Bikes have often been compared to shoes. I can see it: They're used for transportation, if you will. They both cover ground and wear out rubber. And, some of us are always shopping for bags and other accessories to go with them.
Hmm...I'd never thought about combining them. It must make for an interesting ride, or walk.
As so often happens when I'm riding alone, I didn't exactly go where I'd planned. Then again, sometimes my plans aren't firm when I'm riding alone. I can't say they were today.
So...I had a vague idea I might take another ride to Point Lookout. (Can you tell it's a favorite of mine?) And, well, I took a "wrong" turn--accidentally, in a Freudian way, if you know what I mean. I found myself riding underneath an Air France plane that I could've sworn I could've touched. That meant, of course, I was even closer to JFK International Airport than the union is to management at my job. (You would really appreciate that comment if you saw what I wrote yesterday on my other blog.)
From there, I rode through a few neighborhoods that I have been to a couple of times before, and a couple of more I haven't seen in years, all of them on one side or the other of the Queens-Nassau county line. What those places had to recommend them were that they were quiet and traffic-free, which is no small virtue on a nearly perfect day for cycling.
I passed among residential areas that ranged from cookie-cutter suburban to ostentious in the way of a 1970's Lincoln Continental. I also passed by and through a couple of rather lovely parks, the Belmont racetrack, then some neighborhoods with increasingly interesting architecture, all the way to the North Shore.
Now, that wasn't the most opulent or architecturally distinctive house I saw. But I think that if I had lots of money, I'd want to live in something like that. I imagine that the rooms would be full of light undulating in waves like the water that's only about 100 feet away.
I get the feeling Arielle wouldn't mind it at all. After all, she's the one who led me here.
Some people--and bikes--like the beach. But I think Arielle really loves the light and water and waves.
Surprisingly, I saw only one other cyclist along that road that skirts Long Island Sound. However, I did see a fair number of couples--mostly middle-aged and older, though hardly looking worse for it--taking leisurely or romantic strolls. All of them smiled, waved or said "hello" to me.
I don't suspect, though, that they'd buy flowers in this place:
To be fair, that florist is nowhere near the Gatsby shoreline I reached by accident. It's in Richmond Hill: one of those places where I took a "wrong" turn. The florist is in business; I've passed it any number of times because it's not far from where I work. Whatever happens to that florist, I hope someone preserves that sign: If you remember when FTD used the "Mercury" logo in all of its ads, you're old, or at least of my generation. As you can see, that sign had neon lights on it at one time. I don't know when they were removed, but somehow I suspect that the sign is from the 1940's, or even earlier. In those days, the neighborhood was populated mainly by the children and grandchildren of Irish and German immigrants; later, second-generation Italian-Americans (including some relatives of mine) moved in, only to be replaced by the current Indian and Guyanese residents.
One of the neighborhood's most noted residents was Jacob Riis. But I doubt Gatsby ever went there, even by accident.
If I count the miles I pedaled going to and from yesterday's ride, I did about 45 miles all together--on Tosca, my fixie.
Of course, I've cycled many more miles than that in one ride. However, it's been a while since I've ridden that many miles on a fixed gear.
Today I rode only a few miles, albeit on a fixed gear. Notice I said "a fixed gear" as opposed to "my fixie." A few months ago, I fitted a fixed gear to Marianela. However, I don't think of it as a fixie: I think of it as my commuter/utility bike, which I just happen to be riding with a fixed gear.
I think the difference in the way I think about each of them has to do with the fact that Tosca is a bike that's made to be used with fixed gears, while Marianela started life as a late '70's ten-speed bike.
Anyway, Marianela seems to have this thing for sunsets. So after a brief late day ride, I found myself having a picnic in Astoria Park. The food consisted of a hero sandwich from Sal, Kris and Charlie's of Astoria. It's one of those old-school Italian-American sandwich shops that seemed to be everywhere in the NY Metro area when I was growing up. You probably wouldn't want to go there if you are a vegetarian. I might become one, some day. But not tonight. I ordered something called "The Bomb." (I mean, how could I not, with a name like that!) Let me tell you, it was worth every damn calorie, gram of sodium and whatever of cholestrol I downed. I didn't order it with mustard or mayo, but I did get oil and vinegar, which were perfect on this sandwich!
I almost feel guilty for not having shared, even if these people were enjoying each other's company:
After eating that sandwich, I probably could have attached a chain to my bike and pulled this train into the sunset all by myself:
The light inside that train alone would be worth the ride. Heck, I wouldn't even mind being inside the windows of that building underneath the trestle, even if it is a water treatment plant. But I got the best view of all--after riding my bike.
Today I went for another ride with my new riding partner. We got out later than we'd originally planned because she was summoned, at the last moment, to a second interview for a job that she really wants.
As we did on our previous ride, we met at a little park with a big statue that stands almost exactly halfway between my place and hers. And the clouds that covered the sky grew darker and thickened. Times like that remind me of at least one of the reasons I cycle: Somehow I manage, in such situations, to believe that the rain will hold off long enough for me to do my ride. Or, sometimes I like to "play chicken with the rain," as if I could dare it. Some of the rides I've enjoyed most are the ones in which I "held off" the rain long enough to finish my ride, and the first drops fell just after I got home--or just before.
There have been times in my life in which those rides were the only occasions in which I could muster up any sort of optimism, much less the defiant kind that motivates me to "play chicken with the rain."
Today we did get caught in the rain. As a matter of fact, we got soaked by a sudden downpour. As it was a warm day, I didn't mind; in fact, I rather like getting rained on during a summer ride. On the other hand, she doesn't care much for riding in the rain, although she didn't complain.
But we both agree that we're willing to take a chance on a heavily overcast day when there's a possibility of precipitation, although neither of us wants to start a ride in the rain. I've ridden with people who went out and rode no matter the conditions, and with others (including a ride leader in a club to which I belonged) who literally wouldn't ride if there was a single cloud in the sky or the temperature was below 40 degrees F.
How do you feel about riding in the rain? Are you one of those riders who will go out even when an old guy with a long beard is gathering animals into a boat? Or are you a rider who won't ride if there's even the slightest possiblity of rain? (If you are, what are you doing in the Northeast or Northwest?) Or are you like me: willing to chance that "stray" shower or the passing storm?
Today I saw a listing for a Frejus bicycle that was made in "Torino, France."
I wrote to whoever listed the bike to correct his/her geography: Torino--known in the English-speaking world as Turin-- is, of course, in Italy.
One of the ironies of that listing is that the town of Frejus is actually located in France. Granted, it's not far from Italy and was, at different times in history, ruled not only by Italy, but also by several Italian city-states as well as the King of Sardinia and the Dukes of Savoie (Savoy).
And it was part of the Roman Empire. That is evident in the ampitheatre in middle of the town. In fact, when I was there, I recall reading something (a brochure? a plaque? a book, maybe?) that said it is the oldest surviving Roman ampitheatre, not to mention one of the oldest surviving structures, in France. There are also the remains of an acqueduct as well as a number of other Roman structures.
Perhaps they built chariots back then. However, nothing that I've read in French, English or Italian indicates that any bicycle, or even any part for one, was ever produced there, though--it being in the south of France, after all--quite a few people ride bikes for recreation as well as transportation. Well, at least they were when I was there.
Even if we never rode or owned one, Frejus bicycles are special to cyclists of my generation or the one immediately before us. As Sheldon Brown points out on his page, they were often ridden by the few active racers in the US during the Dark Ages of the sport in this country. And it was one of the bikes of choice for relatively well-heeled enthusiasts in the early days of the Bike Boom.
Accounts vary as to their ride qualities. And, as pretty as many of them were, the workmanship was actually pretty mediocre, even on their best Campagnolo-equipped models. But, for many of us, they defined what an Italian racing bike was.
They were imported and sold by Tom Avenia, who was also one of the first importers of Campagnolo equipment. I met him when he was a very, very old man. (He lived to be about 95, if I'm not mistaken.) Frail as he was, he still rode and could tell stories about the Six Day Races in Madison Square Garden during the 1930's (which would be the last most Americans would hear of bicycle racing for about another half-century) as well as his own participation in such races as the Somerville Classic. I could see how the man all but singlehandedly kept the torch burning, or at least flickering, on his zeal alone.
And he rode a Frejus track bike, equipped with a front brake, nearly to the end of his life.
And, yes, he reminded me that Frejus is actually a town in France, even though the bikes were made in Italy--of Reynolds 531 tubing.
