How Is It Aging?

Aged 12 years.

When I saw that phrase--on a bottle of Scotch whiskey--I wasn't 12 years old.  I couldn't quite fathom that grown-ups drank something older than I was.

Now I am at an age when I don't think of something as having occurred 12 years ago.  Now I'm more likely to round it up or down to 15 or ten years.  Someone, I forget whom, told me that it happens when "you get to a certain age":  According to that person, you start to see your life, and the world, "in five- or ten-year increments."

There are, of course, some things I can pinpoint in time.  One of them is the subject of today's post.  

Exactly twelve years ago today, this blog was born. At least, that is the day on which I wrote and published my first post.  For two years before that, I'd been writing another blog, Transwoman Times, which I continued for a few years into the life of this blog and, in a way, this blog is an extension, continuation or simply a relative--I'm still not sure of which--of that one.

Now, some might say that I've reached an age when I can no longer say I'm in "mid-life."  To them, I'll repeast something I've said in this blog, and elsewehere:  If I don't know how long I'm going to live, I can't know whether or not I'm in the middle of my life.  Given the typical and even the longest lifespans of humans, I can't plausibly say I'm at the beginning or even early in my life.  But as long as I don't know where I end, I'm in the middle--just as I can't know whether a ride I take will be the last, or one of the last--or even whether it's the last time I'll take a particular ride, such as the one to Greenwich or Point Lookout.

Whether you've been reading this blog from its beginning, or found it yesterday, I thank you for taking the time to read it.  And however long this blog--and I--last, I hope you're with me for the journey.  We're only in the middle of it, after all!

He Didn't Have A Phantom Condition. He Was Assaulted.

When I wrote for newspapers, a few things frustrated me.  Among them were politicians and other officials who'd talk around my questions.  Another was the constraints one editor put on me and other writers.  So, as I complained to another writer, "I can write about cops and robbers but I can't write about the real crimes."

But nothing twisted my panties or chamois bike short liners (remember those?) more than headline writers.  They'd come up with phrasings that, sometimes said something different from, or even the exact opposite of, what my article described.  Or sometimes what they wrote things that someone, especially if they came from a different generation, culture or other life experience might hear differently from what was intended.

I saw an example of this today:  "Boy Beaten and Bruised in Bicycle Face Attack at LI School Parking Lot:  Cops."  

Now, perhaps I'm a bit of a geek, at least in this sense:  I can say, without boasting, that I probably know more about the history of bicycles and bicycling than anyone who's not a specialist in that field.  So when I saw "Bicycle Face," I immediately thought of the rationale conservatives during the 1885-1905 Bike Boom gave for keeping women off bicycles.  They believed that the rigors of being out in public, in rain and wind and sun, and of simply being on a bicycle, twisted their pretty little heads into what they called "Bicycle Face."

Now, of course, with all due respect to Long Island law enforcement officials, I doubt that their training includes ways of recognizing Bicycle Face--or that most of them have even heard of the term, even if they are cyclists.  And I think it's even less likely that some random thug (the victim is a 13-year-old boy; the perp is believed to be a good bit older and six feet tall) would attack someone for having "Bicycle Face," though, perhaps I can imagine using the phrase as a schoolyard taunt.

Now, I don't mean to make light of a boy being bashed in the face with a bicycle.  No one should have to endure that, and it upsets me that something that can be such a force for good and a source of so much pleasure can be used to commit violence against another living being.  My heart goes out to that boy and his loved ones.

But, as a writer, I also abhor crimes against journalism and the English language.  A much more accurate--and, if I do say so myself, snappier--headline might've been: LI Man Slams Bike Against Boy's Face.

The Unofficial Beginning

 Here in the US, the Memorial Day weekend is often seen as the “unofficial beginning of summer.” The weather, and my rides, certainly lived up to that billing.

First, as an aside, I’ll tell you how the holiday came to be the “unofficial beginning of summer.  One interesting fact about Memorial Day is that the date on which it’s observed has nothing to do with any battle, the birth of any historic figure or any other historical or mythical event.  When the holiday was first designated, it was called Decoration Day (when I was a child, some people still referred to it that way) because people—some of them newly-freed slaves—decorated the graves of Union soldiers who died fighting the Civil War.  In those days, there wasn’t a flowers.com or even very many florists.  So, people had to pick flowers from their gardens or the woods.  And, as the holiday was commemorated only in the northern US, late May was chosen because that’s when flowers are in full bloom in this part of the world.

Anyway, about my rides: They are both trips I've taken many times before. On Saturday, I pedaled up to Greenwich, Connecticut via the Pelham Bay Park trail and back roads and streets in Mamaroneck, Rye and Greenwich.  The weather was all but perfect:  warm, but not too, with a breeze that seemed to ripple the wisps of clouds in the blue, sunny sky. Yesterday, I rode to Point Lookout on a warmer day, though the temperature dropped a good bit after I crossed the Veterans' Memorial Bridge (how appropriate!) to the Rockaways.

I felt great after both rides. That, to me, is another sign that summer is, if not here, at least close:  I am in better shape.  But, apart from the roads and views, the rides offered one interesting contrast.  My ride to Connecticut reminded me of the ones I took in the early days of the pandemic:  I saw hardly a car or SUV, let alone a truck, along the way.  I glanced out to the main roads and didn't see much more traffic, and when I passed over the highways (the Cross Bronx Expressway, Hutchinson River Parkway and New York State Thruway), I saw even less traffic than I normally see on a Sunday morning or afternoon.  On the other hand, not surprisingly, I saw a lot of vehicular traffic on the roads leading to the beaches and foot traffic along the boardwalks and pedestrian paths.

Today is, in more ways than one, the day after--the  beginning of summer, for one thing.