An Orange Bike

I've got the LeTour in rideable condition.  I'm still going to tweak it a bit.  But it's close to what I want it to be.


Early this evening, after the weather had cooled a bit, I took it on a test ride through the back streets of Astoria and Long Island City.  I ended up in Astoria Park, which is separated from Manhattan, Randall's Island and the Bronx by a strait known as Hell Gate.


This bridge is named for the passage it spans. Do you think it looks like a gate to Hell?:

If you've taken the Amtrak/Acela between Boston and New York, you've gone over this bridge.  The span behind it is the Queens-to-Randalls Island spur of the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge, which was known as the Triboro Bridge until a couple of years ago.


The waters are deceptively calm.  The strong undercurrent wrecked ships and drowned sailors, which is how the passage got its name.


But you didn't come to this blog to read about that, right?  You want to read about a middle-aged woman riding a bike she just fixed, don't you?


Well, the bike is actually a smooth, almost cushy ride.  Yet it feels very solid.  That last part didn't surprise me:  Schwinn had a reputation for building sturdy bikes, and this one was made in Japan by Panasonic.  The second shop in which I worked sold Panasonics, and I assembled a couple hundred of them.  Even their cheapest models were easier to assemble, and required less tweaking, than most other bikes.  


It won't be as responsive as my Mercians.  It wasn't designed that way.  But I have the feeling it will be very satisfactory for errands and commutes.


When I got to Astoria Park, I made another interesting discovery about the bike.  It's an aesthetic consideration.  


If you've been reading this or my other blog, you have some idea about my tastes in colors.  I like purple, especially lavender, lilac and violet, best.  I also favor most shades of blue, green and pink.  But I can see why  orange is a popular bike color.  I actually think this bike looks better in orange than in the other colors in which Schwinn offered the Le Tour series.  Even more interesting, though, is a quality revealed in this photo:

As ratty as the paint job is, it still has a nice glow to it in the dusk light.  In a way, it made me think of all of those weatherbeaten and even somewhat grimy brick buildings that mirror the sun setting at the end of the day.

OK, so this one came out a bit darker than I hoped it would.  But here's another shot, taken in the same light, of the bike:

And here's one taken a bit earlier:

As I mentioned, the bike is almost complete.  I'm going to add a bell to the handlebar (the Velo Orange Milan Bar which, so far, I really like on this bike) and a pair of Wald folding baskets to the rear rack. I have a feeling those might be the best solution for commuting as well as shopping:  I can simply put grocery bags or my bookbag into one or the other.


Until next time....I'll spare you the cliches about riding into the sunset or crossing that bridge when I get to it!

From A Late Night, Into The Mists

Last night, I stayed at work a bit later than I expected.  What that meant was, among other things, encountering less traffic than I usually see.

It also meant dealing with a change in the weather.  In the morning, I rode to work in a drizzle that occasionally turned into rain.  But, by the time night rolled around, a dense fog blanketed the city.

Normally, I can see the towers on the Queens spur of the RFK Memorial Bridge as soon as I make the turn from 132nd Street onto the Randall's Island Connector.  At that point, the entrance to the RFK Bridge lane is about 1 3/4 miles, or about 3 kilometers, away.  

Last night, though, I could not see the towers or cables until they were right in front of me--when I was in the lane.

When I reached the middle of the bridge, over the waters of Hell Gate (which I couldn't see), I looked back at the soccer field on the Randall's Island shore:

and ahead to the Queens side

My apartment is in there, somewhere!

Early Morning On The Island

If you are looking to transcend the place and time in which you live, you can move out and away from them.  Or you can go inside them.

This morning, I did the latter, without even trying.  

Randall's Island sits in the East River, between Manhattan and Queens.  If you know that, but you've never been there, you might expect it to have a skyline like Manhattan's, if on a smaller scale--or, perhaps, dense residential neighborhoods, as you would find in much of Queens.

Instead, you would find fields--some of them open, others designated for baseball and other sports--as well as wetlands, clumps of woods and gardens ringed by a rocky shoreline.  The relatively bucolic landscape is shadowed only by the Hell Gate Viaduct, used by the Metro North commuter rail line and Amtrak, and the overpasses for the RFK Memorial Bridge. (The conjoined Wards Island, once separated by a channel that was filled in about 100 years ago, contains a water treatment plant, mental hospital and state police barracks in addition to ballfields and picnic grounds.)  Even when you look toward the tall buildings of Manhattan, the houses and apartment buildings of Queens and the factories and warehouses in the Bronx, it's easy not to feel as if you are in New York City.

Especially if you're cycling the island early in the morning:

The smokestacks you see in the background are on Rikers Island.  Even they don't look so menacing just after dawn.  (Still, I'm in no hurry to go there!)   Behind the trees to the right, and a few kilometers back, is LaGuardia Airport.  I'd much rather go there.  But riding on Randalls Island this morning was just fine!

As I Was Saying...

If you've been reading this blog, you know that I am, in general, not a big fan of bike lanes.  At least, I don't like bike lanes as they're (mis)conceived, designed, constructed, regulated and maintained here in New York, and in too many other US locales.

And I have another peeve about bike lanes--again, mainly about the ones here in the Big Apple.  One of my posts from a few days ago began with it:

One of the reasons I don't like to use bike lanes, at least here in New York, is that motor vehicles frequently pull in and out, and sometimes park, in them.

Well, wouldn't you know it...This is what I encountered while riding to work this morning:

A few weeks ago, a new bike lane opened on the north side of Hoyt Avenue, the wide boulevard that straddles the entrance to the RFK Memorial Bridge.  Traffic is westbound, one-way on the north side, above which the bridge's pedestrian-bike lane arcs.  (Traffic is eastbound one-way on the south side.)  The lane runs eastbound--in the direction opposite the traffic.  There are two rationales for that, I guess:  1.) The lane is intended, at least in part, to provide access to the bridge's pedestrian/bike lane; and 2.) The lane is "protected", meaning that there are pylons separating it from the motorized traffic.

Although the lane hasn't been open for very long, this wasn't the first time I've seen a vehicle parked in it.  Worse, I've seen a truck or van in the lane, and another motorized vehicle on the sidewalk: There are maintenance and storage facilities in the real estate around the bridge pillars. 

Woe betide the cyclist who unwittingly turns on to the lane: If both the lane and the sidewalk are blocked, there is no choice but to ride in the traffic lane--against traffic--or to make a U-turn back on to 26th Street, which is one-way. If the sidewalk is free, a cyclist can use it as long as some highway cop with too much time on his hands isn't looking to meet his ticket quota for the month.

For the time being, I think I will take the route I had been taking most days before the lane opened:  I will ride up 23rd Street to the south side of Hoyt Avenue, turn at 27th Street, cross under the bridge overpass and access the bridge's pedestrian/bike lane from there.

I must say, though, that in spite of the obstacle, I had a pleasant commute.  As you can see in the photo--which I hastily took with my cell phone--it was a beautiful morning.  And, when I stopped to take the photo a nice young lady named Rachel--who probably thought I was looking at a GPS or some other app-- asked whether I was trying to find something.  I explained what I was doing and told her about this blog.  And she told me about some rides that might start soon on Randall's Island, where she works--and through which I ride during my commute!

A Trans Woman Won A Women's Race. Blame Me.

Today even the New York Post--you know, the paper famous for its "Headless Body In Topless Bar" headline--claimed that Donald Trump has gone too far:

Just when I thought light and poetry and flowers were about to return to this land--OK, we're getting some of the flora--Faux, I mean, Fox News is becoming even more, in the Post's eloquence, deranged in its demonization of transgender people.

I mean, when you treat yourself to the kernels of wisdom Tucker Carlson and Greg Gutfield offer up at dinnertime, you might come away thinking that we are an "Invasion of the Body Snatchers"-type force taking over women's sports.  Oh, if I were scooping up medals and trophies in the Tour de France Femme or the Virginia Slims tournament the way the folks at Fox would have you believe, I would--I dunno--be writing this post from a duplex near the Luxembourg Gardens and hiring artists to design this blog.

Anyway, if you look at the podium photo for the Randall's Island Criterium--a race held practically outside my window--you'll see that winner Tiffany Thomas doesn't look markedly bigger or more muscular than the other two female cyclists, who finished second and third, on either side of her.  And, apparently, her hormone levels qualify her to compete in women's events according to all of the governing bodies.  

In short, she has no "unfair" advantage, any more than I now have over any other woman within a decade of my age who is a regular cyclist or engages in any other kind of sport or physical regimen. I am not merely making a claim; I am reiterating what scientific and medical researchers have found and reported.     

OK, now I'll reveal Tiffany Thomas' "secret sauce."  She got it from me.  You see, Randall's Island is practically outside my window:  After pedaling over the Queens spur of the RFK Bridge, I ride through the Island on my way to the Bronx, Westchester County and Connecticut.  So I twitched my nose and sent her those special rays--kinda like the ones from the Jewish Space Lasers—that only we, trans people, can send each other!

When The Best-Laid Plans Lead To A Lane To Reverend Ike

Hopefully, you have all had an experience of not "getting the guy (or girl)" but ending up with The One.  


I'm not going to describe anything quite as momentous as that.  But I am going to relate a tale of things not going according to plan and turning out better than I'd planned.


I didn't work on any of my bikes yesterday.  The rain didn't materialize.  However, I did other things that took more time than I expected.  So I got to spend only half an hour on my bike.


On the other hand, today I didn't have classes due to a scheduling quirk.  And the afternoon turned into the nicest one we've had in months.  The morning fog and clouds burned away in the afternoon sun; within a couple of hours, the temperature rose from the mid-50's to near 80.  After sending off my state tax return and a birthday card for my father, I gulped down some green tea and yogurt with almonds and raisins and took Tosca out for a spin.

The route I followed today was the same as the one I took last year, when I did my first post-surgery ride of more than an hour.  It's also the route that I took for one of my last rides before surgery.  From my place, I took the RFK Bridge to Randall's Island and Manhattan, where I pedaled through upper Manhattan to the George Washington Bridge.  On the New Jersey side of the bridge, I rode atop the Palisades, along the Hudson River, to the edge of Jersey City, where I descended to the Exchange Place waterfront.   Then it was a matter of following, glancing away from, then following again, the waterfront through Jersey City and Bayonne (the hometown of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons) to the bridge bearing the latter city's name to Staten Island, where I took the Ferry.


It's an interesting combination of urban neighborhoods, cookie-cutter suburbs, blue-collar and yuppie havens, and views of the river, skyline, bridges that reflect the color of the morning mist and trestles that put the rust in Rust Belt.


Just before the GW Bridge, there's an interesting or hideous (depending on your point of view) theatre that was probably built during the 1920's.  It now serves as a pulpit for the ex of a famous singer/performer who has done some of her best-known work since splitting up with him.

Said preacher is Reverend Ike.  Yes, that Rev. Ike:  the one who was Mr. Tina Turner.  Of course, he never saw the relationship that way, though sometimes I think that, deep down, he must have known it would come to that.  Quite possibly the worst thing for the long-term prospects of a marriage is a wife who is obviously more talented than the husband.  (Somehow marriages stay together when the man is more talented.  That's a story for another post, or more precisely, another blog, or some sort of study by the NIH.)  At least Sonny Bono admitted as much about Cher; from what I understand, Rev. Ike was very abusive toward Tina.  


Hmm...Are politics and preaching the last refuges of husbands who can't make it on their own and whose wives get sick of them riding on their coattails?


I digress, again.  About half a mile south (downtown, to New Yorkers) of Rev. Ike's temple, I saw something I hadn't seen since I last rode up that way:

It's the shortest bike lane in New York.  Well, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit.  But it does serve a purpose:  It guides cyclists through one of the trickiest intersections in upper Manhattan, if not all of the city.  When St. Nicholas Avenue (on which the lane is located) crosses West 163rd Street, it also intersects with Audubon Avenue which, like St. Nicholas, is one of the main thoroughfares of that part of town.  


If the intersection were a clock and you were riding on St. Nicholas from the six o'clock position, the traffic from Audubon would be coming at you from the two and eight o'clock position, while the 163rd Street traffic would be coming from somewhere between the two and three o'clock position, and somewhere between the eight and nine o'clock positions. So, from St. Nick, you would cross 163rd and Audubon as if they were an eight-lane highway.  


The new path leads to a couple of concrete islands where there are signs, and from which the path continues to 165th Street.

After that and Rev. Ike, the rest of the ride was a piece of cake!

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.

 

Heading For The Kill

Most days, my commute takes me over the Randall's Island Connector, a car-free bridge that runs underneath the Amtrak trestle--and over the Bronx Kill.

Even though crime is at an all-time low in New York City, the Bronx Kill isn't the only "kill" in the Big Apple--or the Empire State. Before the English came in, the Dutch colonized this area, along with nearby parts of New Jersey and Pennsylvania, in the early 17th Century.  "Kill" comes from the Middle Dutch "kille", which means "riverbed" or "water channel".

So New York had lots of kills even before the Mafia started dumping their bodies in them.

Well, the organization J.Edgar Hoover didn't believe in probably wouldn't have left corpses in something so shallow as the Bronx Kill--even when it's full.  Sometimes the waters cover all those pebbly areas on the shore, and beyond.  One morning, the Kill actually flowed just a couple of feet (or so it seemed) below the bridge.

The Bronx Kill's flow has nothing to do with rain.  Rather, it's affected by the ocean currents, as are the other Kills in New York City.  The Bronx Kill connects the East and Harlem Rivers, both of which are misnamed because they are  tidal estuaries.   Like the Bronx Kill, they have no current of their own:  The direction of their flow is dictated by the tides.

Even with the water so low, I am glad the Connector exists.  My younger self might have ignored the junk revealed by the receding tide and hopped across while hoisting my bike. Or I might have gone looking for the Randall's Island Salamander.

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!

The Arc Of My Commute

Yesterday, I wrote about seeing the cherry blossoms budding on my way in to work.

Well, my ride home included a different sort of visual spectacle.  Because I was carrying a lot (and was being a bit lazy), I took the new connector bridge, which is flat, to Randall's Island, rather than the steep, zig-zaggy ramp up to the Bronx spur of the RFK Bridge.

The connector passes underneath the Hell Gate viaduct--where the Amtrak trains run--and over the Bronx Kill, which separates the rusty but still running industrial areas of the Bronx from the parklike expanses of Randall's Island.

My commute may be only ten kilometers in each direction.  But I felt as if I'd experienced a whole spectrum of color, a wide panaroma of light and forms, on my way to work and back.

The Boneshaker Big Wheel

Some of us try to turn our commutes into mini-workouts.  There are all sorts of ways to do that.  One is to simply ride at a vigorous pace.  Another is to ride in a higher gear than we'd normally ride on a given road or path.  (Or we might ride a fixed-gear bike.)  Still another way is to ride a heavier bike than we'd ride for fun.  Or we might find routes that are more challenging or simply longer than the ones we might've otherwise taken to work.

I have been choosing the latter option. Even though the cycle/pedestrian bridge from Randall's Island to the Bronx has opened, I've been taking the old walkway on the west side of the RFK Bridge spur because accessing it involves pedaling up a fairly steep ramp that zig-zags.  So, for a moment, I can pretend I'm pumping my way up the road on l'Alpe d'Huez as I'm on my way to work in the Bronx.

I admit, it's not a long incline.  But it at least provides a challenge, however brief, on an otherwise flat commute.  Maybe I'll find a route from the new bridge to my workplace that is a bit more challenging (or, again, simply longer) than the one I took the couple of times I've ridden over that bridge.

Now, if I really wanted a workout, I suppose I could ride this:




The Boneshaker Big Wheel, by artist Ron Schroer, is described as "the steampunk love child" of a boneshaker and a penny-farthing.  Riding it to work would certainly be interesting.  Parking, even more so, I think:  Would it attract a would-be thief?  Maybe.  Then again, someone who tried to take off with it probably wouldn't get very far--unless, of course, he had experience in riding boneshakers or penny-farthings!

Change of Scenery

When I cycle to work, I follow the same basic route on most days.  Sometimes I'm detoured.  For example, about three years ago, the RFK Memorial Bridge was closed, so I had to go through the East Side of Manhattan rather than Randall's Island.  At other times, however, I take short side-trips that more or less parallel my normal commute.

This morning was one of those times.  For some reason, when I got to the Bronx side of the Randall's Island Connector, I decided to turn right rather than left on 133rd Street.  Then I took a left onto Walnut Avenue, which cuts through the industrial heart of Port Morris and ends at 141st Street.  Normally, I would take Willow Avenue, which parallels Walnut but ends at 138th Street.  

Along Willow Avenue, I pass a great piece of street art.  But on 141st, where I rode this morning, I encountered an even grander (OK, the artists themselves probably wouldn't use such a term!) urban artscape:

Tats Cru is a group of graffiti artists who have become muralists.  Depending on who you ask, they "evolved", "went mainstream" or "sold out".  I suspect that when they reached an age at which they had to support themselves, and possibly others, they took whatever someone was willing to pay for their work.  I can't say I blame them.

What it means is that some of their work, at least, will survive.  And so will they.  I am happy for that.  So many people and things haven't--except in the memories of people who've lived, and cycled, in this city.

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:

Doing Unto Others

Some good deeds can be performed only while you're riding your bicycle. 

You might be thinking of the time you gave directions to a pedestrian or motorist.  Or the time you retrieved something someone dropped.  And, of course, there are those times you've helped another cyclist on the side of the road.

I am thinking of those, too.  But then there are other problems or emergencies we can deal with but motorists or even pedestrians can't.  I'm thinking now, in pre-cell phone days, of times I summoned police or made a call from a pay phone when a motorist or someone else was stranded far from either. ( I've done this in France--when I was cycling the Pyrenees en route to Spain--as well as locally.)  Then there was the day I saw an elderly woman take a fall while crossing a street (in Florida) and, more recently, the time I saw a homeless man passed out on a sidewalk in the Bronx, on my way to work.  

My favorite, though, was the time a woman called, "You, on the bike!"  I turned.  "Can you help me?"  Of course, I pulled over.  She explained, between sobs, that she'd left her purse on a bus making its run along the Union Turnpike in Queens.  "Do you remember the number on the side of the bus?"  She did.  "Give me a few minutes."

It actually didn't take that long:  I found that bus a couple of lights away.  I knocked on the door and explained the situation to the driver.  He actually walked the down the aisle and--voila!--found a red leather clutch on a seat.  

When I brought it back to the woman, she, of course, thanked me profusely and wanted to give me the money in that purse--which I, of course, refused--while laughing out of sheer giddiness.  "Then I'll pray for good things to happen for you." I'm not religious, but I hope she didn't think I was laughing at her offer of blessings!

I laughed in that same giddy way yesterday.  As I approached the stairs on the Randall's Island side of the RFK Memorial Bridge, I saw a young man who looked ready to faint.  "Are you OK?" He stammered something.  I offered him my water bottle; he sipped from it.  But I knew he wasn't suffering from heat exhaustion, even though the day was warm and humid.  "Are you diabetic?"  He nodded. "L-low blood sugar!"   

I searched my bag:  no bananas, energy bars, chocolate or any of the other sweet things I might bring on a ride!  The only available food was on the island--or back on the Queens side.  "I'll get you something!  I'll be back in a minute."

So I pedaled at a pace that might've won me a race or two back in the day to the concession stand near one of the ballfields.  Much to my surprise--and, at that moment, horror--it was closed.  There was a "roach coach" (a food truck) nearby, a long line of customers snaked from its windows.  And it wasn't going to move quickly:  people were ordering hot sandwiches, plates and french fries.

Sighing, I caught sight of a nearby tennis club.  I'm not a member, but I figured there would be a cafe--or at least a snack bar--where I could buy something.  That hunch proved correct, and I bought two fresh-baked cookies--one chocolate chip, the other fudge with s'mores.  

When I got back to the stairway on the bridge, the young man was still there, and another young man was talking to him.  That other young man didn't have any food or water, but at least he encouraged the young man with diabetes. Both thank me profusely; the fellow with diabetes hugged me. 

Anyway, I mention these stories, not to boast of my magnanimity, but to point out that they never would have happened if I hadn't been on my bicycle.  That young man who was  about to faint, or worse, from his low blood sugar never would have been seen by the motorists streaming across the bridge.  And the pedestrians wouldn't have been able to get him a snack as quickly as I did.

What are some of the good deeds you performed while riding your bike--and that you could have performed only while riding your bike?

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!