Two-Wheeled Dreams

I rarely recall my dreams and, frankly, don't make much effort to do so.  I have enough trouble making sense of things that happen in my waking life, which are often less logical, and even more surreal, than anything I see after laying my head and closing my eyes.

That said, I have ridden bicycles in at least a few of my dreams, and bicycles I own, or have owned, have figured in others.

According to psychologists, there are all sorts of ways to interpret a dream of riding a bike.  It can be seen as a need or yearning for balance in one's life.  Some say that riding a bicycle uphill signifies bright prospects, while a downhill spin can be a warning sign.  

From Deniziazicioglu

Not long ago, I had a dream in which I lost and recovered Arielle.  And, last night, in yet another REM-induced vision, I was pedaling Tosca along a road that isn't one I ride every day, but I recognized from somewhere--somehow, upon waking, I thought it was France. Anyway, while riding through a valley, with sunflower fields fading from view, I spotted a bike I hadn't seen in years:  a Peugeot mixte my mother owned but didn't ride very much.  

I gave it to her one Christmas in my youth when I started to make some money and was trying to get everyone I know to ride bikes.  Actually, she talked about riding, as she was trying to get more exercise, in part, to ward off some of the illnesses that befell her mother.  

She hasn't had that bike in years.  If I recall correctly, she gave it away (after asking, almost apologetically, whether I'd mind) when she and my father moved. 

So, why was that Peugeot mixte doing in a dream that didn't include my mother?

 

An Inverted Ghost Bike

If you live in New York, or another city with a lot of cyclists, you've probably seen a Ghostbike:  a bicycle, painted white and locked to a signpost or other structure, to memorialize a cyclist (usually named on a plaque next to the bike) who was killed or severely injured.

They are stark and somber reminders of the fact that safe travel is still not seen as a right we, as cyclists, have in the same measure as motorists.  I also see it as a way to honor the memory of someone who, as likely as not, died needlessly.  On the other hand, such shrines probably convince others that cycling in urban areas--or cycling generally--is "too dangerous". 

Of course, succumbing to such a fear is not the way to make conditions safer, not only for cyclists, but also for pedestrians (who are probably killed as often as cyclists are), particularly those who are young children, elderly or disabled.

Likewise, one doesn't prevent war or any other kind of violence by acquiescing to one's fears about it.  As Martin Luther King Jr. and other leaders of the Civil Rights movement showed us, the way to end or prevent war is to work for peace, and the way to combat injustice is to work for justice.

All right, I'll get off my soapbox now.  I got on it when I saw this:

I think of it as a kind of inverse--a photograph negative, if you will--to the Ghostbike.  The flower-festooned bike, parked at the corner of Hudson and Barrow Streets in Greenwich Village, is publicizing the "Peace Ride" led by Time's Up.  It leaves from the Ghandhi statue in Union Square Park at 2pm on the third Sunday of every month, and takes cyclists on a tour of the city's "peace sites".

Across The Bay

One of my more memorable one-day bike rides took me across the Golden Gate Bridge.

From Cyclelicio.us

Although, if I recall correctly, there is an ample guard rail on the side of the bike lane, I don't recommend the ride (or, for that matter, a walk across the bridge) to agoraphobics. The span itself is about 2.7 km long, and in the middle of it, you can see only the water beneath and on either side of you, and distant land in front of you.  

I haven't crossed the span in a long time.  But the memory of my ride was still fresh on 17 October 1989, when the Loma Prieta earthquake struck California.  If you were watching the World Series between the Oakland Athletics and San Francisco Giants--the two Major League Baseball teams on either side of the Bay--you saw the quake strike as the two teams were warming up for a game scheduled that day.   

If you weren't paying attention to fall baseball, you saw later images of the quake, including those of the San Francsico-Oakland Bay Bridge, on which a portion of the upper deck collapsed.  The bridge later reopened, but questions were raised.

Thankfully, the Golden Gate Bridge wasn't damaged.  Still, I couldn't help but to visualize myself on it at the moment of the quake. I've been on drawbridges when they opened; I knew that the vibrations from an earthquake would be many orders of magnitude stronger than anything I experienced.  And, of course, had the quake moved in a slightly different direction, a part of the Golden Gate could have fallen out.

I recalled my ride, the day of the 'quake and my reaction when I saw an announcement someone sent me.  The eastern span of the new Bay Bridge will open on Tuesday, the day after Labor Day, at 5 am.  The adjacent bike lane will open at the same time. The eastern span of the old bridge will be torn down as the western span of the new bridge is completed.

East Span of new San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge

I want to bike the Golden Gate again some day. And I'd like to cycle the new Bay Bridge to compare the rides--and, of course, the views.  

(I must say, I feel kind of sorry for both the old and new Bay Bridges.  The new structure looks like it will be lovely, and the old one wasn't bad. But they both have to compete aesthetically with the Golden Gate.  That's not a fair fight for any bridge!)

Two Views Of Cycling In New York

Guess where I took this photo:

You'd probably guess (correctly) New York, even if you've never been here.  After all, I haven't announced any trips to exotic places or given you any other reason why I'd be anywhere else.

I took the photo today, with my cell phone.  Now that you know what city is the setting, can you tell me which neighborhood?

You probably know that it's not Williamsburg.  I'll tell you that it's not Park Slope, Carroll Gardens or the Upper West Side. 

Actually, it's Harlem:  West 137th Street, between Frederick Douglass and Adam Clayton Powell Boulevards.  It's next to a part of Harlem called Strivers' Row and, to me, one of the most beautiful blocks in New York.

Now I'm going to show you another famous New York locale I've cycled many, many times, though not with the guys in the photo:

    
This photo, I'm guessing, was shot in the early 1970's, given the style of the photo and clothing,  from the blue-on-orange St. Mark's Place street sign--and, of course, the bikes.   
 

Always The Same: Revelations And Changes

Parisians and psychotherapists disappear for the month of August.  Sometimes I think of myself as a Parisian in spirit,even though I haven't been in eight years, but I have no illusions of being a psychotherapist.  So what's my excuse for being somewhat conspicuously absent this month?

Well, I've managed to be busy with other things, including writing projects.  Hopefully they'll remunerate me; for now I find them rewarding.  And, frankly, when I haven't been doing those things--or riding or playing with my cats--I've felt drained, spiritually and emotionally exhausted.  The pastor of the church I started attending a few months ago says I'm healing. She's right.

Still, I've managed, in the past week, to ride to Point Lookout (Nothing like a few hours riding Arielle to make me feel lithe!) and to take a few shorter rides--and to record a few things along the way.

I'll start with something I saw on my way home from some volunteer work:

Sometimes I think archaeology is the step between destruction and forgetfulness.  At least, that's how things seem to work in New York. Sometimes, when a building is torn down, a long-concealed sign,  like the one in the photo, is revealed.  

What particularly intrigued me was the bottom inscription:  "Separate Waiting room for women."  Talk about a relic!  My undergraduate college went co-ed only four years before I enrolled in it.  And, boys and girls entered my Catholic elementary school through separate entrances:  a practice that was abandoned a couple of years after my family moved away.

Given that I lived as a male until ten years ago, it's hard for me not to wonder and imagine what my life would have been like had I entered through the girls' and women's doors.  Of course, had I lived in such a world, I would not have attended the college from which I graduated.  In fact, I might not have attended any college at all.

In those times, I probably would not have witnessed this:

The stretch of Brooklyn waterfront between the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges has been turned into a lovely park.  Not long ago, it was off-limits, as the neighborhood around it--DUMBO--still consisted of functioning and recently-ceased manufacturing and warehousing.  This stretch of waterfront, like so much of the rest of New York's shorelines, was used in various ways by those industries.  In fact, most New Yorkers had little or no inclination to spend any time by the water, as it was associated with rough trades and characters.  Fifth Avenue became Manhattan's most-desired address in part because, of all of the island's avenues, it is furthest from the East and Hudson Rivers.

Ah, but some things don't change:

That's one reason why I--and Arielle and, on occasion, Tosca--like to take a spin to Point Lookout.