One of the reasons I haven't ridden with a club in a long time is my aversion to groupthink. As often as not, they're riding the same bikes or the same few bikes, and the componentry and accessories tend to be the same, or similar on each club member's bike. They might even be wearing club jerseys.
No, I have no desire to be a Stepford cyclist.
Seeing everyone riding the same bikes, wheels or other components has no appeal to me. But, to me, it would be downright creepy if everyone rode the same seat. That is definitely not an area in which one should be a slave of fashion:
If the Tour de France riders were to use his seat, they never would have to worry about taking l'arret pipi.
It's really strange. The other day, when I was out riding through some old stomping grounds and along seaside bikeways battered by winter storms, I saw maybe two other cyclists. Granted, the weather was chilly and breezy, but it was still more conducive to cycling than what we had through much of the winter.
Today, if anything, was colder and windier. Yet, during my commutes, I saw even more cyclists than I saw during our "heat wave" (when temperatures climbed over 70F) about a week and a half ago. Some were dressed, as I was, in clothes we'd wear to work; others came wrapped in lycra on their racing bikes. I'm happy to see them all: They're definitely signs of spring, even if the weather isn't.
And the bike rack at my second job was full. It was yet another sign that the bike season is, if not in full swing, at least on its way.
But one thing tells me it's not quite spring yet, whatever the calendar says: the hue of the water. The other day, when I crossed Jamaica Bay and clattered along the Rockaway boardwalk, the water took on an almost metallic, cobalt-like hue:
In some places, along the beaches of the Rockaways, that color was made a bit earthier, as if the dunes were spilling into the tides:
Of course, the water is still much too cold to swim, and will be until some time around Memorial Day. But the tone of the water is enough to tell you that we haven't quite left winter yet.
But sometimes I think that we, as cyclists, have our own clocks, much as other living beings have internal chronometers to tell them when to stay, fly away, change colors or go to sleep. We are all just starting to wake up.
Today I parked my bike in a place where I never before parked it.
The funny thing is that it was a place where I used to go almost daily for about two years. That was about a dozen years ago, at least, and I hadn't been back since. I had no bad feelings about the place; I simply hadn't been in its vicinity.
The reason I never parked there is that I never needed to. I worked just across the street from it and parked in a storage area of the building. So I never knew whether or not the place would allow my bike to accompany me.
And I found out that the proprietor would let me park there the same way R.J. Cutler, the director of The September Issue got to talk to Anna Wintour: he asked.
Actually, the proprietor is nowhere near as ferocious as the famous (or infamous, depending on your point of view) Vogue editor. But he is an intense man who seems not to have aged at all since I last visited the place. For that matter, the place hasn't changed since then--or, it seems, since the 1970's or thereabouts:
I mean, when was the last time you saw stools with Naugahyde in that shade of mustard-beige, and lampshades to match?
The menu seems not to have changed, either. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if it hasn't changed since the 1950's, if the place has been around that long. And most of its patrons--including yours truly--wouldn't want it to. It consists of the sorts of sandwiches and dishes diners in New Jersey and New England (away from the Route 128 corridor, anyway) would have served during that time: things like spaghetti with fish cakes, meat loaf, roast beef sandwiches and some Greek and Italian specialties.
Back in the day, I would buy a cup of coffee and a corn muffin on my way in to work. Sometimes I would go there for a sandwich. It was all really good. But today they had sold out of muffins and donuts and looked ready to close: apparently, on Sundays they stay open long enough only to serve people going to, or coming from, church and the ones finishing up the weekend shift and the nearby bus yard.
So, I had a baklava and cup of coffee. These days, I don't normally drink coffee, but this was one good time to make an exception. It was as good as I remember from back in the day. And the baklava was not soggy, as it is in too many places: The buttery texture of the flaky pastry really tied together the tastes and texures of the nuts and honey it contained, and the slight taste of cinnamon was the perfect "foil" for the rest of it.
The funny thing is that the proprietor was looking at me as if he were trying to remember where he saw me before. Finally, I said, "I used to work in this neighborhood, and I used to come here."
"When?"
"A long time ago. About twenty years ago." I stretched the facts a bit, but the truth is that it seemed even further in the past than that. It was, almost literally, another lifetime.
The proprietor's wife, who had been putting away dishes of butter and jars of jelly, overheard us.
As I left, she said, "Come back, will ya?"
I promised her that I would, next time I'm down that way.
