Two Shades of Blue, Two Seasons

 For two days, we experienced three months’ worth of weather at the same time:  February cold, March wind and April rain. 

Yesterday, two of those elements let up.  So, clad in a windbreaker over a base layer, I rode under clear skies in one shade of blue to water in another.

This month, however lived up to its reputation as I pedaled into a brisk wind on my way back from Point Lookout.  And, at the Point, there was another reminder that whatever the calendar tells us about the season, winter does not give up its grip on the ocean so readily.

At this time of year, the water is at its coldest—about 4 to 5C (38 to 40F).  Its hue seemed to reflect its chill, especially against the azure sky and sand and trees in shades of brown.

This is also an interesting time of year because, while I saw more people strolling and cycling the Rockaway and Long Beach boardwalks than I would have seen a month or two ago, they are not the same folks I’ll see in another month or two. Some of the people I saw today love the Sunday sun at any time of year; they were taking it in, perhaps, after going to church or before a weekend brunch or afternoon dinner with extended family. Others are the same hardy or lonely souls one sees a couple of weeks after the holiday season ends and the coldest, darkest part winter descends.

So, while the gatherings of people along the boardwalks and the azure skies signal the passing of a season, the waters in a darker shade of blue, the wind and the woman sauntering along the dunes showed me that winter isn’t dead, not yet.

Don't Look Now!

I took an Art History course that  included a final exam with this essay question: "Explain the Mona Lisa smile."

I don't remember what I wrote. I am sure, however, that it wasn't profound, brilliant or original in spite of my belief that it, like everything I wrote in those days, embodied all of those qualities.  So it wouldn't surprise you to know that the grade I got--a B, if I remember correctly-- aroused my indignation. (It didn't take much, did it?)

So, being older and wiser, I won't venture an opinion about why the young woman has her hands over her eyes:

I simply thought the image is light and funny--just right for a Sunday morning.

A Trans Woman Won A Women's Race. Blame Me.

Today even the New York Post--you know, the paper famous for its "Headless Body In Topless Bar" headline--claimed that Donald Trump has gone too far:

Just when I thought light and poetry and flowers were about to return to this land--OK, we're getting some of the flora--Faux, I mean, Fox News is becoming even more, in the Post's eloquence, deranged in its demonization of transgender people.

I mean, when you treat yourself to the kernels of wisdom Tucker Carlson and Greg Gutfield offer up at dinnertime, you might come away thinking that we are an "Invasion of the Body Snatchers"-type force taking over women's sports.  Oh, if I were scooping up medals and trophies in the Tour de France Femme or the Virginia Slims tournament the way the folks at Fox would have you believe, I would--I dunno--be writing this post from a duplex near the Luxembourg Gardens and hiring artists to design this blog.

Anyway, if you look at the podium photo for the Randall's Island Criterium--a race held practically outside my window--you'll see that winner Tiffany Thomas doesn't look markedly bigger or more muscular than the other two female cyclists, who finished second and third, on either side of her.  And, apparently, her hormone levels qualify her to compete in women's events according to all of the governing bodies.  

In short, she has no "unfair" advantage, any more than I now have over any other woman within a decade of my age who is a regular cyclist or engages in any other kind of sport or physical regimen. I am not merely making a claim; I am reiterating what scientific and medical researchers have found and reported.     

OK, now I'll reveal Tiffany Thomas' "secret sauce."  She got it from me.  You see, Randall's Island is practically outside my window:  After pedaling over the Queens spur of the RFK Bridge, I ride through the Island on my way to the Bronx, Westchester County and Connecticut.  So I twitched my nose and sent her those special rays--kinda like the ones from the Jewish Space Lasers—that only we, trans people, can send each other!