Into The Hole

Today I rode to a hole.  No, I didn't go to the Grand Canyon.

All right.  I rode to a ghost town.  And, yes, I stayed in the cofines of New York City.

Mind you, it wasn't my destination:  I didn't have one for today.  I just felt like riding and after an overcast morning turned into a sunny and unseasonably warm afternoon.  I rode Vera, my green Mercian mixte, with no particular itinerary in mind.  I just pedaled forward and turned whenever it looked interesting or I simply got tired of the street or lane I was riding.

I briefly covered a part of yesterday's ride:  through Howard Beach and Beach Channel, the latter of which is partly contained in the Gateway National Recreation Area.  Vera gave me a couple of brief encounters with the ocean, but the bodies of water I saw, mainly, were ones that open into the Atlantic--namely Jamaica Bay and Starrett Creek.

And this:

As we've all been told, immigrants of my grandparents' generation were lured to America by rumors that the streets were "paved with gold".  Well, there is a street under that puddle, or whatever you want to call it, made of emerald.  All right, that's a bit of an exaggeration.   But the street is called Emerald Street.  A block away is another venue called Ruby Street; nearby thoroughfares are Amber and Sapphire Streets.  

In a perverse irony, these "jewel" streets comprise a neighborhood--if it might be called that--commonly called "The Hole."  It's easy to see why:  the land drops about five meters from the grade of Linden Boulevard--which itself lies below sea level.  According to some reports, that puddle lies 30 feet (9 meters) below sea level.

In another twist, the nearest building that has any connection to the rest of the world is about 50 meters away but seems to have its back turned to it: a psychotherapy center.  And, across Linden Boulevard--a.k.a. New York State Route 27--from it is the Lindenwood Diner, where travelers to and from JFK Airport and truckers to and from all points imaginable stop for burgers, shakes and such.

To give you an idea of how desolate--or, at least, how far removed from the rest of the city--The Hole is, no one seems to know whether it's in Brooklyn or Queens.  Perhaps it's a separate borough?  It certainly seems to exist in another time, if not jurisdiction.

That puddle in the photo might've been a result of the snow we had last week.  But, from what I hear, there's almost always an unnatural wetland there.  The Hole is, to my knowledge, the only part of New York City that doesn't have sewers--people use septic tanks and drains--because the land is too close to the water table.  

That geographic feature is probably a reason why it most likely shares agrarian past with the neighboring Brooklyn community of East New York.  In the late 19th Century, Brooklyn was--believe it or not--the second-largest (after southern New Jersey) vegetable-producing area in the US.  No doubt some of the folks living there--off the grid--are growing tomatoes or cabbages or other vegetables in patches of sod surrounded by rubble-strewn or weed-grown lots.  Most of the houses are abandoned; the people who call the area home are living in trailers, campers or trucks--with or without wheels.

The Federation of Black Cowboys stabled their horses in The Hole (and a few Cowboys lived there) until about a decade ago, when the city housing authority chased them out in order to erect middle-class housing that, to date, hasn't been built. In 2004, bodies of Mafia figures were found there, confirming longstanding rumors that the area was a mob dumping ground.  

Anyway, I have a rule when I ride:  If I can't see the bottom of any body of water I won't ride through it, unless there's no other way.  Not even if I'm riding a bike with full fenders, as I was today!

The Hole At The End Of The Day

Late today, I took Negrosa, my black Mercian Olympic, on a no-planned-destination ride.

After zigzagging through some industrial areas and blocks of brick rowhouses, I descended the long hill from Ridgewood, Queens to Cypress Hills, Brooklyn.  After some more zigging and zagging along and around the Brooklyn-Queens border, I found myself in a place I hadn't visited in a while.

"The Hole," which I've mentioned in earlier posts, is an alternative universe between Brooklyn and Queens, near the South Shore of both boroughs.  The land--and incongruously-named  streets (Ruby, Sapphire, Amber)--drop suddenly behind a shopping center and a row of doctors office-type buildings on Linden Boulevard.  Not much seems to have changed since the last time I visited:

My guess is that those who live and work--legitimately or not--in the area want to keep it that way. Why else would they stay in a place that practically forces them to live and work like Okies or folks in rural Appalachia before World War II?  I mean, it's still not hooked up to the city's sewer systems and some aren't even on the electrical grid.  Oh, and I can't think of any place else in this city where a yard can fill with junked cars or school buses without attracting the attention of the Health Department.

A couple of guys, who were working on a truck, noticed me and nodded.  As obvious an outsider as I am, I guess they didn't see me as a threat.

I am a cyclist, after all.

How Routine Was This Repair?

Have you ever felt yourself just slogging and grinding your way on your bike for no discernible reason?  Then you realize your rear tire was slowly losing air.  Or your chain needed oil even more than the salad everyone thought was dry and lifeless.  Or that some part or another was out of alignment or adjustment.

I had such an experience on Thursday.  I wasn’t feeling very well, but I thought I could shake my lethargy by going on a ride, however short.  I started in a direction that could take me to Coney Island or the Canarsie Pier; either would have been a manageable distance and, if I needed to do so, I could take the subway home.

As I approached the Pulaski Bridge, I found myself making a left turn Jackson Avenue, then Thomson Avenue, which meant Canarsie was in the cards.  It was the sort of not-quite-conscious decision I often make on rides.  That was fine; I hadn’t gone that way in a while.  Tosca seemed to be rolling along fine through the industrial area of Long Island City and Maspeth, the now-Polish and Albanian enclaves of Ridgewood and some almost-suburban stretches of Glendale.  

Then, after descending the hill from a cemetery in Queens to another in Brooklyn, I started to feel like a paraplegic grasshopper pedaling in syrup.  I glanced down at the bike. Nothing seemed wrong.  Must be the engine, not the chassis, I thought.  In other words, I thought perhaps I was less well or in worse shape than I suspected.

Just after crossing Atlantic Avenue, I realized that the human machinery, however out-of-tune, was not to blame.  I saw the telltale sag in my rear tire. So, I did what I often do when I don’t hear a pop or a hiss:  I pumped the tire, figuring I could pedal the rest of the way to the pier and, if necessary, fix the problem there.

The plan almost worked.  I got to a flea market about three-quarters of the way to the pier.   I wended through aisles of polyester sundresses in screaming hues that make “billboard” jerseys seem as if they were designed by Brooks Brothers  (I’ve never seen a man who actually looks good in one!), electronic equipment that was discarded before the guys trying to sell it were born, CDs of bands you’ve never heard of or don’t want to hear again, and all matter of the most cheaply-made watches, appliances and accessories imaginable.  Of course, I didn’t buy anything.  But I had to pump my tire again:  It had lost about half of its pressure.

The air was just barely enough to get me to the Pier.  Then I pumped the tire to hear a hiss growing more insistent.  Turns out, a small hole in the tire’s sidewall was opening. 

I knew there was no point to fixing it:  No patch would be strong enough to keep the tube from blowing out like a bubble from a piece of gum.  So, I took the L train back.  Oh well.

After replacing the tire and tube, I took Tosca out on the same route yesterday.  Now I was riding the bike I’d always loved.  And I felt better.

And yesterday’s ride—Point Lookout, again—on Arielle felt even better.  In fact, it was nearly perfect: About the only time I noticed Arielle (I hope she doesn’t feel rejected) was when I shifted or braked.  The rest of the time, I felt as if I were sailing the air under the cloudless sky on a day that could hardly have felt more like the first of summer. 

I did nothing to maintain or adjust Arielle before the ride.  But somehow I felt I was still riding a wave, if you will, from replacing the tire on Tosca. 

What sorts of routine maintenance and repair make the most difference in the way your bikes ride?

A Ghost In The Morning

After a perfect summer weekend, another heat wave has swept over this city.

 Now, those of you who live in places like western Texas or southern Arizona might chuckle when folks like me complain about the heat in New York. I’ll concede that we don’t know (at least not yet) what it’s like when your nighttime temperatures are like ours in the afternoon.  But our hot days come with humidity that turn our streets into saunas.

Anyway, knowing that we are heading for The Nineties (in Fahrenheit temperature and humidity), I went for a morning ride that took me back and forth between Queens and Brooklyn.  

 Street destruction (Why do they call it construction?) detoured me onto Hewes Street, one of the narrow, warrenlike thoroughfares in the part of this city that most closely resembles a pre-war stetl: the Hasidic part of Williamsburg, where it borders Bushwick.

One way you know a neighborhood is changing: You see “ghosts.” I can’t help but to imagine the lives that filled and voices that echo walls of bubbling, flaking bricks and shingles. But I also notice another kind of “ghost”:  a long-concealed sign or banner from a business that served as past residents whom current residents will never know.

“Ghost” signs like the one I saw today on Hewes Street have led me down a rabbit hole or two. What kinds of “beauty preparations” did Nutrine make or sell? Who used them, and what image of “beauty” were they trying to achieve.

That image, I imagine, might have burned as brightly and hazily as a heat-wave afternoon in the imaginations of those in whom it was inculcated it—and those who inculcated it.