A Ride Into Winter

I saw winter coming in this weekend.

I think I rode into it the other day.

That is not a complaint.  In fact, I enjoyed my ride to Point Lookout because there wasn't much traffic, even on the main thoroughfares.  And the boardwalks along the Rockaways and Long Beach were all but deserted.  Ironically, there were more surfers than dog-walkers or strolling couples.

Temperatures dropped steadily from Thursday onward.  On Saturday, the light and air changed, within an hour--about the time it took me to get to Rockaway Beach, riding into the wind, with a potty stop--from nippy late-fall to steely cold.  By the time I got to Point Lookout, the sky turned into a veil against the sun's warmth and radiance.

As much as I like the sun, I enjoy cycling to the shore under a sea of clouds.  Sunny days bring people out; chilly, overcast days when the ocean pours itself in brings me to myself and to those with whom I am close, whether or not they are present.

Also, I feel a kinship with the folks who are out walking, cycling or surfing--or just out--on a day like the one that took me on a ride from the end of wall to the beginning of winter. 

Two Views As The Fall Turns

Here in the New York Metro area, we've just had a weekend of warmer-than-normal fall weather, punctuated by showers late in the morning and early in the afternoon on Sunday.  I did a fair, but not unusual (for me, anyway) amount of riding.  

Saturday brought me and Dee-Lilah, my Mercian Vincitore Special, to Point Lookout.  In previous rides to the Point, instead of "the rocks," I've made another beach area, known mainly to residents, my turn-around point.  While it doesn't have as commanding a view as "the rocks" (where there are now large mounds of sand), the quality of light--a scrim of sea mist across a screen where blue meets blue--is serene.  It reminds me that when I'm cycling (or reading or writing) alone, I feel further from loneliness than I've felt in some of my relationships and in social situations.

I rode into the wind just about all the way to the Point--which meant, of course, that I had the wind at my back on my way home for my last ride before the end of Daylight Savings Time.

Yesterday I got out later than I'd planned.  Since I figured (correctly, it turned out) on taking a shorter ride, I hopped on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bike.  I had no particular destination in mind.  My ride turned mainly into a series of dodges around the street closures and crowds gathered for the New York City Marathon.

On my way back, I pedaled up the Vernon Boulevard bike lane, which detours through Queensbridge and Rainey Parks.  Just past Rainey is an ersatz "beach" and kayak launch site below street level--where, less than a mile across the river from the Manhattan skyline, an autumnal vista more reminiscent of the New England seashore presented itself.

The weekend marked, to me, the end of one part of Fall.  Now another begins.  The light will be different, I am sure, but still beautiful.

I Couldn't Bring Her Florida. I Brought The Next-Best Thing.

During the past week, my bikes were envious.  They knew about my long weekend with near-perfect weather in Florida.  I couldn't replicate those conditions here in New York, at this time of year.  But the past weekend was quite lovely, with sunlight turning the falling and fallen red, yellow and orange leaves into jewels in necklaces that rimmed streets and curbs.

They wanted that, and a seascape like the ones I saw while riding along Route A1A.  A view  just like that one isn't available along the South Shores of Queens or Long Island because the water is more of a steely blue-gray and the light more diffuse, but the vistas are there. 

La-Vande, my Mercian King of Mercia, was ready for one of those views of the ocean.  But when we arrived at Point Lookout, after pushing against the wind most of the way, we were greeted with this:

I could sense her disappointment, though she didn't show it on the ride back.  Of course, we had the wind with us but, more important, she was the nimble, stable ride she's been since she entered my fleet last year.

And when I stopped at the Gateway reception center on Beach Channel Boulevard, a woman exulted, "I just love that color!"

So do I--and the hues of autumn, and the sea.

Me, Dad, Ian, Rita, Maureen And Delilah

The other day I took a ride to the ocean. 

And I took another yesterday.

From those images, you probably can tell that I'm not talking about the Rockaways, Point Lookout or Coney Island, my most common sea-bound treks.

For that matter, I don't mean the Jersey Shore, where I haven't gone in some time.  Rather, for the past two days, I've done two other seaside rides I've mentioned--though, again, not for some time--on this blog.

I arrived in Florida on Friday evening.  The purpose of this trip is a visit with my father, whom I hadn't seen in three years, since my mother's funeral.  We'd planned another visit but, like so many other plans by so many other people, it was put on hold when "COVID happened."  

Since arriving, I've had nearly perfect weather for cycling and, of course, have taken advantage of it.  The bike I rode during previous visits--a balloon-tired beach cruiser--got rusty and dusty. My father, thinking the bike was beyond redemption (it just looks that way) went and bought another bike--a cheapo full-suspension bike--from a friend.  I rode it on Saturday, along the Lehigh Trail, over the bridge in the first photo and up Route A1A through Beverly Beach and Painters Hill.

Along the stretch from Flagler Beach to Beverly Beach, I was looking at some of what Hurricane Ian wrought.  While the damage wasn't nearly as widespread as what befell Sanibel Island or Fort Myers, there were piles of debris on roadsides, testaments to damaged or destroyed buildings and trees. As I looked at one of those ruins, a car door opened.  Just when I thought I was about to be "doored" again, a woman emerged from the half-opened portal and said, "You write a bike blog!"

Nothing like being famous, eh?

Actually, she is someone I met during a previous visit, about seven years ago.  I'd stopped at a gas station-convenience store for a cup of coffee or to use the bathroom--possibly both--when Rita broke me out, for a moment, from my stereotypical New York "don't talk to strangers" mode. (If I recall correctly, I had just arrived the night before.) We stayed in touch for a time but I think her number was part of the data that didn't transfer from my old to new phone, in spite of the salesperson's promise that everything, including a bunch of photos, would make the journey.

I didn't experience a near-catastrophe-turned-happy-coincidence the following day, when I pedaled up to the Castillo San Marcos in Saint Augustine--49 kilometers, or 30.5 miles--into a gusty wind, on the rusty and dusty balloon-tired beach cruiser.  Upon arriving, I wended through the shops and houses of the historic old town before enjoying a picnic lunch on the waterfront promenade and riding back--with that same wind, of course. So, I reckon that I at least rode a metric century on that rusty beach cruiser, though that was not the point of this trip.

After that ride, I showered, got dressed and went out to Mezzaluna for a delightful meal of mussels in a sauce of butter, garlic and lemon with even more delightful company, which included my father and his friend Maureen, a retired Canadian nurse.  She, as it turns out, was something of an avid cyclist and hiker before, as she said, "arthritis found me."  Afterward, we went to her house, filled with her plants and handicrafts, photos and paintings by friends and her late sister, all against backdrops of walls and alcoves painted in very Floridian shades of blue, green and yellow, and "guarded" by my newest friend--Delilah, her cat.

So now there are two Delilahs--well, a Delila and a Dee-Lilah, on this blog. Both are synonymous with delight, even if one is furry and black and white, while the other is lilac-colored and probably would have loved the ride I took today.

So why did I come to the Sunshine State this weekend?  Well, today is Columbus Day, Italian American Pride Day or Indigenous People's Day. (I prefer the latter because, not in spite of the fact that, I'm of Italian heritage: Why should our "pride" day be in honor of a guy who got lost?)  That meant a long weekend and, while some people traveled--There were quite a few out of state plates along A1A and foreign languages spoken at St.Augustine--it isn't nearly as hectic or expensive as traveling at, say, Thanksgiving or the Christmas-New Year season.  Plus, I didn't want the focus of my visit to be a holiday. Rather, I wanted to see Dad again, and because I wondered what it would be like to meet him without Mom or other family members.

I met him into a new phase of his journey--and, I suspect, mine, as I took familiar rides for the first time in a long time.

 

A Weekend With Dee-Lilah

I decided to spend the weekend with Dee-Lilah, my custom Mercian Vincitore Special.  There was no particular reason why I chose to ride her.  She is a special bike because I gave her to myself for a round-number birthday, but like anything special, I shouldn't need a special occasion to enjoy her.

All right...Saturday was, save for the wind, one of the best days, weather-wise, I've experienced in a while.  I chose to pedal to Point Lookout because it meant pedaling into the wind on my way out and riding the wind on my way home.  Dee-Lilah liked that idea, too.

The conditions surrounding our ride were of the kind one encounters for a few days around this time of year, between the unofficial and official ends of summer.  The day's high temperature was only a couple of degrees higher than the water (74 F or 23F), so some people swam or at least waded into the water.

Also, the sun shone but didn't bear down on me.  So, I didn't need to use quite as much sunscreen as I'd needed on other recent rides.  Thus, while I didn't feel drained as I often do after riding under unfiltered sunlight, I needed to drink as much water as I would on a hot day, because the wind brought dry air with it.

Yesterday was a bit warmer and I woke up later.  So I simply wandered along the waterfronts, and through some of the back streets, of a few Queens and Brooklyn neighborhoods.  Dee-Lilah thought the light around the Statue of Liberty and Valentino Pier flattered her.  I agreed.

This weekend was not a special occasion. But, with Dee-Lilah, it was a Dee-Light!

A Feast In More Ways Than One

 Saturday was warm, sunny and breezy.  Even though Monday, Labor Day, was the “unofficial “ end of summer, people flocked to the beaches. I followed them—by bicycle, of course.  On Vera, my Mercian fixed-gear, to be exact.

However we got there, the conditions were all but perfect for however one chose to enjoy the sand and water, as this couple did in Point Lookout.

There are some people, however, who make me wonder why they bothered to  go:

However you go and whatever you do when you get there, you need sustenance.

I’ve passed that house, on an Ocean Boulevard closed to traffic, many times.  But I’d never seen that giant squash.  Vines with those plants covered the side of that house. There was even an audio description of that plant species.

Of course I didn’t pick the squash.  I’d packed some Ghirardelli’s dark chocolate and a few strawberries.  They were great and the day nourished my psyche.

Holding The Rain At Bay

 Yesterday I used one of my superpowers.

You see, mid-life transgenders who write bike blogs (yes, all whom you know!) have special secret powers that no one else has.

Those powers are so rare and so secret that you are learning about one of them only because you’re reading this blog.

Yesterday I managed to pedal under an opaque ceiling of clouds all the way to Point Lookout and most of the way back without encountering any rain.  I made sure of that.

Really, I did.  How?  I twitched my nose. See…there was a benefit to that fight I got into when I was thirteen years old after all! I confess, though, that I perfected my technique by watching all of those Bewitched episodes in my youth.

(Now I’m going to make a confession.  While growing up, I simply couldn’t stop watching Samantha, the series’ main character or Agent 99 on Get Smart.  When pressed, I told peers, parents and others that I had a crush on those characters. That was kinda sorta true.  Truth was, I wanted to be them when I grew up.)

Once again, I chose the Point Lookout ride by the wind, which blew out of the south and east. That meant the 60 or so kilometers to Point Lookout took about 45 minutes longer than the same distance back.

But I kept the rain at bay.  Really, I did.  OK, I had some help from this device:

A Ride Of Ripples

 High, wispy cirrus clouds.  The ocean barely waving, let alone tiding.  A breeze against my face on the way out and my back on the way home.

 

 

 

Everything felt like a ripple today.  It may have had to do with doing another Point Lookout ride.  I made that choice, in part, because of the direction of that breeze, as gentle as it was.  Had I gone to Connecticut, Westchester, Alpine or Nyack, I would have been pedaling against the wind on my way home.  Also, yesterday was warmer than it had been earlier in the week, and I started to ride later in the morning than I'd planned.  If the warmest part of the day was going to be warmer than the past few days, I wanted to ride by the ocean rather than inland.

 

So, when I say that the ride was a ripple, I'm not complaining.  Rather, I felt rather privileged, as if I could see the brush strokes of those ripples in the sky and on the water, as I felt them against my skin.  Also, it's a treat to ride any of my bikes--in this case, Dee-Lilah, my Mercian Vincitore Special, lived up to her name.

 

Our ride ended, not with the rain, but a ripple.  All right, T.S. Eliot didn't end " The Hollow Men" that way.  I'm not sure that he could have, any more than I could have written his poem. I am happy to write my own poems--and take my rides, whether they begin or end with ripples, or anything else.

Riding By A Canvas

The past few days have showcased, for me, some of the ways I choose my rides, especially familiar ones.

On Saturday, I pedaled to Connecticut because the conditions seemed perfect: a not-too-warm day with not-too-high humidity and a moderate breeze that I pedaled into on my way up--which meant, of course, that it blew at my back on my way home.

On Sunday, I felt really good and not in need of "recovery" from the previous day's ride. Still, I wanted to do something slightly less challenging, but still fairly long.  So I pedaled out to Point Lookout.

I also rode to PL yesterday, into a stronger wind than I'd experienced during my two previous rides.  Also, I was starting a bit later than on my weekend rides, and I knew I could ride at a reasonable pace and still get home well before the end of the day.  But the other day, Monday, I did a shorter ride, in part because I had to do a few other things.  But, also, I wanted to explore some nearby nooks and crannies I don't often see, their proximity to my apartment notwithstanding.

One of those enclaves is part of what we half-jokingly call "Astoria's San Francisco."  The streets in that area, north of Astoria Boulevard and west of 21st Street, are indeed hills, though not as steep as, say, Lombard Street.  They are also, like so many San Fran streets, narrow.

Another thing that makes that part of Astoria interesting is the mix of buildings.  Most are residential. Some are landmarked, including mansions which, as I understand, are still owned or even lived in by descendants of the families who built them.  But, a block or two away from such edifices, one can find a seemingly-typical New York bodega that was once a cafe which, as rumor has it, served as the major Mafia gathering place in the area.  Also in proximity to the grand old buildings, which ranging from the stately to almost derangedly rococo, are some old storefronts and warehouses that serve as canvases for local talent.

Through the decades, I've cycled for fun and health, physical and mental.  I've toured cities and countryside, in the United States and other nations.  I also raced, albeit briefly. And, of course, I have commuted to work and school on my bike. Sometimes I think that one of the things that keeps me riding are the sensory surprises and stimulations I encounter along the way.

How A Perfect Weekend Of Riding Began

 Yesterday I spun to Point Lookout on La-Vande, my Mercian Vincitore Special.  The day before--Saturday--I pedaled her "sister" LaVande--my Mercian King of Mercia--to Greenwich, Connecticut.  The riding was wonderful: For one thing, the weather was perfect:  dry air, clear skies and high temperatures of 27-28C (81 to 83F).  But I got my best photos from the "appetizer" ride I did Friday evening on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear.

On an all-but-perfect summer evening, the waterfront promenades of Williamsburg were full of picnickers, dog-walkers, families and people simply hanging out and enjoying the weather and light.  But somehow the spaces didn't seem so crowded.  Perhaps it had something to do with the nearly-clear skies, the expanse of river and the kind of sunset the cynic in me associated only with postcard images:

A Message From Exotic Poetry

Maybe it has to do with the Supreme Court being up to no good.  Lately, it seems, I am seeing political and social messages everywhere.

I've passed this place many times.  It's just off Woodhaven Boulevard:  Cyndi Lauper's old stomping grounds.  The neighborhood has long been mainly blue-collar.  Some relatives of mine lived in and around it, among other Italian-Americans and children and grandchildren of Irish and German immigrants.  Some of those families remain, but many Indian, Pakistani and Central Americans have moved into the neighborhood--as well as some young LGBTQ people, no doubt because it's still relatively affordable.

Knowing all of that, I didn't think "ROE" meant the place serves caviar. Even if it does, I don't think I'd order it.  When I do stop there--which I intend to do on some near-future ride--I'll probably order something like the chicken, rice and beans dish listed on their blackboard.  Or perhaps I'll just have something to drink.

I can't believe I've passed that place so many times, usually on rides to the Rockaways and Point Lookout, where I rode yesterday.  Usually, it's closed when I ride by:  I suspect that it doesn't open until suppertime, or close to it.  Perhaps I'll catch it on my way back, or take a different ride that takes me in that direction.

After all, how can I resist a place called "Exotic Poetry?" Maybe I'll read some of my stuff, or attempt to launch a stand-up career.  (You think a transgender cyclist in, ahem, late middle age can't make people laugh--without even trying?)  One thing, I promise, though:  I won't do karaoke, even if it includes the letters "R," "O" and "E!"

Enjoying The Moment Of The Ride

The past weekend was, by almost anybody's definition, a perfect summer weekend for bike riding: clear skies, low-to-moderate humidity and high temperatures of 27-29C (81 to 85F).   So, of course, I took advantage of it.

How could it have been any better?  Well, on both days I managed to ride into the wind most of the way out and with the wind most of the way home. People were out and about, but the places where people congregate weren't terribly crowded.

On Saturday, I pedaled up to Greenwich, Connecticut and took a "pit stop" in the Common, in the center of town, where a family and their dog greeted me. I didn't take any photos, in part because there was nothing really new about the ride, but more interestingly, because I felt so much as if I were riding in, and enjoying the moment--some might call it a "zen" ride--that I didn't want to do anything else but pedal and take in what my senses, opened from pedaling and simply being immersed in the moment, offered me.

Yesterday was much the same, except that I took another familiar ride, to Point Lookout.  There were a few small differences from my normal trek, as Beech Street in Long Beach was closed off for some sort of fair or festival.  After I zigged and zagged for a few blocks, I found a one-way residential street--Walnut--where I saw no traffic all the way to the west entrance of Nickerson Beach--a couple of miles of riding bliss, by my reckoning.

At Point Lookout, I saw a "creature."  At least, that's what it looked like from the corner of my eye.

Could the young woman sitting on the edge of the surface have been unaware of that "monster" creeping toward her? Or was she in denial?   

Or, perhaps, she was just enjoying the moment, too.

 

Our Flag--Or Their Banner?

On Sunday, the day before "the 4th" (American Independence Day), I rode La-Vande, my Mercian King of Mercia, to Point Lookout.  I have taken that ride many times, on every one of my current bikes and several I've owned previously.  Although the weather was just a bit warmer than I like, the skies were clear and bright and the temperature dropped as I approached the water.  Best of all, I was pedaling into the wind, blowing from the ocean and bay, most of my way out. That meant, of course, that I rode with the wind at my back for most of the way back.

Still, I couldn't help but to notice something that distrubed me.  Perhaps the holiday, and its associations sensitized me to it.  A ride I took the other day--the day after the Fourth--confirmed my observation.

Holidays like the Fourth, Memorial and Veterans' Day and, of course, Flag Day, bring a lot of Stars and Stripes out of closets, attics, trunks and storage lockers.  People hang flags in their windows and on their doors and fly them from awnings and poles.  I couldn't help but to feel, however, that the way those flags were displayed was more ostentatious and aggressive than usual.  

My Point Lookout ride takes me through strongholds of Trump-mania:  Broad Channel, a Jamaica Bay island between Rockaways to the "mainland" of Queens, and the Long Island South Shore communities of Long Beach, Lido Beach and Point Lookout itself.  Just past the Long Beach boardwalk, one house flew a flag so wide that it unfurled over the sidewalk in front of it:  Anyone walking by could have been brushed by it which, to some, would have been offense--by the person brushed, mind you--against the flag and therefore the nation. I noticed many other flag displays that were disruptive or simply more in-your-face than ones I saw in years past.

But the incident that showed me that the flag has gone from being an expression of patriotism or simply gratitude to one of agression and hostility, or even a threat, came the other day, as I approached an intersection in Eastchester, a Westchester county town on Negrosa, my vintage Mercian Olympic. Something that looked like a bloated pickup truck--it was nearly as wide as the two eastbound road lanes--pulled up behind me, veering into the shoulder where I was riding.  From poles driven like stakes into each corner of the rear flatbed, American flags fluttered.  Another banner, about the size of those four flags combined, visually blared, as loudly and ominously as the revved-up engine (which seemed to lack a muffler), its message:  Let's Go Brandon.  That, of course is a code for what the driver bellowed at me:  "Fuck Joe Biden."

I pretended to ignore him.  I guess I'm not a very good actor:  I noticed him, the truck, the flags--it was impossible not to.  Eyeing my bike, he growled, "If you hate this country, leave it." 

"I am here because you have the right to say that.  And I have the right to disagree with you.  Members of my family fought for both."

He eyed my bike some more.  "At least it's a 'Merican' bike.  To be fair, he's not the first person to read "Mercian" as "American" or "Murrikan."

"Have a good day, sir."

With a perpexled look, he motored away.  I hadn't felt such relief in a long time.

In 1983, people--including some friends and family members--begged, cajoled and even tried to strong-arm me into not moving back to New York.  In those days, the news, movies, television and other media depicted my city as a lawless hellhole where people were robbed, raped, stabbed or shot.  The implication, of course, was that the victims were like me--a mild-mannered white person (I was still living as male) and the perpetrators were drug-addled black and brown thugs.  

The irony is that some of the people who were sure I'd be dead within a year of moving to New York--and other people who think like them--voted for Donald Trump, a hero to the fellow who was using his truck--and the flag--to intimidate me.