Saluting An Early Morning Fog

This morning, on my way to work, I pedaled into a horizon of light, high fog.

The air was still pleasantly cool and, surprisingly, didn't seem very humid.  At least, I was pedaling at a vigorous, if not furious, pace because I could, and I wasn't sweating.

Perhaps it had to do with the stillness of everything around me.  They say this city never sleeps.  Well, sometimes I'm out before people--and machines--have awakened:

Or are they saluting the skyscrapers, veiled in mist on the other side of the river ?

Oh, it's such a treat to ride my bike to work!

Another Misty Morning Starts Off, And Turns, Sunny

Got out nice and early today.  How early?  Well, it was so early that…

I didn’t know what the weather was, or would be during the first hour of my ride.

Usually, weather reports on the radio tell you what the current temperature and conditions are at some central stations.  And they tell you what will be at that station, and in a generalized area around it, for the rest of the day, and possibly for the next three days. 

 

When I left my place, it was a bit cooler and breezier than I expected.  I didn’t mind that, but I had to remind myself that even in the four or five kilometers between the Central Park weather station and my apartment, conditions can change.  

What that means, of course, is that the weather could be even more different as you go further away—especially if the terrain is different, there is greater or lesser density of buildings, or some other factor affects the speed and direction of the wind.

Although it was about 15C (60F) when I left my apartment—vs 17C (65F) at Central Park—it was as sunny here as the weather report said. However, when I pedaled over the Veterans Memorial Bridge, 27km (about 15 miles) from my place, this is what Rockaway Beach looked like from the Jamaica Bay side:

 The weather report didn’t mention the low-lying fog.  I wasn’t upset to see it; instead, I was looking forward to riding through it as droplets of the cool sea mist clung to my skin.  Best of all, that fog had spread itself all through the Rockaways, as far as I could see in either direction—left to Atlantic Beach, Long Beach and Point Lookout, right to Fort Tilden, Breezy Point and Brooklyn.

I turned right only because I rode to Point Lookout yesterday.   The ride did not disappoint:

Light like that makes me wish I were a painter!  As a cyclist, I let and fill and lift me.  At least, that’s how I feel when I allow it to direct my ride.  Arielle was game:

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!

In Autumnal Mists

If you read some of my earlier posts, you might recall that I actually enjoy riding in fog.

That's kind of ironic when you consider one of my rules about riding in the rain:  I won't do it if the precip is falling so densely that I can't see more than two bike lengths ahead of me.  Somehow, though, it's easier (for me, anyway) to navigate--and pedal--through even the densest fogs.  Hey, I've actually ridden through clouds, when ascending and descending mountains in Vermont and the French Alps.  Compared to that, navigating a mist is easy.

Perhaps my enjoyment of riding under such conditions has to do with the structure of my eyes:  After all, I love riding (or walking or just about anything else) in the diffuse light of places like Paris, Copenhagen and Prague, and of overcast days at nearly any seashore.

Perhaps the best thing about such light and mist is the way it brings out autumnal hues:

From Favim

 
What is it about bikes that they are (to my eyes, anyway) best photographed in the fall?

What If He’d Seen This?

 Yesterday morning, I pedaled along the North Shore.  On my way back, I stopped in Fort Totten.  Like many military bases-turned-recreational areas, it sits on some “mighty fine” real estate.  The site makes sense when you get a glimpse of the panoramic views:  Continental troops could have seen Royal Navy ships approaching from a good distance away.

Were they stationed there yesterday, they would have seen mist.  Would enemy warships have veiled themselves in it—and drawn closer than they might have otherwise?

Yesterday the mist portended something odious, if less sinister:  humid heat.  Very humid and hot, in fact—if less so than much of the West Coast last week.

Of course, being a writer and English teacher, I have to ask: What if Jay Gatsby had gazed across the cove and seen mist instead of a green light lover Daisy’s dock?

Now, I could get all pseudo-intellectual on you and blather about how hopers (Is that a word?) and dreamers, and the desperate, see that faint veridescence on the horizon and not the fog that shrouds it.  Too late! Oh well..

At least I had a nice ride—and picked up some fresh Greek yogurt from Kesso  on my way home.

When You Can't See Liberty

Today's post hasn't much to do with cycling, perhaps.

But I thought I'd share two photos someone passed on to me.  They were taken today in lower Manhattan:

From here, you can't see the top of Liberty Tower, the building that replaced the twin towers of the World Trade Center.   

Here's another image that will give you an idea of how low the fog was today:

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?

Misty Morning Ride

The last couple of mornings, heavy fogs have shrouded the Queensborough Bridge towers.  

The cyclist you see in this photo soon disappeared as he descended through the fog on the Manhattan side of the bridge.

The Upper East Side, Long Island City, Astoria, Roosevelt Island and the the southern tip of the Bronx all seemed to dissolve into a soup of steel pores and ashen light that the East River had become.  

I actually enjoy riding on a misty morning.  Perhaps it's because I have no choice but to focus on what's around, rather than ahead of, me.  

Where In The World Is Justine Valinotti?

If you're too old to be one of my grandchildren (as if I will ever have any!), you might remember a TV game show called Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego?  In it, the title character, who was the head of an international crime syndicate, would send one of her henchmen to steal a landmark.  (That gives new meaning to "Wanna buy a bridge?")  Contestants would use their knowledge of geography to track the thief from city to city and country to country.   The contestant with the most points would have a chance to capture Carmen Sandiego.  

Now, I am not involved with any crime syndicates--though I sometimes would say, "the Valinotti family" with, shall we say, just the right intonation.  (OK, now you know the real reason I never lost a fight!)  However, I will take over Ms. Sandiego's role and invite you to play "Where in the world is Justine Valinotti"?

Here's your first clue:

All right.  There are lots of places where you can see fog and low clouds enshrouding buildings.  So I'll give you another clue:

This house faces a park.  Said park isn't Central, Prospect, Fairmount, Greenwich or the Luxembourg Gardens. However, it's in a city that has a park designed by the same person who desgined the first three I mentioned and was inspired by the other two.

Now I'll give you another clue:

So you know I'm in a French-speaking city.  But it's not Paris, Toulouse or Dijon.  Or Geneva.  

OK, one more clue:

What French-speaking city might have a "Petite Italia"?  Probably not Saigon.  Or  Port-au-Prince. Cayenne:  I believe not.   Almost certainly not  Ouagadougou.  

So if not in France, Africa the Caribbean, or Southeast Asia, where am I?

By now, you've probably guessed where I am:

Athena, holding an announcement for a series of lectures in Montreal.

Oui, je suis en Montreal!  I arrived last night and checked into an interesting hotel run by an absolutely fabulous woman.  More about her, and the hotel, later.  

Since you're reading this blog, you're probably wondering whether I've used Bixi, this city's bike-share program. I haven't, mainly because I didn't ride at all. I was going to rent a bike today but decided against it because it was pouring when I woke up and the rest of the day was a series of drizzles, downpours and other variations of rain.  So I went to an art exhibit and gallery, shopped and ate unhealthy but tasty foods.

One of those foods was indeed poutine.  It's easy to see why it's one of the most emblematic foods of Quebec:  Few things feel better on a cold, rainy day.  Made with French fries and cheese curds smothered in brown gravy, it's also just the thing to eat when you want to thumb your nose at a sanctimonious, politically correct vegan you know.

I plan to rent a bike tomorrow and ride, sightsee and eat, not in any particular order.

I'll close this post with this, from the Place des Arts:

On the Sciences building of the Universite de Quebec a Montreal, images of Montreal's life, history and culture are projected onto the wall.  In the surrounding neighborhood --the Quartier des Spectacles, not far from Montreal Vieux and the old port of Montreal--there are all sorts of shows and plays of light

Leaving The Opposition In A Cloud Of Dust, Not Smoke

 Today’s post won’t relate directly to bicycles or cycling. I am, however, confident that many of you will find it relevant and interesting.

I can recall when a yellow fog filled coffee shops, department stores, subway station corridors and other public venues. Of course, almost none of us noticed it until it was gone.  

The first step in clearing shared air came exactly sixty years ago today.  Dr. Luther Terry made an announcement to a roomful of reporters: A longtime, wide-ranging study led him to conclude that smoking cigarettes causes cancer.

It may well have been the single most important announcement ever made by a U.S. Surgeon General. Smoking cigarettes was considered normal, even healthy, for adults. (Although I have never smoked, I gave cartons of Kools, Camels, Marlboros, Pall Malls and Viceroys as gifts for Christmas, birthdays and other occasions.) The tobacco industry was therefore much bigger than it is now, which is why Dr. Terry—himself a longtime smoker—made the announcement on a Saturday :  officials wanted to minimize the report’s effects on the stock market.

(On a related note, tobacco played a significant role in colonialism.)

Of course, Americans didn’t collectively drop their cigarettes once the report became public. But over a period of years, puffing, whether in a public or private, was pushed to the margins.  A year after the report came out, warnings were printed on cigarette packs; five years after that, television and radio ads for cigarettes were banned. During that time and afterward, entities from government agencies to real estate offices prohibited smoking on their premises.  Countless private citizens did so in their living spaces; cities forbade it in and around apartment buildings.

I’ve already mentioned one result—the disappearance of the yellow haze in public spaces—of the report and ensuing bans.  Another occurs to me now:  I rarely see an ashtray in anyone’s home, and never see them in public spaces. Also, it’s been a while since anyone asked me,”Mind if I smoke?”

For those of you who prefer empirical data to anecdotes, there’s this:  In 1965,  the year the Surgeon General’s warning began to appear on cigarette packs, nearly 42 percent of Americans aged 18 and older smoked; by 2018, that proportion had fallen by two-thirds, to just under 14 percent. (It climbed slightly during the pandemic.)

It’s estimated that the report and its effects have saved 8 million lives: nearly the population of my hometown of New York City.  Perhaps equally significant, that report precipitated a cultural change in which smoking is not as sociallly acceptable, let alone fashionable, as it once was.  And the anti-smoking campaign has spread throughout the industrialized world:  Even in France, where the image of a soigné sophisticate included a Gauloise or Gitane clasped with thumb and forefinger, cigarette packets bear the same stark warnings seen in other countries. And, during my most recent visit a year ago, I saw considerably less smoking—and clearer air in cafes and bistros—than I saw during earlier sojourns.

Oh, and I can’t recall the last time I saw a cyclist like an old riding buddy of mine who stopped at the bottom of any hill or ramp and lit up before starting his climb. And I don’t think a scene like this will ever be repeated during a race:

2016: It Never Ends

Now it is time to say "goodbye" to 2016.

A lot of people I know are glad to see this year end.  One reason is, of course, the Presidential election here in the US.   The day after the election, at the college in which I teach, a mournful, even funereal haze seemed to envelop the hallways and the surrounding neighborhood--which happens to be part of the poorest (of 435) Congressional District in the United States.  The atmosphere brought to mind the accounts I've read of the 1952 "Killer Fog" in London:  Students and faculty members, as well as people I saw shuffling along the Grand Concourse and 149th Street, seemed to have had the energy even to gasp for air sucked out of them.

But even Trump supporters (yes, I know a few of those!) seem happy to see this year end.  For one thing there were the deaths of great and merely famous people.  I haven't made a count, it does seem that more have left us during the past twelve months than in other years I can recall. Some, as sad as they were, weren't so surprising:  I'm thinking, for example of Elie Wiesel, who was an old (if still vibrant) man and Muhammad Ali, who had been deteriorating for decades.  But others, like Prince, George Michael and Carrie Fisher, took most of us by surprise.  Then there were the no-less-tragic deaths of people of whom we never would have heard save for the ways they died.  I am thinking, in particular, of Melissa Ann Fevig-Hughes, Suzanne Joan Sippel, Debra Bradley, Tony Nelson and Larry Paulik, all out for a late-day ride in Michigan when they were mowed down by an SUV driver who was charged with murder.

Also, even though many voted for Trump based on empty slogans and other rhetoric, misperceptions about what (if anything!) he actually represents or simply plain, flat-out lies they believed, they (at least the ones I know) are no less angry or disillusioned than they were before the election.  What I find interesting, and almost amusing, is that they sometimes talk about the "liberal" media lying to them about crime, immigration and other issues--and tell me (and probably others) that the "liberal" media disseminated lies and misinformation that, in fact, came from the lips of Trump or his troupe during the campaign.

Anyway, the election has come and gone.  So have some celebrated people.  But there was still much for which I am grateful and happy.  My work life has gone well.  I have been writing (apart from this blog!) and my students and I are moving forward (I believe) in my "day job".  As for my love life...Well, let's say I've had a semblance of it, without really trying.  I don't think I've met (or will meet) someone with whom I will spend the rest of my life.  But then again, I haven't been looking for anyone like that.

This year, though, has brought me reunions with a couple of old friends and the beginning of a reconciliation with an estranged relative.  And it--like the past couple of years--has brought me into contact with people, mainly through this blog, in other parts of the world.  Perhaps we will meet some day.

If we do, it might be on a bike ride.  Cycling, of course, has been one of the constants in my life for decades.  This year was no exception.  I did some rides I've done dozens, or even hundreds, of times before, and saw, heard, felt and thought what I couldn't have--or couldn't have even conceived--when I first started riding. I also did a couple of new rides I hope to do again and, of course, took a trip to Paris, where I spent many happy hours pedaling through valleys flanged by gray and beige stone building facades, and along pathways that cut through parks and line the canals.

Riding has been, this year and in others, not merely a means of escape or even transportation, although it has served those purposes.  It has, I now realize, taken on another interesting role in my life.  When I first became a dedicated cyclist, as a teenager in the 1970s, it was a kind of rebellion:  Other kids abandoned their Schwinn Varsities and Continentals, Raleigh Records and Grind Prixes and Peugeot U08s the moment they got their drivers' licences.  I continued to ride.  Then, in college, a lot of my fellow students rode their bikes to class or for errands, but not for any other purpose.  So, even though I wasn't consciously rebelling, I was seen as if I were--or, at least, as some sort of misfit (which I was, though in other ways).  

After college came a series of jobs and moves (including one to Paris).  I continued to ride, and the wind and vistas--whether of wide boulevards or narrow alleys, or of industrial soot turning to suburban sprawl and, finally, to orchards and fields of horses--or of seeing the ocean spreading itself before me after a couple of hours of pedaling--have all imprinted themselves on my consciousness.  In fact, I feel as if they are part of my body, intermingled with every ion and neuron in me.

In brief, my cycling started off as a kind of rebellion--conscious or not--but has become the very thing that has kept me from feeling alienated from the world around me and, most important, myself.  If I've learned nothing else this year, I feel that lesson--along with my riding, blogging, writing and experiences with people--have made this year worthwhile, even rewarding, amidst all of the pain and confusion in the world around me.

Into The Rain, In The Pink

Fog dissipated as I rode across the RFK Bridge this morning on my way to work.

The rest of the day has been overcast, if unseasonably warm.  Rain was promised for late in the day; I will probably pedal home in it.

My philosophy about raingear was best summed up by Robert Browning:  Less is more.   When it's warm, I simply wear as little as possible.  When it's a bit cooler, I try to keep at least my extremities dry.  I've learned I have a choice of getting wet from outside or within:  If I am uncovered, I will get drenched in the rain, but if I cover myself up, I'll bathe in my own sweat even when I'm wearing "breathable" raingear.

Now, if I want to be stylish, of course, I'll ride with an umbrella.  Believe it or not, it's something I've actually done:  umbrella in one hand, handlebar in the other.  I also saw it done in England and France.  Of course, pedaling with your parapluie in one hand is best done at slow speeds in places with light vehicular traffic.

But since riding with an umbrella is about style--or, at least, fashion--one's color choices are important.  

Thanks to "Sancycles" of Malabon, Philippines for that image.

A Ride To Glaciers And Fog

 Golfes d’ombre: E, candeur des vapeurs et des tentes,

Lance des glaciers fiers, rois blancs, frisson d’ombelles

So what did my Christmas Day ride have to do with Arthur Rimbaud’s poem about vowels—specifically, the lines about “E?”

Well, he likened the most-used vowel to the color white and used images of royalty and glaciers to convey the feeling of the sound and its character.

And, for a moment, I thought I was looking at a coastal glacier like the ones people see during cruises to Antarctica.

Of course, I was nowhere near the southern continent: I was on the South Shore of Long Island, and it wasn’t cold enough for even a white Christmas, let alone a glacier.

So I did another Point Lookout ride before spending Christmas evening with friends.  Then on the holiday we don’t celebrate in the US—Boxing Day—I took a late-afternoon ride to Fort Totten. It’s just past the Throgs* Neck Bridge, which spans the meeting-point of the East River and Long Island Sound. 

The convergence of those bodies of water, and the way Queens, Westchester and  Nassau counties, curve around it, probably made it a strategic point and the reason the Fort was built. (The Army Reserve still uses a small part of it; the rest was decommissioned and became the park it is today.) The differences between the currents of those two bodies of water and the terrain that surrounds them may account for the interesting light that illuminates —and fogs that shroud—the area.

So, my Christmas rides treated me to different kinds of lights, including the ones people strung along their trees and homes.

*-The Throgs Neck Bridge connects Fort Totten, in the Queens neighborhood of Bayside, with tbe Bronx enclave of Throggs Neck (the locale of the New York Maritime Academy) I don’t know why the name of the bridge is spelled with one “g” while the Bronx neighborhood gets two.