When You Can't See The Gates Of Hell (Or Hell Gate, Anyway).

My students are reading Dante's Inferno.  

As the narrator descends deeper into Hell, it gets darker. It's hard not to wonder how he doesn't stumble more often than he does.  I imagine it was more difficult for him to see when he passed through the Gates of Hell than it was when I rode by Hell Gate:

Yes, that is what I saw from the RFK Memorial Bridge while I rode into and out of showers on my way to work.  Somewhere in that mist are the Hell Gate Bridge as well as the Bronx and Westchester County.

When we started on Canto III--where the narrator and Virgil come to the Gate of Hell--I made a joke with my students.  "I'll tell you how to get to the Gate of Hell".

Then I advised them to go down the Grand Concourse, make a left at 138th Street (where the GC ends).  Then, they should go four blocks, take a right on St. Ann's Avenue, follow it to the end and take another left.  Pass under the RFK Bridge entrance and , underneath the railroad trestle (the Hell Gate Bridge), take a right to the Randall's Island Connector.  On the island, I told them, go left all the way to the water:  That stretch of the East River is known as Hell Gate.  

Most of my students don't live very far from the route.  Yet none realized that stretch is called Hell Gate.  And one student didn't even realize the post office in her neighborhood--the easternmost part of El Barrio, or East Harlem--is called Hell Gate Station (Zip Code 10035).

They think I'm dragging them through Hell in my class.  They are going to experience it only twice a week for a couple more weeks.  Me, I ride by it every day, on my way to meet them!

Easin' On Down The Road To Hell (Gate)

I'm off to ride my bikeee....and then I'm gonna ease on down, ease on down the road.

OK, you ask, why have I just mangled theme songs from two classic movies.  Well, it has to do with this photo:

One of the few things I have in common with Diana Ross is that I've crossed this bridge.  One difference is that the bridge didn't look like that when she crossed it.    Instead, it looked like this:

This image, of course, comes from the movie version of The Wiz.  It's one of those things that worked much better on stage that it did on celluloid.   The best things about the movie, to me, were "Ease On Down The Road" and Michael Jackson's portrayal of the Scarecrow.  Diana Ross, oddly enough, didn't lend any of her otherworldly charisma to the character of Dorothy, much less portray the character convincingly.  It was a shame:  I've seen her do a much better job as an actress, not to mention as a singer.


In the end, the movie seemed like a shameless attempt to cash in on the popularity of Blaxploitation films that had been popular for a few years before it was made.  Instead, it helped to kill off the genre.


Anyway...You didn't come here to see me do a bad imitation of Siskel or Ebert--or Pauline Kael.  I'll tell you that the bridge in question links Ward's Island with East 103rd Street in Manhattan.  

It's one of the oddest and most interesting structures in New York City--or anywhere.  To my knowledge, it's the only bridge in New York that's dedicated entirely to pedestrian and bicycle traffic.  No motor vehicles are allowed.  It's also odd and interesting for another reason:

As you can see from this photo, which I borrowed from The Bowery Boys, the section between the two towers is lifted when a ship needs to pass underneath the bridge.  The bridge is kept in this position through the winter and is therefore closed to bicycles and pedestrians.


Ward's Island is also a strange place.  There's a big mental hospital on it and, technically, it's no longer an island:  It was connected by landfill to Randall's Island, which is known for its sports venues and as the stage for le Cirque du Soleil.


Ward's and Randall's have a number of paths, some of which are paved, that zig-zag with the shorelines of the East and Harlem Rivers.   They also contain fields used by youth soccer and baseball leagues, a training facility for the Fire Department and a wastewater treatment plant that, at times, fills the islands with the scent of cologne poured down a septic tank.  


The two islands also sit between Manhattan, Queens and the Bronx.  All are connected by the RFK Memorial (formerly known as the Triboro) Bridge, which is really a system of three different spans that all meet on Randall's Island.  


There's also a spot where, a little birdie tells me, more than a few New Yorkers were conceived:

It's underneath a bridge over which you've passed if you've taken the Acela (Amtrak Customers Expect Late Arrivals) between New York and Boston.  

Yes, it's the Hell Gate Bridge, which begins near Astoria Park, which is near my home. 


Might Charon himself be the pilot of the lead boat?

Going this way?:

See what happens when you stay up late nights reading The Inferno and drinking espresso?  Hmm....Imagine what would have happened if all those English public school kids grew up reading it instead of Pilgrim's Progress.  Maybe punk rock would have happened 300 years before Richard Hell (I just had to include him in this post!) and Sid Vicious.


Anyway...While we're still in Hell Gate, I want to show you something you definitely wouldn't have seen in a 1970's  Schwinn ad:

Ignaz Schwinn would be spinning (pun intended) in his grave!  This is more like what he would have had in mind:

No wonder 20-year olds weren't buying Schwinns in 1978.  (Trust me, I know:  I was one!)  


Some things never change, though.  In those days, everyone said the world was going to hell in a handbasket.  And our parents and teachers thought we were leading the way.  Really, though, we were just easin' on down the road:  We could, because the world was a simpler place.  Or so we think now.

Were They Entering Or Exiting The Gate Of Hell?

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you know that my daily commute takes me over the RFK Memorial Bridge, which gives me a perfect view of the Gate of Hell.

All right, it's Hell Gate, and the Hell Gate Bridge.  But it's fun to tell students that I pass the Gate of Hell on my way to class!

Anyway, this morning I saw the trail of a boat zigging and zagging to--or from?--the bridge:

I can't help but to wonder:  Was a boat skittering away from, or rumbling toward, the Gate of Hell...I mean Hell Gate?

Two Guys And Two Bikes By The River At The Gate Of Hell

Today's ride took me through, among other places, Randall's Island.

There I saw two guys and two bikes by the East River:

Behind them was the Gate of Hell--or, more precisely, the Hell Gate Bridge:

Underneath Hell Gate was a "Native Plant Garden."  Somehow it seemed a bit of an oxymoron.  Still, it was lovely.

I especially liked this particular flower:

After the reverie of seeing it, I pedaled across the newly-reopened 106th Street Bridge onto a newly-reopened (but not entirely repaired) path/greenway along the river in Manhattan--East Harlem, to be exact.  After climbing the shallow but steady climb through Harlem, Hamilton Heights and Washington Heights, I crossed the George Washington Bridge to the New Jersey Palisades.  


After more riding through New Jersey and Staten Island, I thought I'd gotten away from the Gate of Hell.  Well, maybe I got away from the fire of it--but I couldn't escape the mist.

And then, finally, I got some advice upon re-entering Manhattan.

Back to the guys and their bike--and Tosca, the bike that took me through these adventures:

Entering A Gate, But Not Hell

These days, on my way to work, I ride by the Gates of Hell.

Actually, it's better known as the Hell Gate Bridge.  If you've taken the train to or from Boston from New York, you traversed this span.  

The Bridge is named for the stretch of the East River that runs underneath it.  You wouldn't know it from seeing the boat in the photo, but this length of the East River (which isn't actually a river, but rather an inlet of the ocean) has strong undercurrents.  Inexperienced or careless (or, in at least a few cases, drunk) pilots wrecked their vessels as a result of them.

Strange, isn't it, that a spot with such a turbulent, tragic history can calm me down--even though it's still called Hell Gate!--on my way to my job?

I guess it's not so surprising when you see what set the Gate ablaze this morning.

And, when I arrive at work, I pass through gates to the lot where I park my bike.  A security guard nods when I roll my bike up to the rack.  He is not a keeper of the Gates of Hell.

Morning Commutes Through The Gates of Hell

I am teaching early morning classes in my new gig.  That means, for now, that I am pedaling to work around dawn.  Someone remarked that I am "bringing the morning to the Bronx", where I am now working.

Should I bring the morning in a pair of panniers?  A bicycle briefcase?  Or some other kind of bike bag? 

While pedaling across the RFK/Triborough Bridge, I saw the morning arrive in another conveyance

through the Gates of Hell--all right, I mean through Hell Gate or under the Hell Gate Bridge.

Perhaps I wasn't bringing morning through the Gates of Hell.  But some of my students probably thought I was bringing them hell this morning through the campus gate!

Why Was I Doing My Commute On Sunday?

Sometimes I joke about "going through the Gate of Hell to get to work every day."  The truth is, I ride over Hell Gate and by the Hell Gate Bridge when I cross the RFK Memorial (a.k.a. Triborough) Bridge every morning.

On Sunday I took Bill and Cindy by it.  If that was supposed to scare them into living on the straight and narrow, it wasn't very effective.  Then again, how could I scare, or persuade, anybody or anything into being straight?  


But I digress.  We were riding to Van Cortland Park.  They wanted to take the Greenway along the Hudson River (and the West Side Highway.)  While I like the views and that it's so close to the water, I knew that on a sunny Sunday, half of the cyclists, 70 percent of the skateboarders and 99 percent of the people with dogs or baby strollers would be on that path.  Pedaling through the Port Morris industrial area--deserted on Sunday--and Bronx side streets would be bucolic by comparison.

So, after taking Bill and Cindy through, or by, the Gates of Hell, we descended (literally) to Randall's Island where we rode underneath the Amtrak viaduct.  After the Gate, these arches were rather impressive.  Funny thing is, I don't normally see them that way:  They are, after all, part of my commute.

So are these houses on Alexander Avenue in the Bronx:

Not far away are these houses.   Save for the graffiti next to the "fish" building, almost nobody expects to see them in the South Bronx:

They're diagonally across from each other on the Grand Concourse.  The mansion is the Freedman House, built in the 1920s for formerly-wealthy people who had fallen on hard times. Now it contains an event space, art studio and bed-and-breakfast. It's almost jarring to see such a classically Florentine house across the Concourse from the Art Deco building with its mosaic. 

Anyway, Cindy had an appointment and had to leave us before we reached Van Cortlandt Park. Back when I lived on the Upper West Side and in Washington Heights, I used to take quick spins to the park, where I would check out whatever was on display in the Manor or watch the Irish rugby and soccer players. Time marches on, and now there are different folks playing a different game.

The clouds thickened, but never threatened rain.  But they didn't portend anything like Spring, either.  Rolling across the hills of Riverdale, they broke against the shore of Spuyten Duyvil, another place almost nobody expects to find in the Bronx:

Getting Home Through The Gate Of Hell

Yesterday I took a late-day ride through central Queens and up to the North Shore.   From Flushing, it's west (actually, west-southwest) to my place.  That allows me to revel in a spectacle or two if I time my ride the way I did yesterday:

Here is the bay at the World's Fair Marina, just east of the airport everybody hates, i.e., LaGuardia.  Yes, that is the midtown and uptown Manhattan skyline in the distance.

From there, I followed the bay and the East River to Astoria Park, which is only a couple of miles from my apartment.  If you've ever taken the train between New York and Boston, you rumbled over this park, which lies underneath one end of the bridge.

That span is known as the Hell Gate Bridge, named for the stretch of waterway under it.  In other posts, I've recounted the origins of the name.  Last night, the visibly strong current helped that stretch of the East River (which is really a tidal estuary) live up to its name.

And I rode under that bridge--through the gate, if you will--to go home.  If riding through Hell is so beautiful, I'm in no hurry to get to Heaven!

To Hell And Dawn

Yesterday I wrote about a ride that included a fallen tree and the sunset.  The latter, not surprisingly, made the ride glorious, while the tree made it more interesting.

Somehow it fits that I was riding at sunrise this morning.  Actually, I was making my commuter a little earlier than usual so I could get a bit of work done before my classes.  I am noticing, however, that day is dawning earlier and ending later.  Sunday, we move the clocks ahead an hour for "Daylight Savings Time," which means more daylight at the end of the day.  It also means that I might be making a pre-dawn commute or two before the end of the month.

Anyway, from the RFK Memorial Bridge I got to see the morning arise at Hell's Gate--actually, the Hell Gate Bridge:

"Dawn" and "hell":  They almost seem contradictory, don't they?

The Day Begins At Hell Gate

This morning I rode through the Gates of Hell.

At least, some people thought they were:  They were driving to do things they had to do. On the other hand, I was cycling to something I had to do.  I reckon, though, that the thing I had to do was less onerous than the things some of those drivers were going to spend their day doing.

It's probably a good thing they couldn't, or didn't, see what was below and beside them, in Hell Gate.

I could not see the water, either.  I could not see the cables of the RFK Bridge, except for the ones nearest to me.  All I could see were the lights of cars and trucks. They were only reflections of the moment, repeated again and again.

All I could do was to move through them, through time, across the bridge over Hell Gate.

The Gates To The Concrete Plant Park

My ride today was positively perilous.  I had to wade through raging streams.  Worse, I had to fight off the dreaded Randall's Island Salamander.

Here, it (Now that I'm at a safe distance, I don't have to worry about riling it up, so I can refer to it as "it" and avoid all sexism!) is, underneath the Bronx spur of the Robert F Kennedy Memorial (nee Triboro) Bridge.  I guess now that Randall's Island's been getting fixed up, the Salamander can't afford to live there anymore.  The Bronx is still relatively affordable.

And I blame the Parks Department for everything.  They're rehabbing the island, and their work forced me to detour. 

I've taken a couple of photos underneath that trestle.  You've passed over it if you've ever taken Amtrak or Acela (Amtrak Customers Expect Late Arrivals) trains between New York and Boston.  It's called the Hell Gate Bridge.  I guess I should be grateful to the Parks Department for thinking of the well-being of my soul, and those of other cyclists, and preventing us from passing under the Gates of Hell.

Actually, the cost of travel might prevent me from seeing that Gate of Hell this year.  But the Gate under which I couldn't pass is, while not quite as breathtaking as Rodin's Porte de l'Enfer, actually lovely:

At least, I like it.  I also like something else I saw while riding through the Bronx on my way back from Westchester County:

Have you ever, in your wildest dreams or worst nightmares, ever imagined you would ride to a place called Concrete Plant Park? 

This plant operated from some time during World War II until the late 1980's.  It drew its water and power from the Bronx River, which parallels the path you see.  The path is not yet complete, though it is open.  

Those of you who live in New England might see something familiar in that park.  On the other side of the Bronx River are other plants and warehouses, some of which are still operating.  Their red bricks have absorbed decades, or even a century or more, of soot and rain and wind.  They, the the red-rust structures like those of the cement plant, and the river itself are bound by a number of bridges and other spans made from various combinations of steel and concrete.  I imagine it all would be even more attractive in October or November.

Quite a few people, including a number of families, were there today.  A couple of kids climbed the chicken-wire fence surrounding the old plant fixtures; you might have been able to see one of them in my photo. 

Speaking of boys at play, here's one, albeit a good bit older, flying his kite by Throgs Neck, where the East River meets the Long Island Sound:

Pathway To The Gate of Hell

We've all heard expressions like "Highway to Hell" and "The road to Hell is paved with good intentions".

I couldn't help but to think about them as I rode through Randall's Island yesterday.  A bike lane recently opened, connecting the Fire Academy with the Bronx spur of the RFK/Triborough Bridge--and the foot/bike bridge that seems to have been under construction since a time before Randall's Island or the Bronx even existed!

The bike lane has one of my favorite names:

"Hell Gate Pathway?"  Can you beat it?  I mean, haven't you always wanted to ride my bike to the Gate of Hell?


Actually, I have ridden to the Gates of Hell--during at least two of my trips to Paris.  Of course, you can't wheel your velocipede right up to Rodin's masterpiece.  But you can ride to the museum and walk up to his gates.

I'm dying (pun intended) to do that again, soon.  But for now, the path I rode yesterday and my imagination will have to keep me content.