Being A Tourist On My Bike In My Hometown

Today I found the best kickstand I've ever used:

OK, so it's technically not a kickstand, as it's not necessary to kick it.  Kick it?  How would the world be different if that had been the lyric for a certain Devo song?  


My "stand" was found on this block:

And here is one an interesting specimen from the right side of the street:

Here's something from the left side:

Now, where is this street?  It's in Harlem.  Specifically, it's West 139th, beween Adam Clayton Powell and Malcolm X Boulevards.


From there I rode to this view:

Yes, I pedalled Tosca across the George Washington Bridge to Jersey.   The forecast called for "some" chance of rain, and the skies darkened, threatening rain that never came.  As clouds grew thicker, the air grew cooler, which I liked. 


I pedalled along the Palisades all the way down to Jersey City.

I've seen more than a few of these old movie theatres turned into halls of worship for evangelical or other equally fervent religious groups.  I guess they work for that purpose for the same reasons they made such good movie venues:  The acoustics are great, and having lots of people makes for some enthusiasm!  Hmm...Maybe I should hold my lectures there.  

Anyway, I rode down to Staten Island, where I got on the Ferry and shot the kind of  pictures a tourist would take:

OK, so the one with the shadowy figures isn't quite what a tourist might take:  The man and his son are, as you probably knew, tourists.  I guess I was, too.

A City Ride After Lunch, Thirty Years Later

Today I rode into Manhattan for a couple of errands and to have lunch with Bruce.  Even though I rode my "beater" (the Le Tour), I decided take a bit of a ramble around the city.

Somewhere along the way, it seems, a hipster couldn't bear giving up his bike when he got married and had a kid:

This Peugeot "Nice" was parked across the street from where the World Trade Center once stood.  I've seen bikes like it--which may also have been Nices--in France and Montreal.  But this is the first time I've seen one  here in New York.

To be fair to hipsters, that paint job is pure '80's.


Aside:  I didn't go anywhere near the WTC for a couple of years after 11 September.  Although I didn't lose anyone I knew, I simply couldn't bear to be around it.  


I continued down Broadway to the ferry terminals.  I missed the day's last ferry to Governor's Island and I decided I didn't really want to take the ferry ride to Staten Island, as much as I enjoy it.   

Another aside:  Staten Island is at its closest to the rest of New York at the Verrazano Narrows, where the eponymous bridge crosses it. At that point, SI is about 4300 feet from New York.  However, the island is only 600 feet away from New Jersey. After the English took New York and New Jersey from the Dutch (who took it from the Lenape Indians), they supposedly settled the dispute over whether Staten Island belonged to New York or New Jersey with a boat race:

Was anyone accused of doping?  Maybe they can use the Tour de France to decide whether France or Spain gets Andorra.


Anyway, I rode up the Greenway that skirts the Hudson.  Lots of the cyclists I saw today probably moved to New York in the last few years.   They don't remember the city without the Greenway.  They also probably think the Christopher Street Pier always looked something like this:

I remember when it looked nothing like that.  My earliest memories were more like what you see in this photo Ross Lewis took in 1993:

Believe it or not, I actually ventured out onto the pier when it was something like that.  My first adventure there was during my high school years, in the mid-1970's.  I don't remember much about it because, well, I did something teenagers sometimes do when they're someplace they're not supposed to be.  I don't think I would've gone onto that pier if I weren't intoxicated.  In fact, I probably wouldn't have crossed under the elevated West Side Highway.  A truck crashed through it in the early 1970's; although it was closed immediately, it wouldn't be demolished for another 15 years.  In the meantime, only those who were intoxicated, adventurous or simply had noplace else to go would cross under that highway to get to piers that were, in some cases, literally falling into the water.  


For a long time, those derelict quais were among the few places to which the public had access on New York City's hundreds of miles of shoreline.  New York is different, in that sense, from other seaport towns like Boston, San Francisco and Istanbul:  Until recently, there was really no individual or civic pride in the waterfront. It seemed as if one's social status was directly proportional to how far one was from the water.  That might be the reason why addresses along  Fifth Avenue, which is further from the waterfront than any other New York City Avenue, became the most prestigious in the city.

I have long said that New York could be, by far, the most beautiful city in the world if its waterfront were cleaned up.  I'm glad to see that's happening, finally.  Still, it's almost surreal to see the shorelines become places of recreation. 

 One of my uncles worked on the Brooklyn docks; as a teenager, my mother worked in a factory just steps away from those docks.  When I was a child, my father worked in a factory that was less than a block from the 57th Street pier, which is only about half a mile from the Intrepid.  Those workplaces, not to mention those jobs, are long gone.  In fact, the old Maritime Union headquarters in Brooklyn, which took up an entire square block, is now Al-Noor, said to be the largest Muslim elementary school in the United States.


I continued up the Greenway past the Boat Basin, Harlem toward the George Washington Bridge

On my way back, I saw this charmingly theatrical facade:

This building was the old Audubon Ballroom.  Many jazz performers played there; in addition, the Audubon was a movie theatre and a meeting-place for labor activists.  However, it seemed not to recover from having been the site of Malcolm X's assassination until Columbia-Presbyterian Medical Center turned it into a research laboratory during the 1990's.


How much else will change by the time I take another ride like the one I took today? 

A Day Off: No Hipster Fixies

I didn't ride today.  It rained heavily this morning.  My unwritten personal policy is that I don't start a ride in the rain unless I absolutely must; however, if there appears to be some risk or rain, I'll ride and accept the  consequences.  


Besides, having done my ride to the Delaware Water Gap on Sunday and about 35 miles on my fixed-gear yesterday, I feel as if I've done some quality cycling.  So, today, I took care of some business, which included getting a manicure and pedicure.  My nails were hideous!  Then I met with some members of the advisory committee of SAGE.  I might be working with them, as a volunteer, in the fall.

Perhaps I'm not noticing them, but there didn't seem to be as many of the "hipster fixies" on the streets of lower Manhattan as I'd been seeing in recent years.  Now, I'm always glad to see people riding bikes, whatever those bikes are.  Still, I hope that some riders will get onto bikes that are prettier or more useful than what they're riding. 


 Every once in a while, I'll get into a conversation with a hipster who tries to convince me that my bike will look "cooler" or "nicer" if I install a pair of wheels with Day-Glo-colored V-shaped rim and other parts and accessories in various eye-burning hues.  While both of my Mercians are finished with paint that turns purple, green or silver--depending on how the light hits it or how you look at it, though it's purple more often than not--it's actually rather elegant and understated in a similar way to the "fade" paint jobs (something I normally abhor) on the old Swiss Mondia bicycles.  And I prefer to stick with classic and classy parts in silver or black,and to have a touch of additional color in an accessory like a bag or handlebar wrap.


Maybe I'm just getting old and conservative.  Then again, I've never wanted a tatoo, not even when I was hanging out with punk rockers back in the day.  I guess I never was a hipster or one of its predecessors.  Somehow I don't think I missed much.


Anyway...Tomorrow I'm going to ride. I don't know what, how or where, but I plan on it.

Recovery Becomes A Sunset

Today I wanted to "test" the blisters I incurred during my ride to the Delaware Water Gap.  I "popped" them the way they used to teach us in the Scouts and the Army:  I cleaned the blisters and the area around them with alcohol, then I pierced them with a sterile needle.


After bandaging them, I got on Tosca with not particular destination in mind.  I stopped first at the Canarsie Pier, then in Coney Island.  After that, I rode to the promenade that rims the Verrazano Narrows and passes under the bridge named after that body of water:

I used my cell phone to take the photo, as I didn't bring my camera.


I was riding pretty slowly.  At least, it seemed as if I was.  But I don't berate myself quite so much for it when I'm riding my fixed-gear bike.  Besides, riding slowly to enjoy a sunset, particularly if it's on a large body of water or behind a bridge is acceptable as a reason or excuse, at least for me!

I Pedalled There And Came Back

I'm back.

Yes, I did ride to the Delaware Water Gap.  The ride took more twists and turns--and I'm not talking only about the ones in the roadway--than I could have expected.  Then again, who ever expects twists and turns?  If they were anticipated, would they be twists and turns?

I started out on a route I've talked about in other posts:  over the Robert F. Kennedy Memorial (a.k.a. Triborough) Bridge to Randall's Island.  In riding over it, I have a great view of the Hell Gate Bridge, which I've also mentioned in previous posts.  However, Charon didn't ferry anyone under it; surprisingly enough, I din't see any boats going under it.

From there, I passed by the Harlem matrons and their children and grandchildren on their way to or from church, breakfast or lunch. (They're not the sort of people who "do brunch."  Even though I sometimes do it, I'm glad there are still people who don't.)  Then, over the George Washington Bridge to Fort Lee and a few other Bergen County towns that look like Swiss villages with lobotomies.  I have seen them often enough, on other rides, that I hardly notice them anymore:  The faux-chalet and even-more-faux-Tudor houses and stores, as well as the gleaming "box" buildings in the office parks, are landmarks by which I can navigate without thinking.


Once I got past them, I spent another two hours or so riding through suburban sprawl before I realized I made a wrong turn and was in Rockland County.  I didn't mind:  the riding was pleasant enough, but it took me out of my way.  The directions I was trying to follow stopped making sense, so by that time I was trying to navigate from my memory of a long-ago ride.  When you have my navigational skills, that's a hazardous thing to do and is even more perilous when the ride you're trying to re-create is one that you did when you got into a fight with someone who's now you're ex and you didn't plan the route you took.


Anyway, when I got back into New Jersey, puffy cumulus clouds commonly seen on hot summer days thickened and darkened.  (Woody Allen would've had a field day with that, I'm sure.)  In  Saddle River--a town that has recently had the highest per-capita and per-household income in New Jersey, and has been among the top ten in both categories in the United States--the clouds opened up, and I ducked into what was probably the least well-kept spot in that town:  the entrance to the basement of a church that didn't look as if it was attended by very many residents of the town.  


I wouldn't have minded riding in the rain on such a hot day.  I did, in fact, ride, until the rain fell so heavily that I couldn't see where I was going and lightning flashed.  With the big lawns that surround the homes and other buildings, and the golf courses, there's lots of open space, and I didn't want to be a target.  Later, I would find out that the same storm spawned a tornado in the Bronx.


Anyway, after the rain stopped, it wasn't quite as hot or muggy, but still more of both than I like.  I rode for a while before stopping for a slice of pizza in Brothers Pizzeria,  a place where a two fortyish Italian men were making the food, a teenaged boy (who looked like the son of one of the men)  was slicing the pizzas and putting slices in the oven as customers ordered them, a fortyish woman was working the cash register and an older, but not quite old, Italian man was presiding over everything.  "Can I help you ma'am?"  "How hot do you want it, ma'am?"  "I hope you have a good day, ma'am."  The signs in the shop said they'd been in business since 1970:  It's easy to see why.  And, yes, the pizza was very good, made with a thin crust (Why do some pizzerias insist on making slices that could double as insulation?) and a tangy, slightly acidic, tomato sauce that wasn't sweet or salty as sauces are in too many other places.  


Now I'm going to tell you a little secret:  These days, I think there's more good pizza in New Jersey than in New York.  Too many places in New York try to make pizza something that it's not:  a gourmet fetish item.  Then again, I might be old-fashioned:  I've tried pizza with pineapple and, while I can understand why people like it, it's just not for me.  I also don't think that chocolate chips belong in bagels.  Believe it or not, I've seen that, too!


OK, back to bike riding:  After restoring myself (The word "restaurant" comes from the French "restaurer":  "to restore.")  I pedalled for I don't know how long and ended up at the Wanaque Reservoir, which I rode around.  That cost me about another hour, but I didn't mind.  Here's one of the few photos I took, and the only one I thought was decent:

You can see that it was a hot day, and was preceded by an even hotter day.  


At that point, I was a bit less than halfway to the Water Gap.  From there, I pedalled up to Franklin.  Here's something that, according to cynics, could happen "only in New Jersey":  within the Garden State, there is a town called Franklin, another called Franklin Lakes and a Franklin Township.  I passed through Franklin Lakes and, of course, Franklin; Franklin Township is in another part of the state.  I actually lived in Franklin Township for a time and from there commenced some of the long-ago rides I've described on this blog.


Anyway, if any of you are geologists, you probably know about Franklin.  If you're a rock-lover, you should know about it.  At one time, it was a major source of zinc and manganese; today, it's known as "the fluorescent mineral capital of the world."  Believe it or not, more varieties of minerals can be found there than in any other place in the world.  It might be one of the few places in this world that's actually more interesting and attractive under infrared light.  What one sees with one's own eyes and a normal camera is a place that's not so much pretty as it is picturesque, or at least calm, in a rather melancholy sort of way:  a bit like parts of  New England and the Ardennes and Picardy regions.

This, I was told, was once a mine pit.  It filled with water and the trees grew around it after mining ceased some time after World War I, which is when much of  mining generally went into decline, at least in the US.


The rest of the ride took me through scenes that felt rather like this ones.  Even the areas that hadn't been mined or farmed felt as if some sort of history were echoing or muttering through them.


And I could feel my own history.  Yes, my body was letting me know that I haven't done a ride like this one in a long time.  It wasn't just the fatigue I was feeling or the sunburn I got in spite of frequent layerings of sunscreen.  I also got, believe it or not, blisters on both of my feet.  By the time I got to the Gap, I could barely pedal at all, as the blisters were between my instep and big toe.  I think I got the blisters from the shoes I was wearing.  I'd worn them before on shorter rides, but I think that they didn't give me enough support for ten-plus hours on Arielle. Getting them, and my feet, soaked in the rainstorm probably didn't help, either.


So, yesterday, I took the train home.  The father of a family from North Carolina who were on their way to visit relatives gave me a ride to Hackettstown, which is about twenty-five miles away and the nearest station in the New Jersey Transit system.  From there, I took a train to Newark, where I took the PATH train to 33rd Street in Manhattan.  


I hadn't taken a train to or from Newark in years.  So, I didn't realize that a new terminal has been built at Broad Street.  That's where the NJ Transit train went.  Penn Station, which has been Newark's main terminal for decades, is about half a mile away.  There's a light rail that connects the two and I could've brought my bike on it, but doing so seemed more trouble than it was worth.  So I rode my bike, barely pedalling at all.


Millie came by about five minutes after I got home.  She was even more surprised to see me than Max and Charlie were!


I wish I could have ridden back.  But at least in riding to the Gap, I pedalled 112 miles, which is the longest I've done in my life as Justine.  And I rode up and down more hills than I have in a couple of years, and rode with a load (admittedly, not large) for the first time in a long time.  Arielle, my Mercian road bike and my Carradice Barley performed much better than I did!