Hasidim and Hipster Fixies

Today I took one of those "no destination" rides.  Helene and I just sort of wandered from one place to another, doing about 30 or 35 miles in total without getting more than a few miles from my apartment.  Such is an enjoyable way--for me, anyway--to spend a warm, humid afternoon after waking up late.  


Along the way, I stopped in an Old Navy store. (They didn't stop me from bringing my bike in.)  I was looking for at least one nautical-stripe T-shirt.  For the longest time, I wore one that I bought in France. You've probably seen them:  the kind worn by Breton fishermen and Marseille dock workers and, for a long time, by sailors in the French Navy.  They are white, with horizontal navy stripes.  For a long time, it was the only white article of clothing I owned.  


I also used to have a wool sweater that was the inverse of the T-shirt:  navy with cream stripes.  It was one of those sweaters with buttons on the left shoulder.  I actually wore it on many a cold-weather ride, as the wool was of a very nice grade and tightly woven, and the sweater was of just the right weight and thickness for a variety of conditions.


There are imitations of them available in this country.  For all I know, they're not even being made in France anymore.  In any event, as I expected, Old Navy didn't have the originals.  But they didn't have any imitations, either.  On the other hand, I found interesting tank top with a tied back in a kind of "fade" from blue to green to purple.  And the green and purple just happen to be the shades, more or less, of Helene as well as Arielle and Tosca, my other Mercians.  So of course I couldn't pass it up.  One of these days, I'll post a picture in which I wear it--and, of course, I'm riding one of my Mercians.


I also rode to someplace I haven't been in quite a while.  It's one of the neighborhoods in which I spent my childhood:  Borough Park, in Brooklyn.  This is the church in which I was an altar server:

And, diagonally across the street is the school I attended. Here is a section of it:

They are the Holy Spirit parish and school.  Between them, I saw this:

Even if I hadn't seen that, I would have been surprised that the school, and even the church, were still open.  Even though the temperature rose to just above 90F, all of the females I saw on the streets were wearing thick hosiery (some with seams running down the rear) and long skirts, while all of the males were wearing even longer coats.  If they noticed me, I can only imagine what they might have been thinking.  For one thing, I was alone and riding a better bicycle than most of them even know exists. Plus, I was the only one riding a bike who was more than about ten years old.   And I was wearing a short (by their standards, anyway) denim skirt and a tank top.


I know, from an earlier experience, that the Hasidim don't like to be photographed. Of course, I respect that.  But at the same time, I wasn't about to ask any of them to take a photo of me with my bike!


You've seen Hasidim if you've been Williamsburg, another Brooklyn neighborhood. (In fact, shuttle buses run between the two neighborhoods.)  What's ironic is that they're in the hipster-fixie capitol of the universe. That makes for some very interesting visual contrasts.  One is between the black of the males' coats and hats and the females' skirts, and the day-glo or neon colors of the bikes rolling down the Kent Avenue bike lane or parked in front of the book and music stores, "retro" boutiques and self-consciously funky coffee shops and restaurants of Bedford Avenue.  The other contrast, of course, is between the presence of hipsters and their fixed-gear bikes in Williamsburg and the absence of same in Borough Park.


If I could have found a way to photograph what I've just described while respecting the wishes of the Hasidim, I would have done so.  All I can do is hope that I've described it enough for you to visualize, at least somewhat.

A Looker On Lookout At The Beach

In another two months or so, a day like today will be considered perfect, or nearly so.  As it was, it was very nice:  about ten degrees F warmer than normal for this time of year, and almost preternaturally bright and sunny.  I used a lot of sunscreen today!


And there was a slight breeze.  It was just enough to billow the tank top I was wearing.  I swear, that's what the "bulge" in my midsection. 

All right, I admit:  I'm not skinny.  At least not now.  But I can also assure you that I'm not pregnant and have been riding.

Arielle felt like a veritable rocket underneath me today.  And I had the wind at my back from about twenty miles to about five miles from home.   So she certainly deserves to have a couple of "beach babe" photos here.

The Gates To The Concrete Plant Park

My ride today was positively perilous.  I had to wade through raging streams.  Worse, I had to fight off the dreaded Randall's Island Salamander.

Here, it (Now that I'm at a safe distance, I don't have to worry about riling it up, so I can refer to it as "it" and avoid all sexism!) is, underneath the Bronx spur of the Robert F Kennedy Memorial (nee Triboro) Bridge.  I guess now that Randall's Island's been getting fixed up, the Salamander can't afford to live there anymore.  The Bronx is still relatively affordable.

And I blame the Parks Department for everything.  They're rehabbing the island, and their work forced me to detour. 

I've taken a couple of photos underneath that trestle.  You've passed over it if you've ever taken Amtrak or Acela (Amtrak Customers Expect Late Arrivals) trains between New York and Boston.  It's called the Hell Gate Bridge.  I guess I should be grateful to the Parks Department for thinking of the well-being of my soul, and those of other cyclists, and preventing us from passing under the Gates of Hell.

Actually, the cost of travel might prevent me from seeing that Gate of Hell this year.  But the Gate under which I couldn't pass is, while not quite as breathtaking as Rodin's Porte de l'Enfer, actually lovely:

At least, I like it.  I also like something else I saw while riding through the Bronx on my way back from Westchester County:

Have you ever, in your wildest dreams or worst nightmares, ever imagined you would ride to a place called Concrete Plant Park? 

This plant operated from some time during World War II until the late 1980's.  It drew its water and power from the Bronx River, which parallels the path you see.  The path is not yet complete, though it is open.  

Those of you who live in New England might see something familiar in that park.  On the other side of the Bronx River are other plants and warehouses, some of which are still operating.  Their red bricks have absorbed decades, or even a century or more, of soot and rain and wind.  They, the the red-rust structures like those of the cement plant, and the river itself are bound by a number of bridges and other spans made from various combinations of steel and concrete.  I imagine it all would be even more attractive in October or November.

Quite a few people, including a number of families, were there today.  A couple of kids climbed the chicken-wire fence surrounding the old plant fixtures; you might have been able to see one of them in my photo. 

Speaking of boys at play, here's one, albeit a good bit older, flying his kite by Throgs Neck, where the East River meets the Long Island Sound: