Where In The World Is Justine Valinotti? Not In San Diego, That's For Sure!

Where in the world is Justine Valinotti?

You never know what worlds she’ll find when she leaves a gated community:

She might encounter all sorts of dangers.

Hey, she might even go to San Francisco!

She gets giddy and her imagination into overdrive and she starts talking about herself in the third person when she does crazy things—like seeing how many hills she can climb on her fixed-gear bike.

Don’t ask what possessed her to do that.  The sky was clear, the day was warm (though not overly so) and the humidity was low.  So we can’t blame the weather.

Maybe it has something to do with getting a new bike.  She’s waiting on a couple of accessories, and it will be complete.

So where was Justine Valinotti?  She wasn’t in San Diego, that’s for sure.

She took the first photo at City College in Harlem.

The “tiger” reigns over a community garden in a vest-pocket park at the end of Convent Avenue, a few blocks from the City College gate.

The downhill street is actually in North Bergen, New Jersey.  Yes, she went to all of those places today, on her bike.

Edvard Munch Comes Along For The Ride

Poor Edvard Munch.  People like me take a couple of Art History classes in college, and all we remember of him is one painting.

And that is the work I recalled when I came across this during my ride today:

Now, I don’t know much about his life.  So what I’m about to say is pure conjecture.  Somehow, because he painted “The Scream,” I don’t think he would have been averse to seeing something like this:

It’s a photo I took by the World’s Fair Marina, which is near Citi Field and LaGuardia Airport.  I saw that scene on my way home from Manhasset, in Nassau County, where my ride took me today. 

Why do I say he could enjoy that scene because he painted the scream?  Well, when I think of Munch, I can’t help but to think of another famous Norwegian who lived during his time:  Henrik Ibsen.  I think that Ibsen, because he was the sort of person who could so vividly portray hypocrisy and despair so well in his art, craved something better.  Literally and figuratively, the bleakness of the northern winter he portrayed made him crave the sun, if you will.  So it’s no surprise that after he wrote A Doll’s House, he spent most of the rest of his life in Italy.

I think Ibsen and Munch would have appreciated this, too:

However, I’m not so sure they would have wanted to accompany me on my ride.  In their day, cyclists rode “high-wheelers,” which could make even the slightest crack in the ground seem as if it had its own ZIP code and telephone exchange.  The streets in eastern Queens, near the Nassau county line, were more like washboards in some spots.

Anyway, it was still a nice ride at the end of a nice day.  Who could ask for more?

(The “scream” photo was taken at International Meat Market on 30^th Avenue in Astoria.)

My Philosophy (of Building Bikes, Anyway)

Velouria asked a very interesting question:  How and why do I make the choices I make when I build a bike?


In brief, I like both form and function.  I don't strive for a "retro" look, as I've found that trying to re-create the past--in any area of my life, not just cycling--usually doesn't work very well.  But it just happens that many, if not the majority, of the bikes and parts that appeal to me aesthetically are from, or inspired by, the past.


And there are some "retro" parts that, for me, actually work better than their modern counterparts.  First among them are steel frames.  All of my bikes are built on them.  I've had aluminum bikes and have never liked the ride, much less the looks, of them.  I've ridden, but never owned, carbon fiber bikes and have ridden carbon fiber forks on my own steel or aluminum bikes (though I don't ride any now).  They are light and, yes, I would ride carbon bikes if I were racing and someone were going to buy me a new one every year.  Which brings me to one of the reasons why I won't buy one: The hard-training, high-mileage riders who ride them seem to replace them every year or two.  As a writer and college instructor, I can't afford that!  


Plus, I don't care much for the way carbon fiber bikes look. 


Anyway...When it comes to components, probably the most "retro" things I like are downtube shifters, handbuilt wheels (as opposed to factory-built wheels) and pedals with toe clips and straps.  For me, they seem to be the most practical options.  


 Downtube shifters are much less expensive than STI or Ergo or any other "all-in-one" brake/gear levers.  So, if you take a tumble, you're unlikely to even scratch your downtube levers, and if you trash a normal brake lever, you can replace it for $20 as opposed to $200.


 Plus, I was riding downtube shifters long before the "all in one" levers came out.  And I ride friction (non-indexed) shifter.  Back in the day, that was the only option.  When you use it, you don't have to worry about parts compatibility as much as you do if you use indexed shifters.  My favorite of the old downtube shifters were the Simplex retrofrictions, which were also, to my eye, the prettiest shifters ever made. 

 I don't use them now because they seem not to work with more than seven speeds in the rear, and even seven is not an optimal setup for them.  On Arielle, I ride Dia Compe "Silver" shifters, which are more or less replicas of the old Sun Tour Micro ratchet shifters.  And on my Miss Mercian, I have an old Sun Tour bar-end shifter.  


I have owned and ridden the high-end pre-built wheels (e.g., Mavic Ksyriums and Heliums) and while they're light and, for the most part, of high quality, they take all sorts of non-standard parts like straight-pull spokes.  Replacements are therefore expensive, require special tools and sometimes can be difficult to find, in part because those parts are usually proprietary.  And some wheels, like the  type that were made by Spinergy, cannot be trued or otherwise worked on.  You wreck one of those, you toss it out.

If you have a wheel built from high-quality components by someone who knows what he or she is doing (or if you do it yourself), you are likely to have a wheel that lasts longer and can be worked on as needed.  Plus, parts like spokes are readily available and much less expensive.  On my Mercians, I have Phil Wood hubs, Mavic Open Pro Rims and DT spokes.  And my LeTour has wheels with Formula/Origin 8 hubs (a "flip-flop" freewheel/fixed gear in the rear) , Sun CR-18 rims and DT spokes.


And, after riding clipless for about twenty years, I went back to clips a few years ago.  I simply like the option of riding whichever shoes I'm wearing.  Also, I tend to wreck pedals, and clippable pedals are much less expensive than clipped ones.  I also tended to wear out cleats pretty quickly, which isn't an issue with traditional pedals.


At the same time, I ride modern components when they are clearly better than the older alternatives.  Three of the best examples I can think of are derailleurs, casettes and brakes.  Even the least expensive derailluers available today shift more accurately and smoothly than even the best of the older derailleurs, and moderately-priced dual-pivot brakes with Mathauser Kool-Stop salmon-colored brake pads are more powerful and provide better modulation than any older brake, and are about as powerful as cantilevers.  


As for cassettes:  If you are riding seven or more gears in the rear, they are much better than spin-on freewheels.  They provide more support for the cogs, which means less stress on the hub axle.  For the couple of years that eight-speed spin-on freewheels were made, bent and broken rear axles became more common.


That said, I use eight speeds. It provides a wide selection of gears, and the chains for them tend to last longer.  The more gears you have in the rear, the thinner your chain needs to be.


Of course, if you ride a fixed or single speed, you don't have to think about these issues.


Now, I like the look of many older "quill" stems.  However, having taken some long tours, I came to value the practicality of threadless headsets, especially after having a threaded headset come loose in the middle of the Massif Central, many kilometers from the nearest bike or auto repair shop.  To adjust a threaded headset, you need one or two large wrenches, which are not practical to carry.  On the other hand, you need only a five or six millimeter allen key to adjust a threadless headset.  And there are simply more threadless heasets and stems available.


Now, one area where I let form rule over function is in bike bags.  I much prefer the looks of canvas bags to their nylon or cordura counterparts, even though canvas bags are usually heavier.  But they also have another benefit in that they tend to last longer and are more adaptible.  Too many modern bags require special proprietary hardware and accessories to mount them.


As for aesthetics: For the most part, I prefer lugged frames, although filet brazing is often quite nice, and I've seen some pretty artful TIG welds.   I also prefer silver components. Polished silver is nice, but anodizing is all right, too.  Either way, silver looks classier than black or neon colors in most components. I'm not dogmatic about that, though, as you may have noticed from looking at my bikes:  I have black rims (with machined sidewalls) and black chainrings with silver cut-outs.  But in most other parts, I prefer silver.


So...I know that almost anyone who reads this will dispute at least one thing I've said.  That is your right.  But just remember that your riding experiences probably differ from mine.  I used to race, but I haven't in years.  And I've literally lived on my bike, and I live with them, so I tend to choose accordingly.  Finally, you may simply have tastes that are different from mine.  Chacun a son gout.

The Development of Miss Mercian

The new bike is coming along.  Today I went to Bicycle Habitat because they didn’t have any more one-inch headset spacers.  I had a few in my parts box.  From them, Hal was able to set the stem up to a good height.

Tomorrow I’m going back for to set the seat and handlebar positions, and Hal will tune up whatever else needs it.

The only disappointment so far is that the chainguard I wanted to use won’t work.  It’s beautiful…but, alas! 

(The above photo is from a February posting of Lovely Bicycle.) 

I guess I’ll be selling that chainguard, or trading it for something.  But everything else looks great, so far.  I might just do without a chainguard because the only truly effective kind is a full chaincase, which can’t be used with a derailleur.

Other shop employees and customers were admiring the bike.  When they found out that it’s mine, they all said, “Lucky you!” or words to that effect.

I rode the LeTour to Habitat, mainly because I didn’t want to change out of the sundress I’d been wearing.  It fell to my calves and isn’t tight.  But, surprisingly, I had more difficulty mounting and riding the LeTour, which has a mixte frame, than I had in riding on my diamond-framed fixed gear bike in a skirt and boots when the weather was colder.  Then again, the skirt was  shorter than the dress and, I think, flared a bit more than the dress does.  Plus, while the material in the dress is thin, it doesn’t have any stretch or “give.”   So I have to "hike" it to mount even the Le Tour.

The dress is a green print.  I have a feeling it will look better on the Miss Mercian, anyway. ;-)

A Fast Food Phantom Picnic In My Basket

I’m really glad to have baskets on the LeTour.  However, I never planned for them to be used this way:

I am torn.  On one hand, I am upset because, of all of the fast-food trash one could leave, the litterbug who found my bike had to leave White Castle’s.  On the other hand, the colors and graphics go very well with the bike.

The next time I park the bike on the street, I’ll leave a note that says, “No Dumping, Or I’ll Dump On You”—or something like that.

Miss Mercian Arrives

So…The day after I crossed state lines to ride my bike, I’m rewarded for my bad behavior.

My next bike has arrived.  The Miss Mercian I ordered back in February arrived at Bicycle Habitat.  Hal Ruzal, Habitat’s longtime mechanic and Mercian maven, has just unpacked it for me:

He wanted to leave it wrapped so it won’t get dinged if someone decides to move it.  It’s funny:  A frame is actually at more risk of marring when it hasn’t yet been built up. 

The finish is the same as on Arielle and Tosca, my other two Mercians .  My new bike will have many of the same components as those other bikes (e.g., King headset, Phil Wood hubs, Mavic Open Pro Rims, DT spokes).  However, the lady will sport “porteur” handlebars rather than the dropped bars on my other Mercians.  It will also have fenders and a rack, which my other Mercians don’t have.  Also, I will ride it with wider (700 X32 C) tires.

Getting a new bike is always exciting.  However, this one is special for me because it’s my first nice ladies’/mixte frame.  And I think of it as a birthday present to myself, even if that seems a bit self-indulgent. 

Finally, it’s my first new bike since my surgery.  And my three Mercians were all purchased in my life as Justine.  So, in a sense, they’re all mine in a way that none of my previous bikes, however good, were.

Crossing Another State Line From Memory

Is Arielle inspiring wanderlust in me?  Or does she have it all on her own, and does she merely take me along for the ride?

Today we crossed another state line.  So that makes two-- Pennsylvania two weeks ago, when I rode to the Delaware Water Gap, and Connecticut today—since my surgery.

Going to New Jersey doesn’t count.  Not really.  Or does it?  We New Yorkers sometimes say that Jersey is a foreign country.  I wonder whether the Brits say that about the eponymous island in the English Channel.  Although it’s a semi-independent part of Great Britain, it’s actually much closer to France and has a language--Jerriais-- that bears more resemblance to French than it does to English.

Then again, lots of people would like to think of anyplace where Snooki would live as a country different from their own. Otherwise, they’d start campaigns to deport her.

Anyway, I started my ride by crossing the RFK Memorial (nee Triboro) Bridge to Randall’s Island and the Bronx, through neighborhoods where women don’t ride bikes.  I made a wrong turn somewhere north of Fordham Road and ended up on a highway and riding a square around the perimeter of the Botanical Gardens.  From there, I managed to find my way to Westchester County.

For someone who lives in New York, I really don’t spend much time in Westchester County.  Occasionally a ride will take me to Yonkers or Mount Vernon, both of which are just over the city line from the Bronx.  But I never have felt much inclination to explore the rest of the county.

Part of the reason might be that my first experience of cycling in Westchester County came the year after I came back from living in France.  That in itself can make Westchester, and lots of places, seem like a comedown.  (I think now of the time I ate a particularly bad take-out dinner the day after returning from a cycling trip through the Pyrenees and the Loire Valley!) But I first entered Westchester County on a bike near the end of a cycling trip from Montreal to New Jersey, where I was living at the time.  I had cycled through some nice Quebec countryside, the Vermont shore of Lake Champlain and the Berkshires before entering New York State near the point where it borders on Massachusetts and Connecticut. 

That night, I slept in a cemetery that was in or near the town of Austerlitz, NY.  It was a clear, moonlit and pleasantly cool evening.  I had no idea (and wouldn’t find out until the next day) where I was, and I had almost no money left.  So I simply rolled out my sleeping bag.   I slept fine:  There was absolutely nothing to disturb me.  And I guess I was a good neighbor.

After all that, Westchester County seemed like just a place with lots of big houses and lawns and a bunch of golf courses.  It wasn’t bad; it was just a bit of a letdown, I guess.

Later, Westchester would become the place where friends of Eva, Elizabeth and Tammy lived.  And all of those friends didn’t like me, or so it seemed.  Going to their homes felt a bit like going to the in-laws’ or to a relative of one of your parents—and that relative didn’t like your other parent, and saw you as his/her child.

Fortunately, I didn’t think about any of those things today.  I didn’t see as many houses that seemed like ostentatious versions of houses the owners saw on their European trips as I recall seeing in previous treks through the county.  And, when I stopped in a gas station/convenience store for a bottle of iced tea, I saw the friendliest and most polite attendant I have seen in a long time.  He’s from Liberia.

I hadn’t started out with the intention of going to Connecticut.  But after stopping at the gas station/convenience store, I realized that I wasn’t far from the Mamaroneck harbor.  So I rode there, along a fairly meandering road where two drivers pulled over to ask me whether I knew how to get to the Westchester Mall.  It’s funny:  People assume that because you’re on a bike, you live nearby and are familiar with the area.

From Mamaroneck, I took another road that zigged and zagged toward and away from the shore of Long Island Sound to Rye.  There, I knew that I wasn’t far from Connecticut, so I continued along the road to Port Chester, the last town before the border.

I only took a few photos, and none of them came out well.  But that part of the ride was pleasant, even charming at times.  Then, after crossing the state line, I ventured up the road into downtown Greenwich.  I’d have gone further, but I started later than I intended to and didn’t particularly want to ride the last few miles of my trip in the dark.  I’m not adverse to night riding; I just didn’t feel like doing it tonight.

In Greenwich, about half a mile from the state line, there’s an Acura dealer.  Just up the road from it is an Aston Martin/Bentley dealer, and a bit further up the road are a BMW, then a Mercedes, dealership.  So, I’m guessing that the annual per-capita income of that town is probably not much less than I’ve made in my entire life.

On my way back, I rode down Huguenot Avenue.  It’s in Little Rock.  Actually, it’s in  New Rochelle, a town founded by the people for whom the avenue is named. (The town is named for La Rochelle, the French port from which most of them sailed.  “Rochelle” means “little rock.”)  If any of you recall The Dick Van Dyke show, which featured a young Mary Tyler Moore, you’re old.  Seriously, you might remember that the show took place in New Rochelle.  The town has changed a bit since then, as you can see from new structures like this:

It connects the local Trump Tower (How many of those things are there?) with another building on the other side of the Avenue.  I wonder whether cyclists are allowed to ride in it.

Assembling the Pieces

Whenever I visit my parents in Florida, I see people riding "adult trikes."  They're different from the three-wheelers some of us rode as toddlers because the adult versions have chain-and-sprocket drives, just like almost any other adults' bike, while most toddler trikes have cranks that are attached to the axle of the front wheel.  And, of course, the versions some of us rode before we could balance two wheels are smaller than the ones one sees in the retirement communities.


Most of the adult trikes also have baskets, or some other sort of carrier, between the two rear wheels.  Those bikes are something like this:

However, what this man is riding didn't start off as one of those bikes men in golf hats pedal around artificial ponds.  Rather, it was once the sort of balloon-tired bike many kids--including, perhaps, you, dear reader--rode during the 1950's and early 1960's.  Some were quite elegant, in their own ways.  Some others made conscious efforts to emulate the "streamlining" of the vessels made during the automobile's baroque era/the space program's early days.  


I tried to get the man to stop and tell me how he put the bike together.  But he didn't hear me or didn't want to talk.  Given that he was porting something in his rear basket, he may well have been in the middle of some appointed round or another.  Having been a bike messenger, I understand how he might have felt.


My guess is that the rear wheels and axles came from some kind of bicycle pushcart.  When I was a kid, Good Humor ice cream and other things were sold from them in Prospect Park and other large public spaces.  Or the parts may have come from a regular pushcart or vendor's wagon.   Whatever went into that bike, making it was certainly a creative endeavor.


Here in New York, one can see all sorts of odd, interesting and sometimes scary permutations of bikes and parts.  Nearly all of them are contraptions I would never think of riding myself, much less putting together. Then again, I've been fortunate enough to have worked in bike shops and to have found ways to gather the means necessary to put together the sorts of bikes I've wanted.  (I can't remember the last time I bought a new complete bike; I've either bought frames I've built up or have bought--or was given, or found-- used bikes that I've modified.) I have custom bikes and others I've modified, but bikes like the one in the photo are unique in ways that I never could imagine.


They make me think of some of the ways people take whatever they find and use them to create, or at least assemble, something that suits (more or less, sometimes) their needs and whims.


So, perhaps, it's no surprise that they should remind me of how languages are formed and how literature and other creative forms of expression come to be.  Much about the "product" may not make sense to those who had nothing to do with creating it or who don't use it.  It doesn't make any sense that a word that sounds like "thru" could be spelled "through" or "threw" until we realize where each of the words--and the combinations of sounds and letters that comprise them--came from. 


English, like most living languages, was assembled from bits and pieces of other languages and other kinds of sounds in an attempt to communicate as e ffectively as possible in the environment in which it was created.  Dialects and other variants of the languages come from the grafting of still other pieces in an attempt to portray realities that previous speakers didn't encounter.  The kid who first rode the bike that became the trike in the photo probably never rode a poorly-paved street in an urban area or had to carry much beyond his or her bookbag to school.  But the man riding the trike contends with those realities.  He probably doesn't have much money, so he (or whoever put the bike together) used whatever could be found that could be made to do the job.  In the process,  some of those parts were altered; on some bikes, things might be altered beyond recognition.


That's not so different from what's happened to all those words we use every day but are pronounced differently--and might mean entirely different things--from the way they were used by those who first used them. Something similar happens to music.  Listen to Julie Andrews' My Favorite Things, then hear what John Coltrane did with it and you'll better understand what I mean.


When I was young and broke (as opposed to merely poor), I assembled a couple of bikes from what was available to make those bikes work in ways and under conditions the makers and orginal owners may not have envisioned.   I have also made meals, put together outfits and, yes, written reports and even poems in a similar way.  And, as you might've guessed, I was doing something similar, in a way, when I tried to explain how I feel to members of my family and friends, not to mention doctors and others from whom I sought help.  I pulled together various words and other expressions, images, metaphors and other ephemeral intellectual and emotional flotsam to convey something that would be as new a reality to them as it was for me when I first understood it about myself.


To be one's self and to master, rather than to be subsumed by, one's environment is itself a creative act.  So is making whatever is necessary in order to be able to function in the situations one encounters.  Whoever built the bike in the photo did exactly that.


I'd love to know what that person would do with this:

The Lone Cyclist

Yesterday I took a short and totally un-noteworthy ride locally through some local streets between my place and the World’s Fair Marina.   And I finally got the new phone –and phone plan—I’ve needed. 

Today, ironically, I found myself thinking—and talking—about cycling even though I didn’t ride and I spent the afternoon with my parents, who aren’t cyclists in any way, shape or form.

I met them at a place incongruously called Airport Plaza.  For years, it was the first stop for the bus that runs from the Port Authority Terminal, at the western end of Times Square, to the Jersey Shore.  Airport Plaza is one of those shopping plazas—It’s too old and small to be called a mall—that always looked rather forlorn and even a bit dusty even when business was booming.  It always seems to be filled with stores that started a couple of years too late and seem to hang on for a year or two longer than they should.  The Wetson’s restaurant that anchored one end of the plaza during the first few years my family lived in New Jersey may well have been the last of a chain that lost out to McDonald’s, Burger King and Wendy’s about thirty-five years ago.

When Mom and Dad were living in Middletown, I occasionally took the bus I took today, and got off at Airport Plaza.  Other times, I pedaled to their house and spent a night or weekend with them.  When I was at Rutgers, the ride was about thirty or thirty-five miles, depending on which route I took; from New York, I’d pedal about fifty miles by the time I saw them.

Usually, I’d detour a bit through the areas just on the other side of Route 36 from Airport Plaza.  They were webs of streets that paralleled, skirted or ended at Sandy Hook Bay. 

Those streets wove through the towns of Keyport, Keansburg and a section of Middletown that used to be called East Keansburg, but is now called North Middletown.  They were Bruce Springsteen country before anyone heard of him:  Streets lined with houses that were everything from tidy to shabby, depending on the amount of money and time the blue-collar families that inhabited them could or would devote to their care.  Not even the best of them would have been considered for Architectural Digest; the worst looked like somewhat bigger and better versions of the shacks seen in rural Appalachia.

And, yes, it seemed that at any given moment, at least half of the late-teenaged and young adult males were torquing wrenches or strumming guitars or pounding drums in the garages of those houses.  Then, as now, American flags rolled and spilled in the breeze in front of many of the houses; some also had banners for whichever branch of the military in which the fathers or sons served.  Many of those houses also had boats and trailers parked in their driveways. 

In those days, I used to enjoy pedaling along that stretch of the shoreline because the views were actually quite nice and because, in those houses and the people who lived in them, there was an utter lack of pretention—even though I knew most of those people would disagree with me on just about everything. 

Also, while some of those people would swim, sail or do any number of other things in the water, they did not turn it into a commodity.  There was no status in living closer to the water.  So, riding along it was a calming experience.

Oddly enough, it was during those rides that I could most readily imagine myself living as a girl and, later, a woman.  The artist/romantic in me says it had something to do with the waters of the bay and the billowing sails on the boats.  What’s really strange, though, is that I could feel as I did in an environment that could be fairly called “redneck.” 

Along the shoreline, multistory condo buildings and stores have replaced the older one-and two-story, some of which, in their splintered and peeling condition,  looked as if they’d been left there by the tides.

Mom, Dad and I had lunch in Ye Cottage Inn, a restaurant that, so far, has survived the changes.  But, even though it’s been updated and has some nice views from its windows, I have to wonder whether it will survive the changes I’ve described.  The food was pretty good, if unexciting.

The place was about a third full, which, I guess, isn’t bad for a Thursday.  However, about half the people eating there were part of the same group of senior women who seemed to be having their “girls’ lunch.”  And I was the youngest person eating in that restaurant.

Not that I mind older people.  Back in the days when I was riding down that way, I used to enjoy talking with two of my mother’s friends.  In fact, I preferred them to nearly all of my peers. 

But most of the people one sees in that area are very old or very young.  Those shoreline condos are, I’m sure, full of commuters who are young.  There is a ferry nearby that goes to the Wall Street area, so they probably don’t see much of the town besides their condos and the ferry.  When those young execs and execs-in-training are promoted, decide to have families or have some other life-changing event.  Will they stay?  And when those old people die, who will replace them?

Finally…Will anybody there take up cycling?  Although some of the streets are very cyclable, I cannot recall having seen, besides me,  anyone but very young children on bicycles.

If I pedal down there once again, will I be the Lone Cyclist?

Blood Under My Cleats

"Le sang coule dans les rues..."


Yes, I've ridden my bike in Paris--but not in 1572 or 1789 or 1871.  So I never got to see blood running in the streets, at least not in the City of Light.  


However, I did see blood running on the streets--and sidewalks--here:

To be precise, it was underneath the viaduct that I saw a thick crimson current.  Back in those days, the street scene looked more like this:

And one could see things that would turn him or her into a vegetarian on the spot:

I found this photo, and the one before it, on one of my favorite websites:  Forgotten NY.  The neighborhood shown in these photos is the Meatpacking District.  Ironically, it's now home to some of the trendiest shops and cafes in the city, as any fan of Sex and the City knows.


I rode down there today.  Actually, my doctor's office is a few blocks away and, after having my blood drawn, I ended my fast in the nearby park with tea and a corn muffin from The Donut Pub.  (I also bought a cherry donut for later in the day. I guarantee you that if you ever go there, you'll never even look at a Krispy Kreme again!)  


Fortunately, I didn't see any animal offal before or after consuming my impromptu brunch.  But, as I rode, I recalled a time when I was riding back from New Jersey.  Just after I got off the Staten Island Ferry, it began to rain.  The rain grew heavier as I pedalled up West Street and, finally, when I could barely see where I was going, I ducked underneath the viaduct you saw in the first photo.


I had just begun to ride with Look road pedals.  Those of you who ride them know that those cleats, like most road racing cleats, aren't made for walking.  I unclipped my left foot and touched down on the sidewalk--actually, in a pool of blood on the sidewalk.


The cleat at the bottom of my shoe was nearly smooth and flat.  It could just as well have been covered with grease.  My foot slid out from under me and I landed on my side--in another pool of animal blood.  When I got back up, I saw that my left side was covered with it, and it had spattered me on the front.  


Being covered with blood that is not your own is disconcerting enough. But what really upset me was that it ruined my favorite jersey I owned at the time:  a replica of the one Bernard Hinault and Greg Le Mond wore in the 1985 Tour de France.

In those days, I was skinny and could get away with wearing it!  


When the rain let up, I continued riding.  Eva had been visiting some friend of hers who didn't like me, and I didn't expect her to be back at the apartment when I arrived.  


"What the hell happened to you?"


All I could do was laugh.  Trying to explain it made me laugh even harder.  Soon, she couldn't help herself, either.  And, in one of the nicer surprises of the time we were together, she actually bought me a replacement for it.   


Every once in a while, she'd go for a ride with me.  I can guarantee you, though, that we never went to the Meat Packing District.  And we never walked or rode on the viaduct--which,in those days, never looked like this:

Now it's called The High Line.  It's supposedly inspired by the Viaduc des Arts in Paris, which, like the High Line, is an abandoned railway.  The High Line does have some nice flora and fauna tucked in among cafes that serve hundred dollar plates of spaghetti.  And   cycling isn't allowed on it.


Back in the day, one might have seen something like this on the Line:

When I was young (believe it or not!), the New York Central, which gave its name to Grand Central Station, was the second largest railroad in the country.  The Pennsylvania Railroad, for which Penn Station was named, was the largest. (It was once the largest company of any kind.)  But they, like most American railroads after World War II, were in decline.  So, someone had the bright idea of combining them into a company that would be "too big to fail".  The marriage was consummated, so to speak, in 1968; it lasted all but two years.  When Penn Central failed, it caused a crash on Wall Street and nearly brought down the US economy with it.


I know, banks and brokerage houses are different.  But you'd think that among all of those people with fancy degrees, someone would've remembered at least that much economic history.


After I finished my corn muffin and tea, I continued riding.  At least that's one thing nobody forgets how to do.  And there was no blood to clean afterward!