Bike Porn and Stuff I See From My Bike

I know that some cyclists' blogs include "bike porn."  I don't know that mine does.  If I have any kind of porn in this blog, I'd say that it's of land- and sea-scapes, skylines and people who may or may not have known that I photographed them.  


Perhaps the following photo doesn't qualify as any of the kinds of porn I've described.  But I did take some sort of perverse pleasure in taking it:

Aside from the actual or non-porn, there are things I see.  I'm trying not to turn this blog into Stuff I See When I'm Riding My Bike, but it may be going that way in spite of my efforts.  Here's an example of the genre, specifically something I saw yesterday:

To take a photo of this car without the light pole in it, I would have had to risk being flattened by the traffic.  I want to be skinnier than I am now, but that's not the way I had in mind.


At first glance, I thought I was looking at a Renault that had been left on a radiator.  Or, at least the front had been left there.  I rather liked the color--a shade of orange rather like a dusty vermilion.

Now, what the car was doing in front of a service station in Glendale, Queens, I'll never know.  I know that there are Polish and Albanian communities nearby, but not very many Romanians, as far as I know.  (Where are there very many Romanians outside of Romania?)  Even if Queens were full of emigres from Bucharest, I doubt there are very many who would have taken the trouble--or had the means--to bring a Dacia from their native land.


I did some quick research (translation:  I read a Wikipedia page) and learned that Dacia was founded during the 1960's with assistance from Renault.  Hmm...Romania gave France one of its best twentieth-century playwrights (Eugene Ionesco) and the French started their auto industry.  Who got the better of that trade?


Anyway, Dacia are still making cars.  In a not-too-surprising twist of fate, Renault bought the company.  The French automaker saw a growing market in the former Communist-bloc countries, and believed that Romania would make a good base of operations for their incursions into that market.  (Renault also makes cars in Turkey, among other places.)  


Now, while I'm out riding my bike and filling my brain with stuff that I'll turn into pointless ruminations, other people are slaving away over hot grills.

I've mentioned these guys on other posts in this and my other blog.  They make a chicken-and-rice platter to die for.  I'm not the only one who feels that way:  Once again, they won the "Vendy" award:

All I can say is that in the majority of the world, and through the majority of history, art is and has been utilitarian.

Cycling The November Sky

Here's what makes a November sky different from its October counterpart--or, for that matter, what we think of as a "fall" or "autumn" sky, or what stretches above and in front of us at any other time of year. The clouds are exactly that--clouds.  Even as they shift across the sky and reveal patches of blue backlit by the sun, like a skylight in a Romanesque cathedral, they fill the sky in layers, to the point that they seem to become the sky itself, and to define not only the light, but the wind and chill that come from it.


However, there is absolutely no threat of rain, or any other kind of precipitation.  One can feel just as confident of cycling under this sky as among Shakespeare's "darling buds of May" and not having one's skin moistened by anything that wasn't within his or her own body.  (Whether or how much one sweats depends, of course, on one's conditioning and the strenuousness of the ride.  Mine today wasn't very. )  The best thing about cycling under these conditions, at least to me, is that the light is nothing more or less than that:  it's not the glaring sunlight that taxes light eyes and fair skins (like mine) and it's not diffuse or "painterly," as much as I appreciate and even enjoy that sort of illumination.


This is the sort of light that makes the things--like foliage--that were described with "fall" as prefixes attached to them in October become autumnal in the truest sense of that word.

This may seem odd to some of you, but I find none of this depressing.  In fact, I quite enjoy it.   Now I'm going to sound like exactly the Europhile (or, more specifically, Francophile) snob some of the people with whom I grew up suspected me of being, or having become.  I think that autumnality or autumnalness (OK, if Sarah Palin can compare herself to Shakespeare, surely you can indulge me in this!)  is not much respected, much less valued or celebrated, in American culture.  I suppose it has to do with the notion that this country is supposed to be a place where one can start over and re-invent one's self, and its attendant value of youthfulness and novelty.  The mature sexuality of French or Italian women or the ironic sense of the English--or, for that matter, the ability to accept life on its own terms while questioning one's self that seems to be part of a Germanic way of seeing--is not valued in the same way in America as that of youthful effusiveness and ebullience.


The quality of autumnalness I'm describing is what you might see in western New England if you get off Route 7, or if you take the back roads of the Adirondacks or the routes departmentales of the Vosges.  I have done all of those things, on my bicycle; perhaps having done them in my youth shaped, in some way, my attitudes about cycling and much else in my life.


Will it lead me to be like this couple?:

They say that in the spring a young man's fancy turns to love.  As if I would know about such things!  But at this time of year, an older man's and, ahem, woman's fancies turn to...wait, do they have fancies?   And if they do, will they be realized under this sky?:

I suspect that some of mine will be.  However, I am sure that I will continue to encounter them, as I did today, from my trusty steed for all seasons:

In The Family

Got up late this morning to more rain.  Still felt sleepy throughout the day.  I have an excuse:  lack of REMs during the past three days.  Hopefully, I'll feel better and will be on my bike tomorrow.


I was just "flipping" through some photos I took.  Nobody'll confuse my work with that of Henri-Cartier Bresson, but I have a couple of pictures I like.  Here's one I took a couple of weeks ago when I was riding on the Rockaway Boardwalk:

It was interesting to see the two boys with their mother.  A woman I knew--a former co-worker--who used to live out that way sometimes rode with her daughters along that boardwalk.  I accompanied them a couple of times; I enjoyed the company of the mother and her daughters.  And, they turned out to be better cyclists than I'd anticipated.  


I can recall a few other times when I've seen mothers riding with daughters, or with their husbands and kids. However, I don't think I've ever seen a woman cycling with her boys, but not her husband or daughters, if she had them.  On the other hand, when I've seen boys on tricycles or bicycles with training wheels, the adult who was watching over them was a female--usually the mother, from what I could tell.  I've seen fathers or other adult males riding with young boys, but never accompanying or supervising them as the woman in the photo did.  


As I remember, my mother and grandmother took me to the park or watched over me as I toddered along the sidewalks in our neighborhood.  Those memories are sunny.  That's most likely because we went out only on nice days.


But neither they nor my father, or any other relatives, rode with me--at least as best as I can recall.  To be fair, almost no adults rode bikes in those days, at least in the US.  And, as I now realize, my parents may not have had enough money to buy bikes for themselves.  After all, the bikes I rode as a kid were gifts or hand-me-downs.  Worst of all, they were very busy, and thus very tired, so much of the time.


How involved were your family members in your childhood and adolescent cycling experiences?

To Ride or Not To Ride To Work In The Cold Rain

I woke up very early this morning, as I have been on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  Although it was warm in my apartment, I could feel the chill in the air outside my window as I heard the rain thumping against the awning next door.  


Riding in the rain is one thing.  Riding in rain and cold is another.  Starting to ride in the rain and cold is less appealing still.  I realized there is yet another category for the kind of rain we had today:  grayness, almost pure grayness, dropping through the chilled air and bringing down brightly colored leaves that are turning have turned into shades of rust, and soon will return to ashes and dust.


If I'd been on my bike as the day broke, I suppose it all could have been pretty, if in a rather melancholy way.  I could have worn my raingear and changed clothes at work.  But I decided not to.  For one thing, with the health problems I've had recently, I didn't want to take any unnecessary risks.  For another, it simply wouldn't have been a whole lot of fun, especially in a couple of places where the drivers can be pretty whacky.  Why do agressive risk-takers become even more aggressive and live even more dangerously when the rain slicks the roads.  At least, they seem to.  

In the end, though, I simply don't care to start riding under the conditions I saw this morning, and throughout the day.  It's one thing if I get on the bike when I know that there's a risk that I'll encounter bad weather.  Sometimes I'll take that chance.  But to start riding in the kind of weather we had today is simply not too enjoyable and, frankly, isn't going to make a big difference in my conditioning, such as it is right now.

Typical Commute--And Commuter?

Sometimes I'm happy to have an early a.m. class.  Those sometimes are almost always on days when I pedal to work.  Now I'm on my bike just before sunrise; soon I will be getting in the saddle in the dark.  Until then, I can enjoy sights like this:

I saw tree from the corner of my eye as I turned from the cinderblock sprawl of Lefrak City onto a side street in Corona.  Yes, as in "the Queen of Corona," which Paul Simon immortalized in "Me and Julio Down By The Schoolyard."

A student told me that the ride to work brings out my "glow."  Another student--who's not in one of my classes now--captured me as I was ready to start riding home:

The parked bike is the Pinarello cyclo-cross bike I've mentioned in a previous post.  I've seen it every time I've ridden to my second job.  

It has Mavic Cosmic wheels, Paul cantilever brakes and an XTR crankset and derailleurs:  not what one normally sees in a college's bike rack.


Then again, some would argue that I'm not the typical commuter who parks in a rack like that one.

November Cycling

Today's the first of November.


This is the month that separates the committed cyclists from the rest.  People who pedal once or twice around the park every other weekend usually call it a season about now.  At least, that's what they seem to do in Northern Hemisphere locales that have four discernible seasons.


Yesterday I noticed there were fewer cyclists on the roads and Greenway than there've been on most Sundays during the past few months.  That isn't too surprising:  It was a chilly, windy day, though it was lovely, if in a rather austere way.


Although it was Halloween--the last day of October--in cycling terms, it was more of a November day.  That, for me was part of what I enjoyed about cycling yesterday.


Of course, no month is more beautiful than October.  Perhaps May or June could be said to be as lovely, if in entirely different ways from the month that just passed.  Cycling--or doing nearly anything else outdoors--in  October is a feast for the senses.


On the other hand, November grows grayer and more wizened as it proceeds.  Colors fade into shades of ashes and as trees are stripped of their leaves, their branches grow darker and splinter.  Somehow, though, they endure like the coats the old and the poor wear through another season.


Someone who continues cycling this week, this month, will probably continue to some time just before Christmas.  And anyone who continues cycling after that will probably still be on his or her bike in February.


By then, even they--we-- will be ready for another season, having cycled forward from the light of the gray November tableau.  

Cycling Through The Gates of Autumn

I got up late today.  So my ride took me to a sunset:

The sun has just set behind Jamaica Bay, near the place it meets the Atlantic at Breezy Point.  I stumbled over this view on the Queens side of the Gil Hodges-Marine Park Bridge.  That view led to another bridge:

To get to these views, we crossed another bridge:

The day was chilly and windy, and became more of both after we crossed this bridge from Beach Channel to the Rockaways.  But somehow I didn't feel the cold.  Maybe I was channeling the sky:  Clouds spread like a shawl across a graying sea and houses that still have some of the warmth and light the sun within them.

And the way to these views was a bike ride through the gates of autumn:

Some of us have to carry a lot to get there:

Sometimes the journey is long, or seems that way:

And where does it lead?  Hopefully, to some place like this:

And it continues.  There is no escaping it, though some will try:

b

That's a washed-out stretch of the Greenway, where it parallels Belt Parkway along Brooklyn's South Shore.  I asked someone to take a photo of me, but I didn't like it.  So I took this photo of a couple I saw cycling.  

Where else could they have been riding but through a sunset in the gates of autumn.

Cycling vs. Fishing: The Class Structure in New York City?

Sometimes I ride down to the Canarsie Pier, as I did today.  It's on the South Shore of Brooklyn, along the Greenway that connects Howard Beach to Sheepshead Bay and parallels the Belt Parkway as it winds along the beaches and coves of the Atlantic Ocean and Jamaica Bay.


At just about any time of year, in any kind of weather, at pretty much any hour of the day or night, people--usually older men--fish off the pier:

In my time, I've seen plenty of guys fishing off piers and bridges.  The ones I see on the piers seem to have a mutual non-acknowledgment pact with cyclists.  The ones on bridges, on the other hand, are often resentful or simply hostile toward cyclists.  That may have something to do with the fact that on bridges, we tend to pass closer to them than we do on piers, as the walkways on most bridges (where cyclists usually ride and fisherman cast their lines) are only a few feet, if that, wide.


It seems that the worlds of cycling and fishing, at least in urban or suburban settings, exclude each other, whether or not by design.  Sometimes I see men riding bicycles to their fishing spots.  But they aren't riding to take the ride; the bike is strictly is a means of transportation and portage.  As often as not, their fishing poles are strapped or even taped to the top tubes of their bicycles.


Perhaps some of those fisherman resent or envy those of us who are cycling for its own sake, or for training.  After all, even if we have to put down payments on our bikes and pay them in installments before we pedal them, we have lifestyles--and, with it, access to the means, or whatever will get us the means, to buy a nice bike.  Most of the fishermen (Most are male.) are poor and/or working class; many have families they are supporting in full or in part.  And most of them, at least in this area, are members of racial and ethnic minorities.  At the Canarsie Pier, as in other fishing spots in this city,  they are usually Caribbean or Latino.  On the other hand, most cyclists, including yours truly, are white.  Even those who are Caribbean, Latino or from other minority group tend to be a bit better off, financially as well as socially, than those who are fishing.


Hmm...Could it be that this city's class structure can be delineated according to whether someone fishes or rides a bicycle?

As Lovely As A Tree?

Someone--I forget whom--once said that there are two ways to hate poetry.  One is simply to hate it.  The other, according to the wag, was to read Alexander Pope.


I would agree that there's no hope in Pope.  But even he couldn't do the sort of damage Joyce Kilmer caused.  After reading Kilmer, you might find yourself hating trees as well as poetry:


I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree


A tree whose hungry mouth is prest 
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;


A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her arms to pray;


A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;


Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who ultimately lives with rain.


Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.


After that last stanza, is it any wonder that it's so difficult for a poet to get a grant, much less to sell volumes or his or her works?


It just figures that Kilmer attended the school from which I got my B.A.:  Rutgers.  But, interestingly enough, he dropped out after his sophomore year because he couldn't pass their required math courses.  Then he transferred to, and graduated from, Columbia. (So much for the superiority of the Ivy League, right?)


Kilmer and his poem are like one of those awful songs from some absolutely wretched band that gets under your skin and circulates through your body and mind no matter how hard you try to get rid of it.  And "Trees" came back to me when I saw this yesterday:

Such a classically autumnal arbortoreal form can make even an industrial-style campus that was built during the post-industrial era, like that of my main job, seem like a New England idyll.   Marianela, my old LeTour III, felt right at home in it:

She, at least, resists comparisons to trees.  For that matter, so do Arielle, Tosca and Helene, my other bikes.


Perhaps I've been too  hard on Kilmer.  After all, it is pretty difficult to make something that's about a tree yet more, or at least as, beautiful.  I've tried, and I know I've failed to do that.


Here's something that depicts a tree and is quite lovely, if in an unexpected way and place:

I feel that it's the most beautiful coin ever produced in this country.  Maybe if I had too much time and money on my hands, I'd try to enlarge it enough to use as a front wheel.  It's certainly more attractive than those carbon-fiber tri-spoke wheels!

If the Other Shoe Doesn't Drop, It Popped Out of My Commuter Basket

I don't get sick often.  But it seems that when I do, I am ridiculously busy as soon as I get back to my normal routine.  And so it has been the last two days.


Well, at least I got to ride to and from both jobs today, and the other day.  Both days were full of fall colors and decidedly non-autumnal warmth.  Yesterday, on the other hand, we had weather that was even less autumnal, except for the kind of light we had:  Wind-driven downpours frizzed and soaked everything in sight so that even the reflections of sidewalks in the windows frizzed and soaked like cats dropped into swimming pools.


So...an unrideable day was sandwiched between two days of near-perfect riding conditions. I guess I'd rather have it that way than the other way around.


I was running a bit late this morning on my way to my regular job.  So I barreled down streets--including a stretch of one that looked like a washbord and made me feel as if I were riding on one--like a moonshiner on a backwoods Southern road during Prohibition.  I don't know whether it had to do with the vibrations or my blood pumping (or both), but  felt as if the things that had been making me sick were leaping out of my body.  


Even with all of the vibrations that shook me--and even though I was riding to work--I was enjoying the ride as if it were a foliage weekend tour in Vermont.  Inside one of the rear baskets, I carried a canvas tote bag that contained my students' papers, a textbook for one of the courses I teach and a pair of black patent slingback high heels.


The only problem was that when I got to work and reached into the bag, only the left shoe was in it!  I checked inside the bag and  in the area surrounding the spot where I parked my LeTour and up the block:  No luck.  I didn't have time to re-trace my route.


 So I was reduced  (literally) to spending the day in the black flats in which I'd pedaled.  They aren't bad-lookng shoes, and they're very comfortable.  And, to tell the truth, they really weren't bad with my outfit, which consisted of a plum-maroon cardigan with gray piping over a lavender blouse, a flannel skirt in the same shade of gray as the pipng, and a pair of sheer pantyhose in that same hue.  As one of my students said, it all looked "very elegant."  But the patent slingbacks with three-inch heels would have given it a bit more pizazz.


Oh well.  Maybe some kid along my route found that other shoe.  I guess if the kid were mine, I'd rather that he or she found a middle-aged woman's dress shoe in size 11 wide than a crack vial or shell casing!

Critical Lasses In Edmonton

Now I have to take a trip to Edmonton.


No, I'm not going there to take in an Oilers' game.  And, while the idea of biking or hiking in the Rockies and taking in the Edmonton night life appeals to me, I've never made going there one of my goals.  


Lately, as a result of Sarah Chan's Girls and Bicycles blog, I've been reading about Edmonton's bicycle scene.  Until I came across her blog, I thought that cycling in Edmonton looked something like this:

You might accuse me of New York Provincialism.  You've seen an example of it on that famous New Yorker cover:

Since I started reading Girls and Bicycles, Edmonton Bicycle Commuters and other sites, I've formed an impression of an active--velocipedically as well as politically--cycling community.  And it seems to embrace diversity--and, yes, there's more of it than I, the jaded New Yorker, expected--in ways not commonly seen.


How can you not love a place that has a "Critical Lass" ride?


But the thing that really got my attention was a practice of Bike Works, the bicycle cooperative EBC operates.  On the first, third and fifth Sundays of every month,  BikeWorks is open only to women and transgenders.


Now that was an eye-opener for me.  I didn't think that there were enough transgenders, let alone transgendered cyclists, in Edmonton for them to be so recognized.  There's my NYP at work again!


If I ever were in Edmonton, of course I would check out BikeWorks on a women's/transgenders' Sunday.  However--and, as someone who hasn't been there, my view is admittedly limited--I have mixed feelings about  such a practice.


On one hand, I'm glad that a bike shop or cooperative wants to make its facility female- and trans-friendly and give us a "space."  In a sense, they're acknowledging that there aren't enough such spaces and hours.   And I know that sometimes (actually, often) I want to be around other women only, not out of any animosity toward men, but because of our particular ways of seeing and experiencing things. 


On the other, I have to wonder whether that will help or impede our acceptance by the larger cycling culture, and the culture generally.  I feel the same way about other gender-segregated institutions such as schools, and ones that are dedicated to LGBT people.  Some educators and psychologists raised the same concern when the Harvey Milk School was opened in New York.


Don't get me wrong:  I'm happy that the folks at BikeWorks recognize that there are indeed transgendered cyclists and that we, like other female cyclists, sometimes feel alienated and excluded from the larger cycling culture.  I don't doubt that they are trying to make us feel more welcome and to counter some of the condescension and hostility female cyclists have long complained about in cycle shops and clubs.


Still, I find it interesting that such a thing is happening in Edmonton and not in New York, at least to my knowledge.