are coming in, and we can stay as long as our time, resources and imaginations allow us.  And one day we can come back.

And we can do the same rides, again, for the first time, from the outside.  At least, that's what I feel I did today.

The Music Of The Spheres (Or The Wheel, Anyway)!

The Music Of The Spheres (Or The Wheel, Anyway!)

Now, I know most of you, my dear readers, are sensitive, socially-conscious people.  (Even if you aren't, nod in agreement!)  So, I'm going to share some "forbidden knowledge" with you that I know you never, never will use.  Right?  (Again, nod in agreement!) It's something I never, ever used myself and wouldn't, in a million years, ever use. Really!

OK, here goes:  If you really want to insult a musician (or, more precisely, someone who fancies him- or her-self as one) and be politically incorrect (Now why would you want to do that?), here is what you say:

"You're a real artist.  You have a Van Gogh's ear for music."

Now, I assure you, I love Van Gogh more than any Japanese banker who paid $100 million for one of his paintings.  (When you're poor, you console yourself by saying things like that!)  One of the high points of my second bike trip in Europe was stopping in Arles and sitting on the cafe terrace Vincent graced with his paintbrush.

So... what would it be like to have a Van Gogh's ear for music--at least, before he did that little bit of DIY surgery on himself?  Somehow I think he would have heard things most of us can't.  After all, isn't his painting about seeing what most of us don't?  (Perhaps the same could be said for any great artist.) Sometimes I think that in "Starry Night", he was hearing--and feeling, and perhaps even smelling and tasting, as well as seeing-- all of those lines and colors as he painted them.  

Likewise, I wonder what other artists heard in the music they listened to.  Many a writer has expressed his or her perceptions about Mozart, Marley and Monk, as well as musicians in every other part of the spectrum--and alphabet!   But we don't often hear what painters, sculptors and others who work in visual media feel when they listen to musical maestros.  If they were to turn to pianos instead of palettes, or using their voices instead of violet and vermillon (or cellos instead of celeste green)--or if they composed instead of chisled--what kind of music would they make?

(Let's hope that if they write, they won't over-use alliteration!)

I believe I may have stumbled onto what sounds Marcel Duchamp might have made had he turned at least one of his objets into a musical instrument:



Now tell me:  Whatever you think of him, who else but Frank Zappa could have done it?  

And who else but Steve Allen could have gotten away with bringing a then-unknown musician onto his show, and letting said musician do, basically, what ten-year-old boys (and, sometimes, girls) had been doing for decades with their bicycles?  Who else could have, in front of a national audience, treated such a musician as if he were, well, a musician?  

At the time of that broadcast--1963--most American audiences weren't ready for the Beatles or Bob Dylan, let alone Frank Zappa.  I'm not sure Steve Allen was, either.  At least he deserves credit for his willingness to expand his own horizons--which, of course, was the first step in helping to expand the horizons of his audience.

What would Marcel Duchamp have played on that bicycle wheel in his studio?