A Labor Day Ride

 Today is Labor Day in the US.

In previous posts, I discusses races and other organized rides held on this holiday as well as the roles bicycles and bicycling have played in the labor movement and workers’ lives.  Today, however, I want to talk about something I saw during my ride this morning.

Knowing that a hot, humid afternoon was forecast, I took a pre-breakfast/brunch spin to Fort Totten (about 40 km round-trip) on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear. This ride includes, as it usually does, the Malcolm X Promenade, which rims Flushing Bay (where the East River and Long Island Sound meet) from LaGuardia Airport to the Northern Boulevard Bridge to Flushing. 

There are park benches along the Promenade so, not surprisingly, it serves as a lover’s lane, spot for impromptu small parties and simply a place for people to hang out and enjoy views of the water, airport and Manhattan skyline.

I have also seen the unhoused there.  If J they catch my attention, or they catch mine and I am carrying anything edible, I offer it,  They invariably thank me and sometimes eat it as I am pedaling away.  Are they testing it, or do they somehow know that I didn’t spike it with chemicals or ground glass?

Anyway, I have also noticed people—almost always Hispanic men—sleeping or hanging out on benches. I know they are not among the unhoused because they are not flanked or propped by bags or carts full of possessions.

They are most likely like a man who sometimes sits in the doorways of apartment buildings or on the stoops of houses on my block. He always greets me; he “knows” me because he works in a store I sometimes frequent. I see him from late afternoon or early evening to around midnight.

What might he have in common with at least one of the people I saw along the Malcolm X Promenade? Well, for one thing, he works a job that doesn’t pay well. For another, he lives in a room in “shifts.”

He’s in those doorways or on those stoops during the hours when his “roommate“—who probably is in a situation like his—is there. They share the room, and the rent, with another man who is most likely in similar circumstances.

I am mentioning them—and the people I saw during my ride this morning—because they are often forgotten on this day. I am happy that unions are regaining some of the power they’ve lost since the Air Traffic Controllers’ strike of 1981.  But for every union member who’s regained some of the rights, benefits and pay they lost, there are many more like the man on my block or the ones I saw during my ride this morning: the ones who don’t have unions, knowledge of the system or fluency in English to advocate for themselves, let alone anyone else.

Pedaling In Smoke

Two months ago, Canadian wildfires singed the sky orange in my hometown of New York City.  At times, you could actually smell—and see—smoke from the burning trees.

Such sights and smells didn’t enshroud the ride I took yesterday. I pedaled Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear, along familiar streets from my neighborhood to Brooklyn.  While my nose didn’t detect the scent of incinerated wood and my eyes didn’t pick up ash or unusual hues on the horizon, I could sense the aftermath of a fire before I literally encountered it.

On Sunday, a fire destroyed a row of stores at the intersection of Lee Avenue and Hooper Street, by the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Most of the stores were closed, which is probably the reason why no one was hurt even as the stores and their contents were destroyed.

Still, such a disaster is particularly devastating for the Hasidic enclave of South Williamsburg. For one thing, the stores and the spaces they occupied were owned by members of the community, who were also nearly all of those establishments’ customers. For another, some of those stores sold the clothing and supplies kids will need as they return to school,  But most important, those stores catered to the specific needs and religious mandates of the community, particularly in food and clothing. (As an example, Halakhic law forbids the mixing of fabrics.) Those needs and requirements are sometimes difficult, if not impossible, to meet in other stores.

Anyway, I continued my ride. Sometimes it’s seemed as if I’ve been pedaling through smoke all summer.

Idyll By The Airport

 Ah, the joys of an early morning ride.

You can almost hear the overture from Sprach Zarathustra in the background 

or, perhaps one of those early Infiniti TV ads.

Believe it or not, I chanced upon this scene along the Malcolm X Promenade—about half a kilometer from LaGuardia Airport,

From there, I pedaled out to Fort Totten and back—40 kilometers on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear.  I’d say it’s a respectable “beat the heat” early morning ride.

Riding To My Own Guitar Solo (Or Overtime)

 On Monday morning and early afternoon, I took Dee-Lilah, my Mercian Vincitore Special, for a spin out to Point Lookout and back: 120 kilometers (about 75!mikes). Yesterday morning I took Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear, for a shorter ride—about 40 kilometers (25 miles) to Fort Totten and back.

What did these rides have in common, besides the fact that I enjoyed them?  Well, both bikes are purple, though in different shades.  Also, I timed both rides to, as best I could, finish before the most intense heat—and worst air quality (those Canadian wildfires, again!) of the day.

Both rides also have something in common with every other ride I’ve taken in my life:  I rode without headphones, eat buds or any other audio device.  Sometimes I feel I’m the only person who still rides that way.

I think I’ll always ride that way.  For one thing, I don’t want to impede my ability to hear traffic or other ambient sounds—including bird sings and ocean tides. But I also believe  don’t need devices to hear music, if only inside my own mind.

Back in the day, the term “ear worm” didn’t exist. (At least, I hadn’t heard it.) I would,!however, find myself riding to a tune playing through my head—usually, somethings I’d heard not long before.

I first noticed myself riding to a tune I was carrying with me during a ride when I was, probably, fifteen years old.  I’d been pedaling a long, flat stretch of New Jersey Route 36 from Sandy Hook to Long Branch. The ocean stretched thousands of miles to my left—it years would pass before I saw the other side. The sky stretched even further above and beyond me.  And, even though I knew the road ended—or, more precisely changed direction—in Long Branch and I was gliding toward it on a combination of youthful energy and the wind at my back, I saw myself pedaling forward, forced, even further than that road could take, or my own vision could guide, me.

That ride’s ear worn before there were ear worms?  The long guitar riff of Black Sabbath’s “Rat Salad.”  It’s trippy yet hard-driving and expansive: the way I was pedaling on that long-ago ride.

And what did I hear as I pedaled, with a light breeze at my back, along the long,f flat—and surprisingly deserted—Rockaway Boardwalk? You guessed it: Rat Salad. As Kurt Vonnegut would have said, I was woozy with deja vu.

Oh, and during yesterday’s ride, my “ear worm” was an overture from Debussy’s “La Mer”: one of the first pieces of classical music I came to truly love—and an “ear worm” on another long-ago ride.

Given what I’ve described, you might think I was a strange kid. I wouldn’t try to disabuse you of such a notion.  Of course, you may think I’m an even stranger adult—one in mid-life—because I’ve never ridden, and intend never to ride, with headphones, ear buds or any other audio device.

Riding Under Smoke From Canada and France

About two kilometers into my ride today, I had this view of the Manhattan skyline:

Everywhere I rode, the sort of heavy gray haze you normally see before a summer thunderstorm enveloped the sky.  But there is no rain in the weather forecast until, perhaps, late tonight.  

As I rode, however, I convinced myself that it "wasn't as bad" as what we had earlier this month:  those blood-orange skies you saw in news images of this city.  I asked myself, "How bad could it be?" if I could see this so clearly:

at Schenectady and East New York Avenues in Crown Heights.  The mural depicts a the three main communities in the neighborhood:  Hasidim, Blacks (Caribbean and American) and hipsters/gentrifiers. 

I rode happily with such a belief or in such ignorance, depending on your point of view, to the Canarsie Pier where, not surprisingly, I saw about half as many people fishing, picnicking or simply hanging out as Tone would normally encounter at this time of year.

Still, "It isn't so bad," I told myself.

Then, as I pedaled away from the pier and was trying to decide whether to continue along the shore, west to Coney Island or east to Howard Beach, or to ride north in a more direct route home, I started to think, "something's not right."

I stopped at a Key Food supermarket for a bottle of water.  When I stepped back outside and mounted Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear (which was doing better than I was!), I felt my eyes stinging, even though I'd worn my wraparound glasses.  It occurred to me that whatever got to my eyes had to be in the air and smaller than a mosquito, gnat or other insect.

I splashed some water into my eyes and on my face and waited a couple of minutes.  Another block of riding, and the stinging returned.  I heard, from a radio of a passing car, that the health authorities declared the air quality "unhealthy."  I didn't think it would "pass" like an afternoon thundershower, so I pedaled a couple of more blocks to the Rockaway Parkway station of the L train.

During the ride, I thought about the young man a police officer shot in Nanterre, just west of Paris.  Not surprisingly, people protested, sometimes violently, in the City of Light and other French cities.  In places like Nanterre, groups of people seemingly as disparate an the ones depicted in the mural I saw.  I won't say there's more or less unity in one city or country than in another, but there always needs to be more.

If there was any good news in my taking the train home, it might be this: For about half of my ride, I was the only white person--and the only person with a bicycle.  No one seemed to care except a little girl with whom we exchanged wide eyes and funny faces.  Her mother smiled on my way out:  She looked tired and, I think, was happy that someone relieved her, for a few moments, from having to keep her kid occupied.  I guess taking the train home wasn't such a bad thing for somebody!

What Would They Have Seen?

In the Hollywood version of the immigrant's story, a poor young person emerges--his coat, but not his spirit, tattered--from the dark, dank steerage section of a ship to a deck, just as the sun breaks through clouds over the Statue of Liberty.

I can't help but to wonder how many actually had snow swirling around them, or were soaked in a downpour or struck by sleet, as they gazed out onto the harbor.  Or, perhaps, their first glimpse of Lady Liberty was shrouded in mist.

For a couple of days, we had an early taste of summer:  the temperature reached 33C (91F) in Central Park on Friday.  Then the clouds rolled in and and fog enveloped the city--especially the waterfront--late on Saturday and Sunday, interrupted by rain on Sunday morning.

I pedaled through a bunch of Brooklyn and Queens neighborhoods, from my western Queens abode to East New York, and zig-zagged along the waterfront.  I stopped for a mini-picnic (some pistachios and Lindt's 85 percent dark chocolate) in Red Hook. 

I have ridden to the Hook a number of times and still can't get over the irony of my riding--or people from all over the city, and from outside it--to it for pleasure.  I mean, what would the relatives of mine who worked on the docks or the nearby factories have thought of people whose "Sunday best" are airbrushed, more expensive versions of the clothes my relatives wore to work. Or of the three young men munching on matching artisan chocolate-coated Key Lime ice cream pops as they sauntered along the pier.  Or, for that matter, of the fancy wedding taking place inside a warehouse turned into an "event space."

 

My relatives walked and took streetcars to those piers and never went anywhere near them after they clocked out, let alone on Sunday.  And, of course, the folks who arrived from further away--as my relatives or, at least, their parents--came by boat.  What would they have thought of someone like me arriving by bike--Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear, to be exact--on her day off, just because she could?

Or, for that matter, that I am a she?  What could they have seen through the mist?

Delivering Hate And A Death Threat

Yesterday afternoon, I hopped onto Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bicycle, and pedaled with no particular destination in mind.  I simply wanted to spend an hour or two riding before the rain came and I had to get back to work.

After zigging, zagging and looping through "Hipster Hook" and eastward to the closest thing this city has to a stetl--the Hasidic enclave in Williamsburg--I found myself riding down the unprotected bike lane on the left side of Tompkins Avenue, a one-way southbound street in the Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood.  Although the lane is nothing more than lines painted on pavement, I'd had no issues during previous rides along its length.  In fact, I rather enjoyed it because it passes a park and some of the most colorfully-decorated stores and cafes you'll see in this city.  

Note my use of the past tense.  It doesn't mean I'll never go back; it means only that the string of pleasurable rides was broken.

Between Madison Street and Putnam Avenue, a USPS truck parked in the lane, on the left side of Tompkins, probably to make a delivery.  Those trucks often take up more than the width of a lane so, perhaps not surprisingly, there was a traffic "bottleneck."  In that queue was another USPS truck, just a couple of vehicles behind me to my right.  The driver seemed to lean on her horn as she shouted out the window--at me, it turned out, even though I waited behind the parked truck so she could pass.

Well, as they say, no good deed goes unpunished.  She veered her truck toward me and yelled racist, "Fuckin' white tranny bitch!"  (Hey, she scored a trifecta:  racism, sexism and transphobia, all in one!)  At the next intersection--Jefferson Avenue--she pulled over to retrieve mail from a box.  I stopped and yelled, "What was that all about?"

"Mind your own fuckin' business."

"I am.  When someone tries to kill me, it's my business."

"Fuck you, white tranny bitch!".

Since USPS trucks don't have license plates, I snapped this photo of the truck number.  Then I took a photo of her, from the side, as she came out of the truck.  Proud of herself, she posed for me.

I have filed complaints with the USPS and the local NYPD Precinct.

Riding Among Pink And Yellow Under A Gray Sky

 I didn't stop for this:

But I did stop for this:

I can't recall seeing cherry blossoms bloom so early in any year before this one.  These trees in Greenpoint, Brooklyn aren't at "peak" yet, but they will be very soon.

Normally, the cherry blossoms here in New York bud and flower a week or two later than the more famous ones in Washington, DC, which put on their show in late March and early April.  I am not a scientist, but something tells me that what I'm seeing isn't just a symptom of a mild winter:  This has hardly been the first in recent years.  I can't help but to think that it's a harbinger of more fundamental changes.

Don't get me wrong:  I am always happy to see the cherry blossoms, whenever they blossom.  But even if the weather was still cold, those lovely pink flowers were a sure sign that Spring had indeed arrived.  So...Does this mean that Spring is indeed arriving earlier?  Or will they become another precursor, like snowdrops and winter jasmine, of a season that is on its way, but has not quite arrived?

I went looking for answers.  Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear bike, led me to this:

A psychic reader under new management?  Does that mean readings will be less vague and more detailed?  That they'll be done faster?  Or that you get your money back if what the reader predicts doesn't come true?

At least my trip to the reader's storefront--which was closed--took me through some interesting vistas.  The block leading to it, (66th Street from Cooper to Myrtle Avenues) looked like a valley of "Ridgewood Yellow:"

Not surprisingly, I saw a couple of pro-police banners.  Not so long ago, Ridgewood was home to many officers.  I'll bet that some worked here:

The former headquarters of the eight-three (police parlance for the 83rd Precinct) is now a command station for that precinct, and several others in Brooklyn.  That doesn't surprise me, though on first glance, I would've thought it was an armory.

A desk officer saw me wandering around and came to the door.  "Can I help you?"  I explained that I simply had to stop and look at the building.  He then explained its history to me and told me the part of the building in which he was posted had been a horse stable.  

I tried to imagine it when the neighborhood--Bushwick--was home to German and Italian immigrants who probably would've been dressed in their "Sunday best" for church.  Apparently, the  young woman with pink hair and they young man in a long yellow paisley coat had no such thought:  It was just another building they passed on their way to the Cal-Mex cafe.

I guess pink and yellow, wherever they're seen under a gray sky, are signs that the season--whatever it is-- is here, or on its way.

Riding Again--And Discovering

 My energy is returning, if slowly.  I managed to ride over the weekend--including my first trek of more than 50 kilometers (just over 30 miles) since I returned from Paris.

About that ride:  I pedaled to Point Lookout on Sunday.  The wind blew at my face for most of the way out, and at my back on my way back.  I hope for that any time I do an aller-retour. But neither that, nor the length of the ride, were the only reasons why I was happy.

As I mounted La-Vande, my King of Mercia, the air was a bit warmer than normal for this time of year.  Still, I didn't peel off one of my layers:  I anticipated, correctly, a temperature drop--or, at least the feeling of one--as I approached the water.

  

As the sun played hide-and-seek, the wind, into which I'd been pedaling, blew straight off the ocean.  Even during such a mild winter, the water temperature falls to around 5C (40F) at this time of year.  That wind is a reminder that although the thermometer tells us "early April," it still is February.  It is probably the reason why the Rockaways boardwalk was nearly deserted.  I also encountered very little traffic along the South Shore streets and roads all the way to the Point.

That Sunday ride was sandwiched with two shorter rides.  I woke up late on Saturday, did a few things I didn't have the energy to do during the week and went for a late day ride to Fort Totten.  On the way home, I was treated to a celestial sketch of light, clouds and trees along the Malcolm X Promenade.  

And on Monday, a US holiday (Presidents' Day), I took another late day ride in which I found something that's been under my nose, so to speak.

The Sculpture Center is in Long Island City, less than two kilometers from my apartment.  I have pedaled up and down the streets in its vicinity, probably, hundreds of times.  But I bypassed the street--Purves--on which the Center is located because it dead-ends after only a block.  Also, until recently, there were no signs for the Center on nearby streets.

The young man at the front desk reassured me that I'm not the first person who's visited nearby PS 1--and any number of other museums in this city--but never knew about the Center.  The reasons, apart from its location, why it's not better known may be that it's open only when it runs the exhibit or two it happens to be running.  Those exhibits last a few weeks, then the Center closes for a few more before opening for the next exhibits. 

There is no admission charge to enter the Center.  Best of all, they let me bring Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bike, inside.

(By the way, on yesterday's date in 1965, Malcolm X was assassinated in New York City's Audubon Ballroom.)

From Solitude To Celebrants: A Ride From Yesterday To Today

 Yesterday was even milder than Thursday.  I had a few things to do in the morning and early afternoon, so I didn't get out for a ride until mid-afternoon.  By that time, the weather was spring-like, with a temperature around 10C (50F) and bright sunshine.

Since I knew my ride would be shorter than the one I did on Thursday, I took Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear, out for the spin.  I did the sort of ride I often do in such times:  along the waterfront of "Hipster Hook"--the Brooklyn neighborhoods of Williamsburg and Greenpoint and the Queens environs of Long Island City and Astoria, where I live.  

On the way back, I took a side-trip into Roosevelt Island.  I enjoyed pedaling along the waterfront paths and around the lighthouse, but in one way that part of the ride could hardly have been more different from my trek to Point Lookout and back.  

During yesterday's ride, the Rockaway Boardwalk and Atlantic Beach Bridge were deserted, and I saw fewer people on the Long Beach boardwalk, along with less traffic on the roadways, than one normally encounters on a weekday.  On the other hand, all of the waterfront areas, especially on Roosevelt Island, were as full of visitors as a beach on a summer day.  Many of those who were walking and taking selfies were, I imagine, tourists in town for tonight's celebrations.  I wonder how many of them are paying hundreds of dollars a night in hotel fees for the privilege of arriving in Times Square twelve hours--with no backpacks or items-- before the ball drop and being forced to stand in the same spot for all of that time.

How do I plan to "ring out" the old year?  I feel as if I have been, during the past few days, in rides that end in sunsets.  Later, I'm going to hang out with a couple of friends who might or might not pay attention to the ball drop. Perhaps it's a sign of, ahem, midlife, that changing calendars seems less momentous than it did.  The constants, whatever they are, seem more important.  For me, they include, as they have for most of my life, cycling.

Fixed Gear eBike: An Oxymoronic Contradiction?

An a capella heavy metal band?

When I first heard about it, a dozen years ago, I thought it was a joke.  Then I heard Van Canto and the combination seemed no more incongruous than, say, Saint Andre cheese on a bagel from Lots O' Bagels. (That's what I ate the other day, on Christmas morning.) And, hey, those guys were doing something I did when I was part of a punk band you've never heard of, and never will:  making a lot of noise with musical instruments and screaming.  

So why am I mentioning an a capella heavy metal band?  Well, knowing about them made what I am about to describe seem less implausible than it might otherwise have seen.  

In case you're new to this blog, or if your cycling is experience is limited, I'll explain a couple of things.  

First, this:  a fixed-gear bike. One of my Mercians--Tosca--is of this type. A single cog screws directly onto the rear hub.  When you ride this type of bike, if the wheels turn, so do your pedals--or vice versa.  In other words, you can't coast, which turns your ride into more of a workout. That is why I often take Tosca on short rides.  It's also the reason why all bikes raced on velodromes--enclosed tracks--have fixed gears: They are more efficient, and therefore capable of greater speeds.

I have to admit that when I ride Tosca, with my legs in continuous motion, it's difficult for me to imagine riding an electric bike, a.k.a., eBike,  which not only allows coasting, but also "assists" the rider.  In other words, a fixed-gear bike seems to be the antithesis of an eBike. 

Indeed it is, in spite of claims to the contrary.  "Fixed gear eBike" is, if you ask me, "click-bait."  If you actually click onto the websites where claims for such a bike are made, you'll find that the "fixed gear" is actually a single-speed freewheel or other drivetrain without a derailleur.

If they're not being deceptive, they simply don't understand the difference between "single speed" and "fixed gear."  It's not difficult for me to imagine an eBike with a single speed freewheel.  For one thing, the two systems would work well together.  For another, folks who'd want an electric, or any other kind of, assist, are also likely to coast for significant parts of their rides.  If they could pedal nonstop, even if only for a few minutes, why would they want an assist--unless, of course, it kept them pedaling?

So...while I can't say with certainty that a fixed-gear eBike is impossible, implausible or even impractical, I don't know how it's possible, necessary or desirable?

A Ride Ahead Of A Storm

 The "once in a generation" weather events are happening, well, more than once in a generation.  

Such an event was predicted for last night and today.  The weather, according to forecasters, would take twists and turns that would cause a script to be rejected as too unbelievable. The day started with temperatures just above freezing.  Then the rain came:  a few drops falling as I returned to my apartment turned into downpours accompanied by high winds.  The temperature rose to springlike levels, but are expected to fall enough to give us the coldest Christmas Eve and Christmas in, well, a generation.

Now, I don't mind riding in rain or wind, or in changing temperatures.  But the predicted combination is not my idea of a backdrop for a good ride.  I think the only one in my orbit who likes this weather is Marlee because it keeps me home with her!

Anyway, I spent about two and a half hours on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear.  Most of our ride rimmed the East River shorelines of Queens and Brooklyn.  As familiar as it all was, I enjoyed it and, more important, noticed something that I missed because I took a turn I wouldn't normally take.

Along the Greenpoint waterfront is the WNYC Transmitter Park, from which our local public radio stations (on AM and FM) sends out the programs that are often the soundtrack when I'm home.  I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to see a mural dedicated to Black Americans who've been killed by police officers.  I think I pay a bit more attention to such things than most White Americans.  Still, I was astounded and, later, ashamed that I didn't recognize many of the names.  What was more disturbing was the knowledge that, as the creators of the murals acknowledge, the "list" is far from complete.

About twenty meters to the right of the BLM mural (or to the mural's left) is another that couldn't be more different.  

Perhaps that is the point:  The woman in the mural looks as White as the paint in her face.   She is as languid as the Sandra Bland, Eric Garner and others in the BLM mural were tense and fearful when they were confronted by constables.  

Oh, and she is lounging on what appears to be a Spring day. I was looking at her, and the BLM mural, on the second day of Winter, as a "once in a generation" storm was approaching.

From Indian Summer To Climate Change

 When I was less enlightened, I called it “Indian Summer.”  That’s how most people in America referred to a series of unseasonably warm days in the Fall. I don’t know what to call it now. “Another sign of climate change,” as accurate as it may be, isn’t quite as catchy as “Indian Summer.”

Whatever one calls it, we had a dose of it on Friday, Saturday and Sunday morning.  The temperature reached 26C (79F).  But we also caught the tail end of Hurricane Nicole. She strafed us with wind and dumped a lot of rain.  One downpour woke up Marlee, who woke me to a view of…a cascade of rain.  It was so thick I couldn’t see beyond my window!

But, a couple of hours after eating my bagel with Saint Andre cheese, the rain stopped.  I took Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear bike for a spin with no particular destination in mind.

After wandering along the North Shore of Queens and Nassau County, I stopped in Fort Totten.  Although I brought my lights, I didn’t want to ride in the dark.  So I knew I’d be headed home when I saw this:

The days definitely are getting shorter.  The season is changing.  So is the climate.

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.

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: