November Cycling

Today's the first of November.


This is the month that separates the committed cyclists from the rest.  People who pedal once or twice around the park every other weekend usually call it a season about now.  At least, that's what they seem to do in Northern Hemisphere locales that have four discernible seasons.


Yesterday I noticed there were fewer cyclists on the roads and Greenway than there've been on most Sundays during the past few months.  That isn't too surprising:  It was a chilly, windy day, though it was lovely, if in a rather austere way.


Although it was Halloween--the last day of October--in cycling terms, it was more of a November day.  That, for me was part of what I enjoyed about cycling yesterday.


Of course, no month is more beautiful than October.  Perhaps May or June could be said to be as lovely, if in entirely different ways from the month that just passed.  Cycling--or doing nearly anything else outdoors--in  October is a feast for the senses.


On the other hand, November grows grayer and more wizened as it proceeds.  Colors fade into shades of ashes and as trees are stripped of their leaves, their branches grow darker and splinter.  Somehow, though, they endure like the coats the old and the poor wear through another season.


Someone who continues cycling this week, this month, will probably continue to some time just before Christmas.  And anyone who continues cycling after that will probably still be on his or her bike in February.


By then, even they--we-- will be ready for another season, having cycled forward from the light of the gray November tableau.  

Cycling Through The Gates of Autumn

I got up late today.  So my ride took me to a sunset:

The sun has just set behind Jamaica Bay, near the place it meets the Atlantic at Breezy Point.  I stumbled over this view on the Queens side of the Gil Hodges-Marine Park Bridge.  That view led to another bridge:

To get to these views, we crossed another bridge:

The day was chilly and windy, and became more of both after we crossed this bridge from Beach Channel to the Rockaways.  But somehow I didn't feel the cold.  Maybe I was channeling the sky:  Clouds spread like a shawl across a graying sea and houses that still have some of the warmth and light the sun within them.

And the way to these views was a bike ride through the gates of autumn:

Some of us have to carry a lot to get there:

Sometimes the journey is long, or seems that way:

And where does it lead?  Hopefully, to some place like this:

And it continues.  There is no escaping it, though some will try:

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That's a washed-out stretch of the Greenway, where it parallels Belt Parkway along Brooklyn's South Shore.  I asked someone to take a photo of me, but I didn't like it.  So I took this photo of a couple I saw cycling.  

Where else could they have been riding but through a sunset in the gates of autumn.

Cycling vs. Fishing: The Class Structure in New York City?

Sometimes I ride down to the Canarsie Pier, as I did today.  It's on the South Shore of Brooklyn, along the Greenway that connects Howard Beach to Sheepshead Bay and parallels the Belt Parkway as it winds along the beaches and coves of the Atlantic Ocean and Jamaica Bay.


At just about any time of year, in any kind of weather, at pretty much any hour of the day or night, people--usually older men--fish off the pier:

In my time, I've seen plenty of guys fishing off piers and bridges.  The ones I see on the piers seem to have a mutual non-acknowledgment pact with cyclists.  The ones on bridges, on the other hand, are often resentful or simply hostile toward cyclists.  That may have something to do with the fact that on bridges, we tend to pass closer to them than we do on piers, as the walkways on most bridges (where cyclists usually ride and fisherman cast their lines) are only a few feet, if that, wide.


It seems that the worlds of cycling and fishing, at least in urban or suburban settings, exclude each other, whether or not by design.  Sometimes I see men riding bicycles to their fishing spots.  But they aren't riding to take the ride; the bike is strictly is a means of transportation and portage.  As often as not, their fishing poles are strapped or even taped to the top tubes of their bicycles.


Perhaps some of those fisherman resent or envy those of us who are cycling for its own sake, or for training.  After all, even if we have to put down payments on our bikes and pay them in installments before we pedal them, we have lifestyles--and, with it, access to the means, or whatever will get us the means, to buy a nice bike.  Most of the fishermen (Most are male.) are poor and/or working class; many have families they are supporting in full or in part.  And most of them, at least in this area, are members of racial and ethnic minorities.  At the Canarsie Pier, as in other fishing spots in this city,  they are usually Caribbean or Latino.  On the other hand, most cyclists, including yours truly, are white.  Even those who are Caribbean, Latino or from other minority group tend to be a bit better off, financially as well as socially, than those who are fishing.


Hmm...Could it be that this city's class structure can be delineated according to whether someone fishes or rides a bicycle?

As Lovely As A Tree?

Someone--I forget whom--once said that there are two ways to hate poetry.  One is simply to hate it.  The other, according to the wag, was to read Alexander Pope.


I would agree that there's no hope in Pope.  But even he couldn't do the sort of damage Joyce Kilmer caused.  After reading Kilmer, you might find yourself hating trees as well as poetry:


I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree


A tree whose hungry mouth is prest 
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;


A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her arms to pray;


A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;


Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who ultimately lives with rain.


Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.


After that last stanza, is it any wonder that it's so difficult for a poet to get a grant, much less to sell volumes or his or her works?


It just figures that Kilmer attended the school from which I got my B.A.:  Rutgers.  But, interestingly enough, he dropped out after his sophomore year because he couldn't pass their required math courses.  Then he transferred to, and graduated from, Columbia. (So much for the superiority of the Ivy League, right?)


Kilmer and his poem are like one of those awful songs from some absolutely wretched band that gets under your skin and circulates through your body and mind no matter how hard you try to get rid of it.  And "Trees" came back to me when I saw this yesterday:

Such a classically autumnal arbortoreal form can make even an industrial-style campus that was built during the post-industrial era, like that of my main job, seem like a New England idyll.   Marianela, my old LeTour III, felt right at home in it:

She, at least, resists comparisons to trees.  For that matter, so do Arielle, Tosca and Helene, my other bikes.


Perhaps I've been too  hard on Kilmer.  After all, it is pretty difficult to make something that's about a tree yet more, or at least as, beautiful.  I've tried, and I know I've failed to do that.


Here's something that depicts a tree and is quite lovely, if in an unexpected way and place:

I feel that it's the most beautiful coin ever produced in this country.  Maybe if I had too much time and money on my hands, I'd try to enlarge it enough to use as a front wheel.  It's certainly more attractive than those carbon-fiber tri-spoke wheels!

If the Other Shoe Doesn't Drop, It Popped Out of My Commuter Basket

I don't get sick often.  But it seems that when I do, I am ridiculously busy as soon as I get back to my normal routine.  And so it has been the last two days.


Well, at least I got to ride to and from both jobs today, and the other day.  Both days were full of fall colors and decidedly non-autumnal warmth.  Yesterday, on the other hand, we had weather that was even less autumnal, except for the kind of light we had:  Wind-driven downpours frizzed and soaked everything in sight so that even the reflections of sidewalks in the windows frizzed and soaked like cats dropped into swimming pools.


So...an unrideable day was sandwiched between two days of near-perfect riding conditions. I guess I'd rather have it that way than the other way around.


I was running a bit late this morning on my way to my regular job.  So I barreled down streets--including a stretch of one that looked like a washbord and made me feel as if I were riding on one--like a moonshiner on a backwoods Southern road during Prohibition.  I don't know whether it had to do with the vibrations or my blood pumping (or both), but  felt as if the things that had been making me sick were leaping out of my body.  


Even with all of the vibrations that shook me--and even though I was riding to work--I was enjoying the ride as if it were a foliage weekend tour in Vermont.  Inside one of the rear baskets, I carried a canvas tote bag that contained my students' papers, a textbook for one of the courses I teach and a pair of black patent slingback high heels.


The only problem was that when I got to work and reached into the bag, only the left shoe was in it!  I checked inside the bag and  in the area surrounding the spot where I parked my LeTour and up the block:  No luck.  I didn't have time to re-trace my route.


 So I was reduced  (literally) to spending the day in the black flats in which I'd pedaled.  They aren't bad-lookng shoes, and they're very comfortable.  And, to tell the truth, they really weren't bad with my outfit, which consisted of a plum-maroon cardigan with gray piping over a lavender blouse, a flannel skirt in the same shade of gray as the pipng, and a pair of sheer pantyhose in that same hue.  As one of my students said, it all looked "very elegant."  But the patent slingbacks with three-inch heels would have given it a bit more pizazz.


Oh well.  Maybe some kid along my route found that other shoe.  I guess if the kid were mine, I'd rather that he or she found a middle-aged woman's dress shoe in size 11 wide than a crack vial or shell casing!