Tomorrow the New York City Marathon will wind its way through the Big Apple's five boroughs. Knowing that, the pub crawls that will snake their way through various Gotham neighborhoods--as well as cities all over North America--today seem oddly appropriate.
Hmm...I wonder how many people will make the rounds of bars today and round the turns of tomorrow's run.
The first time I heard about Halloween pub crawls, it occured to me that it's what people do when they don't want to grow up but are too old for "Trick or Treat."
Most of those becostumed kids who knock on doors are in cities or relatively compact suburbs or towns. And, of course, all of those pub crawls are in urban enclaves of young professionals.
So what does one do when separated from his or her nearest neighbors by miles of prairie or mountains or soybean fields or whatever? Do kids in such places go Trick or Treating? (I'm guessing there aren't many young professionals in such places,and whatever twenty- and thirty-somethings are living in them have other things to do!) If so, how?
Well...I have a hard time imagining their parents driving them from one potential shakedown site to the next. Could it be that they're riding from house to house on bicycles?
Why not? I've seen racer-wannabes in team kit who looked more ridiculous than anything I've shown in this post.
Happy Halloween.
Is the spectacle of day turning into evening the most autumnal part of the day? Or is Fall the twilight of the seasons?
During my short but exhilirating late-day ride today, the time of day seemed to mirror, perfectly, the time of year. Day was turning to dusk; leaves were falling and spreading a shawl of deepening hues across the aging, wizening ground just as the setting sun cast its glow across the deepening cold of the river and sky.
Some have said that cycling sharpens our awareness of our surroundings. I agree that it does, in part because it opens our internal vistas in much the same way skies and trees open before us.
On my way back, I stopped in Queensbridge Park. The bike path along Vernon Boulevard, which wends its way along the Queens side of the East River, detours into the park and brings cyclists, runners, skateboarders and dog-walkers within the shadow of the bridge for which the park is named. The park is named for the bridge. But, while people use the name in reference to the park (and a nearby housing project and subway station that share the name), they never use it to refer to the bridge, which is more widely known as the Queensborough or 59th Street Bridge.
Anyway, the park--about two kilometers from my apartment--is wonderful and interesting in all sorts of ways. One, of course, is the views of the river, harbor, skyline and, of course the bridge--especially when the lights are turned on. Another is the way that it seems to stand, almost defiantly, against its surroundings.
As I mentioned, there is the housing project across Vernon Boulevard from its eastern side. There are also small factories and warehouses. The bridge looms over park's southern side. But to the north is a Con Ed power plant:
During the summer, the leaves on the trees at least partially obscure those smokestacks, depending on the spot from which you're viewing. Now, of course, the trees offer no such cover. However, they seem to be as inseparable in this autumnal vista as this season and time of day.
Some people have streets named after them.
For the longest time, I hoped to have a bridge named after me. That dream began during my childhood when, from the roof of the building where my family lived, I watched workers pull cables and link girders that would become the Verrazano Narrows Bridge.
Sometimes I'd still like to have such a span named after me. But now, if I were going to have anything named after me, I wouldn't mind a bike lane. Not too many people have that, at least not yet.
One member of that club is a heroine of mine. If you weren't living in New York during the 1990s, you probably haven't heard of her: Julie (J.A.) Lobbia.
Every day, clad in bike gear, she'd roll her wheels into her office, where she'd change into one of the vintage dresses she found in flea markets. At her desk, she'd write the stories she found while pedaling all over New York City, from the streets of Bed-Stuy to the avenues of Astoria, from East New York to the Upper West Side.
One of her rides uncovered a path of arson that predated the wave of gentrification that spilled over Williamsburg and other parts of Brooklyn. On other rides, she found everything from eviction notices to shards from construction sites led her to her stories.
But she was not a mere reporter or even just a researcher; she was a crusading journalist in the tradition of Jacob Riis, one of her idols. She was also a kind of Sister of Mercy, if you will: When an X-ray technician lost his job and home, she got him mattresses, pillows and blankets. One day, she saw an eviction notice on a Chinese-speaking neighbor's door. She spent a workday having it translated and later left a note under the door, in Chinese, explaining what that neighbor should do.
At least one of my commenters has said that cyclists have a stronger sense of justice than most people. In my own unbiased view ;-), said commenters are right. J.A. Lobbia was proof.
In 2001, at the age of 43, she died of ovarian cancer. She asked to be buried in her favorite dress and bike shoes.
The sign in the photo stands at the intersection of Sixth Avenue and 33rd Street, just a block east of Penn Station and Madison Square Garden.
