Today I did something I haven't done in too long: I took an early-morning bike ride, and I wasn't going to work.
There was a time in my life when, if such rides didn't constitute the majority of my cycling, they were at least routine. On days when I worked in the afternoon or evening, I took such rides, and on weekends I got up early to take my long rides.
But I can't recall the last time I did such a ride. Part of the reason is the work schedules I've had. I also can't help but to wonder whether the hormones and other changes have made me into more of a night person: I stay and get up later than I used to. At least I can say that, as often as not, I'm writing or doing some other necessary work when I'm "burning the midnight oil."
Today I made a point of getting out early. For one thing, I wanted to avoid the heat this part of the world would experience later in the morning and afternoon. But I also wanted to remember what it was like to take such a ride.
Back in the day, my early-morning rides were solitary or in the company of other hard-core cyclists, all of them male. The latter kind left me pumped with adrenaline and testosterone: If I went through a day cocky, it was a result of such a ride. On the other hand, the early-morning rides I did alone left me feeling a peace with--if not within--myself and the world around me that I rarely, if ever, attained in any other way.
Today's ride--a little more than an hour and a half on Tosca, my "fixie," left me feeling contented and ready for the rest of the day. That was definitely a good thing on a day which is not structured by outside forces. I needed to do laundry (which I did), but there was nothing I absolutely had to get done today. But I managed to accomplish a couple of other things I could just as easily have put off.
I say this, not to congratulate myself, but to show what a wonderful thing it is to be able to ride early in the morning without going to work.
While riding to Randall's Island last week, I passed the block--9th Street, from the Noguchi Museum to a construction-supply store-- on which I lived before I moved to my current locale.
The day I moved there, nearly a decade ago, was almost frighteningly clear and blindingly hot. I had just left the last long-term relationship in which I'd been involved; I knew I was going to embark upon a part of my life I'd spent my life avoiding but which was absolutely necessary to become the person I've become, for better or worse.
I was struck by how much the light and shadows looked like the ones I saw the day I moved there:
When Velouria came to town for the New Amsterdam Bike Show, we rode down this block. It just happened to be along the way.
I made a wrong turn in the Bronx...
It sounds like the title of noir film, doesn't it? If such a movie were made today--in Hollywood, anyway--someone would tack a "happy" ending on it and the critics would call it "life-affirming" or some such thing.
Anyway, after teaching a class, I took a spin along the East River and into the Bronx. (Sounds so idyllic, doesn't it?) Because of construction (Why do they call it that when they're tearing something apart?), I had to take a detour. I found myself under the ramp for the Willis Avenue Bridge. If you've ridden the Five Boro Bike Tour, you've rolled across that bridge.
Underneath that overpass are some interesting old industrial brick buildings. It's sort of like DUMBO. From one of those buildings hung one of the more interesing--and, unless you know the area, incongruous--signs I've seen:
When I first saw that sign, I thought perhaps someone was making a film. Turns out, the place tunes, repairs and stores pianos. In fact, they've probably tuned at least some of the Steinway pianos that are made in Queens, not far from where I live.
That's all the more reason for me to be surprised if someone hasn't made a film (or part of one) there. It's hard to find a locale that looks more Victorian, in a shadowy sort of way, than that spot where Bruckner Boulevard begins.
