Sheltered In Memory

On Sunday, Bill, Cindy and I took the ferry from the Brooklyn Army Terminal, about a mile from Bill's apartment, to Rockaway Beach.   Perhaps I "read" the choppiness of the water into everything I experienced on the ride, from the wind skittering over sand and marsh grasses to the clouds scattered through the sky.

Don't get me wrong:  I enjoyed the ride.  It wasn't long, but the company and the vistas were pleasant, and sometimes interesting.

Saying that someone lives in "a house by the water" probably conjures, for most people, an image of its inhabitants gazing over expanses of sea and sky from an open-air balcony or glass-enclosed solarium.  But, really, it can mean much else, such as this

or this

The first photo probably is a better reflections of most people (at least those who've never lived in such places) have of living "in a beach house" or "by the ocean".   There is one difference, of course:  more color.  If anything, it might look more like South Beach, Miami than the South Shore of Long Island.

The other photo is probably closer to the reality of most waterside residents.  If you think you've seen it before, you probably have:  A couple of weeks ago, we rode by it when the tide was out and mud and other detritus oozed (where murky water would lap around when the tide is in) between those islands of marsh grass and houses.

We are still trying to figure out what the geared wheel is.  My theory is that there was a boat dock there at some point--perhaps as recently as in the days just before Sandy--and that wheel was part of some mechanism that towed boats in.  Now that I think of it, I recall seeing boats in the area before Sandy.

Anyway, on the way back to Bill's place, we rode through Sunset Park.  Many, many years ago, my grandparents took me to the top of this hill

in the park.  The view doesn't seem to change much.  Or maybe there is more change than I realize, and I just don't see it because I always look out, toward the harbor and Statue, from that hill.  It's as if some law of physics applies only in that spot:  My eyes cannot turn in any other direction. 

But at least that view is different from any other maritime or littoral vista I have encountered.  It has to be, even if someone  builds houses of the blue and green and terra cotta tiles--or gnarled bark-- between me and the expanse of harbor:  the one I saw with my grandparents more than half a century ago, and with Bill and Cindy the other day.

Michael Goolaerts, R.I.P.

Professional athletes are usually young and in prime physical condition.  That is why almost nobody expects one to die while competing or training.

So it was for Michael Goolaerts.  The 23-year-old Belgian collapsed from cardiac arrest during Paris-Roubaix, the one-day race often dubbed "L'enfer du nord" (the Hell of the North).  

It was originally reported that Goolaerts crashed.  There are no images available, but more recent reports say that he was found on the side of a cobblestoned road, where he is believed to have fallen.  No other riders were found at the scene.  

From there, he was airlifted to a hospital in the northern French city of Lille where he died, surrounded by his family.

Current reports say that he died of cardiac arrest, which could easily explain his fall and why medical assistance was to no avail.  Unlike a heart attack, during which the heart to continues to beat, in cardiac arrest, the heart immediately stops pumping blood to the brain, lungs and other organs.  A heart attack requires prompt attention, while a cardiac arrest victim needs almost immediate help if he or she is to survive, let alone recover.

Another way that cardiac arrest differs from a heart attack is that the former comes without warning.  That is why we occasionally hear of athletes suddenly collapsing and dying, as Goolaerts seems to have done, and why it is so surprising.

I give my condolences:  I can hardly imagine the shock and grief his family, friends and colleagues in the cycling community are feeling.

On Their Own Planet

I was a child in 1968.  I might not have understood everything I saw on the evening news, but I knew it was a tumultuous time. (OK, I didn't know the word "tumultuous".)  As I mentioned the other day, Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated.  Robert F. Kennedy would meet a like fate two months later.  There were riots, demonstrations and strikes everywhere.

In the midst of it all, some of the cultural touchstones (and cliches) of the late 20th Century made their appearance.  Among them were two movies that became nearly all-purpose metaphors--2001: A Space Odyssey  and Planet of the Apes.

Both movies, er, films, made lots of money for their studios.  If you feel your reputation will be sullied by indulging in a taste for a mere movie, you can turn either into a film by reminding yourself that the music you hear when a chimp uses a shinbone to bash in the skull of a skeletal remain is Richard Strauss's Also Sprach Zarathrusta.  And, Planet of the Apes is based on a novel--namely Pierre Boulle's La Planete des Singes.

(I confess that I learned of the basis in the Boulle novel only recently--as in, about half an hour before I started writing this!)

Anyway...In honor of the 50th anniversary of Planet's first appearance on the big screen, I am offering this:

https://www.askideas.com/chimpanzee-riding-bicycle-funny-picture/