14 Years!

You’ve probably seen many “on this date” articles or blog posts.  Here’s another.

On this date in 2010, I published the first of my 4463 posts on this blog. I had just resumed cycling after my longest layoff from it: nearly a year after my gender reassignment surgery.  I had been writing another blog, Transwoman Times, which I began two years earlier—one year before my surgery. On that blog, I’d written a few posts about my first post-surgery rides.  This blog began with a suggestion by someone who’d been reading those posts.

One way this anniversary is different is that it’s my first in my current apartment and neighborhood. So it might not surprise you to learn that, after yesterday’s longish ride to Connecticut, I took the opportunity, this morning, to do a bit of exploring closer to home before pedaling down to 83rd Street and Riverside Drive, where I joined a walking tour of Gilded Age monuments and mansions.  Aside from my inherent interest in art, architecture, history and New York City, it was an opportunity to meet the tour’s leader, Esther Crain, who authors one of my favorite non-cycling blogs: Ephemeral New York.

So, this anniversary is, for me, not only a time to celebrate this blog—all 14 years of it!—but to think about other developments in my life.  They may not all relate directly to cycling,  but they are all part of my life as a cyclist.

The Chase

 Whenever I hear the words “police,” “chase” and “L.A. Freeway,” I think of O.J. Simpson, especially after his recent death.

Contrary to what seems to be the public perception (especially for those who don’t remember the incident), O.J. didn’t drive the Ford Bronco.  Interestingly, the driver—Al Cowlings, a childhood friend and teammate of O.J.’s—was not charged.

I have to wonder, though:  What if O.J. had been driving? Or what if he’d been riding a bicycle?

Late Day, Late Spring : A Luxury And A Privilege

 Yesterday I packed a picnic lunch of Addeo’s bread, Delice de Bourgogne cheese and some nice, ripe cherries and hopped aboard Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear bike.

On about as pleasant an afternoon as one can hope to have, I spun down Creston and Walton Avenues to Yankee Stadium, where I crossed the Macombs Dam Bridge into Harlem.  Then I crisscrossed that iconic neighborhood to the Hudson River, where I picked up the Greenway and rode—with a breeze at my back, it felt more like sailing—down to the World Trade Center, where I took the PATH train to Jersey City.

After enjoying about half of my picnic along the waterfront, I zigzagged through modern office towers and charming row houses down to Bayonne*. A highway crosses over the line between it and Jersey City; a man I’ve seen before lives under it, in a tent, with a bicycle—it looks like a ‘90’s mountain bike—I’d seen on previous rides.  

The first time I saw him, his tent and his bike—probably a couple of years ago—I stopped and offered him food and money. He thanked me and refused both. I have been tempted to photograph him and his encampment because they seem to be as established there as the houses, apartments, stores and offices of the two cities he straddles. But I haven’t because I figure that if he’s refused my help, he wants his privacy. Could it be that he worries about being “exposed”—to authorities, or in general?

Anyway, after crossing the Bayonne Bridge, I rode along the North Shore to the ferry terminal.  After “rush” hour, boats run less frequently, and I just missed one.

Once I boarded and the boat pulled away from the dock, however, I wasn’t complaining.

Nice evening, isn’t it?,” a deckhand mused.

“It’s like we’re on a sunset cruise” I quipped. “And it’s free!”

“We take whatever little luxuries we can get,” he said. I nodded, feeling that not only was it a “little luxury;” it was a privilege.