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Show Me

5/31/2015

Missouri is the Show Me State and we are most eager the following morning to see the Excellent Coffee Shop advertised on the Bothwell Hotel marquis. Alas, there are some things we are learning about Missouri. One of them is about Sundays - everything is closed. There is coffee in the lobby (I always drink what I can make in my room), and muffins; but that is not a hearty enough breakfast for the 48 miles we have ahead of us. We are advised at the desk that Yummy's Donut is open; they may have what we're looking for.

We venture forth in hope.

This is one of those moments when I am grateful for my preparations. I can't eat anything there anyway, so I've brought with me hardboiled eggs, gf bread and a banana from the hotel. Though it is a modest breakfast, it will sustain me. My colleagues however, are looking forward to a breakfast at Yummy's. I feel for them. The muffin sandwiches contain a variety of mystery meats, the eggs resemble plastic platters. And the coffee? Watery, undrinkable. Even the addition of Starbuck's Via instant doesn't help. You would really have to work to make coffee this bad. Odd in an era when every Dunkin Donuts now serves fresh brewed. But that's how it is in Missouri. The Just are in church. Non-believers and tourists can suck it up. You have to wonder if maybe there isn't something else at work here...

That said, the people are always kind and helpful. Unbeknownst to us, there is a detour to get back to the Katy - and we can't find it. A wise local recognizes our confusion.

And sets us straight right away. Soon we're back on the Trail.

Passing farm houses and open fields.

Riding over bridges.

Passing through bowers of trees.

Occasionally we cross a country road.

No, this is not from the first day. This is the second day. Pay attention.

Yes, the Katy Trail is repetitive. But strangely, I'm having a great time. I don't hang with people my age much. I'm not quite sure why that is, but my friends are either older or younger. For the first time since my last High School reunion, I'm with people almost exactly my age. With smarts, and a great sense of humor. We share the music, the times, the sensibility. And they love to bike - how great is that? If the Katy Trail is repetitious, it is also an excellent opportunity to get to know people without distraction or the danger of cars. We can ride two by two, which you can't really do on the open road.

If only our rental bikes weren't such clunkers. KD mentions that her chain is slipping about every 10 pedal strokes or so - that can't be fun. Mine is beginning to rattle, and I fear I'm headed in the same direction. To drive home our misery, we run into this guy.

Or rather, his bike.

The first actual road bike we've seen on the Katy. We swoon over it (and secretly try to think of ways to get it away from him). All he has done to adapt his bike to the Katy is put on nubby tires. Well, we could have done that. "I wish I'd brought my road bike," says L wistfully. We heave a common sigh.

Twenty-four miles later, we arrive at Pilot Grove hoping for lunch. But Like Sedalia, the only place that's open doesn't really offer anything edible: Casey's, a gas station (the Just are still in church).

We stock up on junk food and candy (better than those mystery muffins). What else can we do? For everyone, this is probably the lowest point so far on this trip.

Except for me - I go lower. As I emerge from Casey's I see my bike has been moved. I'm in a hurry to catch up, so I just get on and start riding. But something seems really strange. The hand brakes are down by my thumbs, my seat seems way too close to the handlebars - everything is out of whack. Riding to the best of my ability, I call out to the rest in panic that something is seriously wrong with my ride. I suspect it fell when it was moved (the problem can't be me). I catch up with them, stopping with difficulty. L takes one look, comes over to me.

And turns my handle bars around. I'd been riding with the front wheel backwards. No one (including me) can figure out how I even did this. I'm not sure I can live it down - and my camera has recorded it all (would anyone notice if I just erased that footage?). But I'm the newbie on this trip; someone has to provide comic relief. Alas, the day isn't over.

Twelve miles later, we find ourselves in Boonville consulting on the path to take before making a right into town. Oops, face plant!

Unclipped on the left and lost my balance trying to unclip on the right. Like all descriptions I've read about these falls, I am more embarrassed than injured (the wrist is fine). Though it would be hard to surpass the day's earlier benchmark - no one I know has done that.

Meanwhile in Boonville, the search for the elusive lunch goes on. We look around cycling first to a casino, then deciding against what turns out to be a cocktail joint (we have that covered). Suddenly, out of the blue a beacon from home:

Yes, a diner. Like truckers who look for trucks as a vote of confidence outside eateries, we are comforted by the sight of these:

And in some ways, this is a diner from home. Except of course, when we ask for seltzer. The same blank stare. Sparkling water? Nope. Soda water? Nothing. After our waitress has left, discussion ensues as to the cultural reasons for this. Is it the lack of Jews, or the lack of Italians - or something else, we wonder? But it's a real lunch at least. We have just 13 miles to Rocheport.

That's 13 miles too many for two of our number, who are beginning to liken the Katy Trail, with its gravelly surface, to "Waterboarding for cyclists." There's an option to ride with the luggage to Rocheport and they take it (perhaps the luggage makes better conversation). I understand the feeling. But they miss out on one of the great moments of the ride: a spectacular trip over the Missouri.

When we straggle in over an hour later, we are met by the host of the Yates B&B* where for the first time on the trip, we are pampered royally.

And today, we really need it.

We all know that these will be the best accommodations of our trip, and they couldn't come at a better time. Furthermore, we have a 6pm dinner reservation at Abigail's, a local eatery of some repute.** We have just enough time to shower, watch a few minutes of women's tennis at the French Open over what has fast become a tradition (Tequila), before heading over to Abigail's.

No sooner do we place our orders (no seltzer), than the power goes out. But none of this matters anymore. We have finished our ride for the day, we have superb accommodations, and we figure the kitchen has a gas stove. A sort of camaraderie ensues. Candles are promptly brought out and our B&B host walks over with lanterns to help. We are impressed and touched at this simple gesture. It's what we Americans always think of when we think of the Midwest; people pulling together, neighbor helping neighbor. Our meals are sumptuous - up with anything we could have had in NY or CA.

Sated at last, we turn in.

*Yates B&B http://www.yateshouse.com
**Abigail's http://www.abigails-restaurant.com

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Meeting Katy

5/30/2015

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Travel is meant to expand our horizons, help us become aware of our limitations and move beyond them. Usually, when we think of this sort of transformation, it's in the context of exotic climes: Machu Picchu, or at the very least, Tijuana. Come to find, as products of the East and West Coasts, we ourselves are the exotic ones, as we set forth to bike the Katy Trail. Originally forged by Lewis and Clark, the Katy Trail became a rail line, and is now a flat gravelly path that winds from St. Louis to Clinton, MO.*

L has invited me to join her and a group of four veteran cyclists who plan their own itinerary every year. As someone who uses GPS below 14th Street, I am impressed with their independent spirit and confidence. But it is still a biking trip, and that means the unexpected.

Our first adjustment comes with the rental bikes. Three of us have brought their own hybrids; the other three get these (only in blue):

http://www.the-house.com/qfjcst21lw17re13zz-fuji-bikes.html?CA_6C15C=600004150000857831

Sigh. Yes, they are clunkers. The first day, we try them on for size.

This is what we look like:

This is what we feel like:

We venture forth to see how they work on the Trail itself. We will be riding from west to east, the better to capitalize on prospective wind currents. Here is our route.

It's begun to mist by the time we reach the Trail Head.

And mist turns to rain, but we are rugged.

The path is beautiful, but sandy in this area. As the rain abates, we go from open stretches...

To riding through bowers of trees.

To beautiful bridges.

Views of farm houses and open fields.

Occasionally we cross a country road.

The rentals are as clunky on the Trail as I feared, the going is slow. We make the best of it.

But as it turns out, riding the Katy Trail is about a lot more than the riding. For example, where can a girl get a nice cup of coffee? At one of those quaint places we hear so much about in the Midwest? The ones with the organdy curtains, and the waitress who calls you "Hon?"

Going in search of that, gives us our first lesson in humility as we leave the Trail, get separated, hopelessly lost...

And wind up - like Lewis and Clark - portaging (over a guard rail)

To find our way back to where we started, coffeeless and minus an hour.

We reconvene and mull over our misadventure, trying to gain from the experience.

Says BJ, "I think in the future we should try to maintain unit integrity."
"And," says L, "I think from now on we should go to the regular entry points."
"And that if we want coffee," adds MF, "we should just go to a gas station, cause there ain't no cute places"
"It's just wonderful, we have all these lessons so early in the trip," remarks KD somewhat mournfully.

We have many such lessons to learn.

Meanwhile, we are getting peckish and head towards Windsor.

To a modest restaurant that's actually on our itinerary. Lunch is good, though we are nonplussed that the mention of seltzer gives our waitress a sort of deer-in-the-headlights stare. We stare back (no seltzer). Well, we're bound to find that at one of the next stops. Meanwhile, L remarks in the parking lot, that the rain has loosened the sole on her bike shoe.

It looks bad. We ask her how long she's had these shoes.

Fourteen years.

Fourteen years? Who has shoes for fourteen years? She likes them she says, because they fit her well. And because they belonged at one time to her husband. We can all understand that. We can also see the sole is falling off. One more clip-out and she could be riding the Katy Trail barefoot.

Ever resourceful, L heads to a local hardware store for a strong glue, hoping to salvage them.

And while we're in civilization, cocktail supplies.

Meanwhile, L still has a shoe problem and we have some 21 miles to go to reach Sedalia, location of the nearest bike shop. That's a long time on the gravel of the Katy Trail - and we don't even know if they carry shoes. We ride hell for leather the last 10 miles to be sure to get there before 5. And there in Sedalia is truly a sight for cyclist's sore eyes:
Pro Velo Cycle Sport.**

If ever we needed help, it's now. Because we have five days ahead of us, and the first day of riding is when we find out:

1. If the bikes we brought made it from home OK (not all)
2. If the bikes we rented need a tune up (uh, yah)
3. If they have shoes that are less than 14 years old.

Hooray, they do!

L tries on a pair of shoes, pronounces them excellent on the spot and, much to everyone's surprise, happily lets go of her old ones. I get Espresso Love GU and BJ gets her hybrid bike tweaked (sorely needed); MF finds a good pair of cycling gloves, KA has a gizmo installed and KD's rental is pretty much reconfigured. The shop even stays open late for us, though we are clearly not big spenders. But we are certainly cyclists in need, and they respond in true kindred spirit. We leave feeling good as new.

As we wave a fond farewell...

We head towards the nearby Bothwell Hotel (excellent coffee shop!)

Where we celebrate our first cocktail hour, mulling over our bikes, the trail, and wondering what lies ahead.

*http://www.bikekatytrail.com/mkt.aspx
**http://www.pro-velo.com/

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Change

5/24/2015

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"It's not that I don't like change, I just like things the way they are," said an ex of mine famously.

Never have I understood that sentiment more than I do right now.

I'm scheduled for a "bike fitting" at Zen - something I'm told will improve my rides with Lola. There's nothing wrong with Lola - I love everything about her. But I've been told that a bike fitting will enhance my rides; make them more efficient, more comfortable. I've really been looking forward to this.

But I'm in for a few surprises.

My expectation is that Lola will be tweaked to fit me even better. What I'm learning is that for greater comfort and efficiency, I'm the one who's going to have to change. Wait a minute - what? Like the partner in a couple who pushed for couples therapy, only to find they are the problem, I'm completely unprepared for this.

I haven't even gotten on the bike, when I'm advised to graduate to a true biking shoe. It seems I'm losing as much as 20% of the power I put out, in the cushy sole of my New Balance shoes. Hmmmm. OK. I spring for the simplest Specialized shoe, and it's actually pretty comfortable.

But now Lola isn't. My saddle hurts, I'm canted into the handle bars, my iffy shoulder is bothering me (these adjustments are all fixed). But the shoes slip all over the pedals. I'm not pressured to clip in but…

Then, I'm encouraged to ride to "cadence." Most cyclists I know (including L) do this, so I already know about it. The ideal cadence is 80 rpm. I spring for the wireless cadence indicator hoping this will benefit my ride - though I’m the one who’ll have to keep it up.

I don’t want to give the impression that Zen is out to make a buck here. I’m the one who requested the fitting. And everything being suggested by them, has been suggested to me by many others before now. I just didn’t want to hear it.

Fundamentally, it’s about commitment and how far I want to take it.

It is with this unsettled mind that I begin the 5BBC "Tri-Boro (Not The Bridge)" ride, which meets at City Hall.

I am the first to arrive, (slipping all over the pedals), happy to see the familiar figure of the Sweep.

And to hear of the return of our Fearless Leader who is filling in for a friend.

A total of 30 of us (including two recumbents) head over the Brooklyn Bridge. The crowd is friendly, the ride is great.

We pass through Fort Greene and Bedford Stuyvesant.

This Beer Bike - like the St. Bernards of the Alps - ever at the ready to rescue parched residents.

We pass through Bushwick.

All the while I’m pushing to keep my cadence at 80. Fuhgeddaboudit (I can say this because we’re still in Brooklyn). 60 is the best I can do, and I'm peddling so fast, I feel like I’m standing still.

We make a quick stop at the Grimaldi Bakery.

Before heading into Queens, borough of cemeteries (among other things), and we ride through some beautiful ones there.

We meander through Forest Hills.

Getting lost...

Before recovering.

But the height of the journey is a trip to the Queens Velodrome. I'd seen this in the trip description, but couldn't really believe it. A velodrome? Why have I never heard of this? (Don't tell me it's because I live under a rock. I already know this). But there it is. Today, we have it all to ourselves..

I'm busy changing camera batteries, but as people return from riding it, they say it’s kind of unnerving. Huh. It looks completely tame.

I check my camera and take off.

Woah.

How to describe it?

It's like being in a fun house, where the floors and walls are all off kilter. Gravity is just not where you expect it. The angle doesn’t look bad from afar, but when you’re on it, it feels as if you're going to fall over. As if your tires won't grip. But it's counter intuitive. If you go fast, gravity works with you. If you go slow - well, you very well could fall over.*

I tell you one thing. It sure takes my mind off the concept of commitment. There is only one way to ride a course like this: fast, efficiently - and committed.

We all survive:

(Courtesy Allan Friedman)

We make our way to the Empanada Cafe.

Our reward for the trip. Afterwards, I peel off with the Manhattanites, returning via the Queensboro Bridge, where I still can’t get my cadence up above 75 for any length of time, and suffering early foot fatigue (I miss that cushy sole).

At home, I text L. I am of such mixed minds. I don’t want to professionalize something as joyous as the bicycle and no longer enjoy it. Yet almost everyone I know has taken the steps that I’m being advised to take, and they seem pretty happy.

L is patient as always. “You inch closer and closer as you see the light,” she texts.

I hope that happens soon.

*Here is the video I took (minus the terrified cursing).
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gVVTJZO6fH8

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Montauk (The Afterglow)

5/19/2015

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We came, we rode, we conquered. Now what?

I climb (post-massage) into a waiting bus and we head back to Manhattan. You notice I did not say post-shower. My shoes and calves (I wore knickers) are studded with road sand. Not exactly sand, not exactly oil. The worst aspects of both. But I am flying, way beyond caring.

Meanwhile, the conversation behind me is too spellbinding to sleep through. One of the conversationalists, who lives in Alaska, cycled the 150 miles from Manhattan today. Says he used to be a runner but is now missing some leg strength, after having accidentally come across a mama grisly bear and her four cubs on a casual hike. He yelled to scare her, but that just pissed her off. He pulls up his biking pants and shows us the damage to his thigh (yes, there is muscle missing). Then takes out his phone and shows us the hospital photos: five claw marks an inch deep - and four inches long - cover his entire chest, cutting into within centimeters of his heart. How did he survive? Making a tourniquet from his shirt around his leg. How did he get help? Slid down the mountain until he could get cell service. This was a year ago.

Well, I've just ridden 70 miles, which for a New York babe of a certain age is kind of impressive. But that doesn't really compare to an adventure like this. And tomorrow, he climbs 1 World Trade. Sigh.

There are extremists in every field. There are always people who will be more involved, do it better, do it longer; people who build their life around an activity. It's pure obsession. And if you want to find obsessives, you will definitely meet them cycling.

Still, I am pleased.

This month marks an anniversary of sorts. May 8th, I bought Lucille, and walked her home from the shop, too uncertain to ride her yet. May 15th, I took my first ride in Central Park - and (according to my blog entry, which seems like ages ago) walked her half-way up Harlem Hill, proud to have gotten that far. Just a year later, I've done 70 miles in one day. Well alright!

Next day I am still basking. I get on the subway to pick up Lola at the designated place, and see a guy in the station with a road bike sporting the unmistakable Montauk necklace. We chat. He's just picked up his bike from the corrals on 33rd Street. He did the 108 mile ride (maybe longer cause he got lost for awhile). The feeling of community is particularly strong this morning with the Montauk riders. We all experienced the rain, the exhaustion, the beauty - and the distances.

Meanwhile, what do I do with Lola? Last time I saw her, she looked like this:

I locate her in the corrals.

You'd think that'd be hard, but I can pick her out right away cause of her new "handle-do."

She's filthy alright. I decide to turn her over to Zen. They'll know how to handle road sand like this. And they can give her a tune-up while they're at it.

As I'm leaving, J calls out to me. "You know, you've opened a Pandora's Box with this right? Now you're going to have to do longer and longer rides."

Will I?

Is that what life will be like? Will I join the obsessives, become a "Century Rider," and measure life by the mile? I ponder this on the walk home. Just where I fit into bike culture, I'm still finding out. It's only been a year.

But I don't have to have the answer now. For now, I have two great bikes. For now, I can just bask in the afterglow of the Montauk ride. It was rainy. It was long. But you know what? It was kind of wonderful.

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Montauk (The Ride)

5/18/2015

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The ride to Montauk is one of the most popular ones of the biking season, with a limited ridership of 1,500 this year. One of the biggest reasons for its popularity is that the terrain is virtually flat. But to compensate, the distances are challenging: 33mi (fairly easy), 73mi, or 108 (from Babylon) and 150 (riding from Manhattan. Yes, they're crazy).

I initially signed up for the 33mi ride, thinking about taking it easy. But that's not the cyclist's ethos (wouldn't you know it), and L encourages me to challenge myself. So I'm on for 73*, not even sure I'll make it. I hear there are hills (and a really steep one) beginning around mile 70 by which time I'll be riding on fumes. But word is, there's great SAG support (no that does not stand for the Screen Actors Guild, though I'd be happy to see them).

I do the maintenance I've learned to do (and swore I would never do, but love changes everything, right?) for Lola: lube and swab off her chain, clean her rims and inspect her tires for glass.

This last is something I've learned recently, and it's more important than you'd think, especially if you live in the City. There's glass all over the place and like it or not, most of us are "carrying glass" when we ride. If you then find yourself in rain, water lubricates the glass to go further into the inner tube and then you have a puncture. Bummer.

And by the way, it's already begun to rain as we pull into the Mastic Shirley station.

When I pick up Lola, I notice right away that the ride has taken a toll on her front brakes which are rubbing against the tire. There's a bike tech on hand, and she is soon ready to go. But the damage has me flustered: I lose track of K, a great potential riding partner I met on the train. Worse, I forget to pick up a route map (D'Oh!). Fortunately, Glen (our Humble Servant) has marked our route with pink - and only pink - signs.

I should be OK if I follow those.

As we start our ride, it begins to really come down.

Yet no one but me has brought a fender. Wassup with that? It seems road bikes are too cool to have fenders. I'm perfectly dry, but as I look around I see a tell-tale spot - a muddy streak - crawling up the riders' jerseys.

Yuck. This can't be comfortable. And we have 70 miles to go. I've heard of baseball players too superstitious to change their socks. Are the two related?

Meanwhile, we haven't gone 20 minutes before I see this:

It's not the last.

A flat can happen to anybody I guess, but it can really harsh your buzz. I'm glad I checked Lola's tires for glass before we got here.

Once we get going, the neighborhoods are really beautiful. There are green, leafy areas. There are bridges over estuaries, with herons watching us ride by. But we are definitely riding in rain.

Meanwhile, we've reached the first rest stop at Lynbrook.

Here, all pretense of dignity is discarded and road bikes are laid (carefully) on the ground (kick stands too heavy, definitely not cool).

A little time out to rest and refresh and I'm off again.

At this point, I find myself alone scouring the road for route markers. I have a moment of panic, thinking I've taken a wrong turn. Then, (around Hampton Bays it turns out), I find myself riding with some guys who tell me, no worries about directions - they've done this ride lots of times. But every ride is different. At a harmless intersection, I hear a sound I've come to dread: the sound of metal on asphalt as one of them goes down (he's righting himself by the time I turn around).

And that's the thing about cycling. It's such a precarious sport. You can be good at it, you can not be going fast; this guy was practically standing still - but at a high gear getting started, clipped in - and that was enough. Fortunately, he's OK. We continue on.

Soon we see stores that sell boats.

And just over the next bridge, we find ourselves riding right along Shinnecock Bay.

Another rest stop, and the neighborhoods get really pretty.

Smelling of verbena and jasmine and, well there's no other way to put it:

Yes cows. It's a little hard to make them out because by now my camera has fogged up. It takes another rest stop for me to discover it.

Glen (Our Humble Servant) has planned these rest stops very evenly, to make sure we all get a chance to pull off the road. But I could use a sit-down. Unfortunately, my terror of Lyme's disease prohibits an easy plotz on the grass. I voice this to a fellow cyclist who pooh-poohs my fears. Really? Has she seen these signs?

And how about these?

Business is so good they're adopting highways.

My favorite of course, is the crossing for golfers. You know how they are if one of them gets a birdie. They just wander into traffic.

But the other thing is (now that I've done a few protracted rides), I notice that around 40 miles, I enter a sort of dream state (and I don't come out of it). It doesn't matter how much food is offered at the rest stop. I can keep riding - my legs are working - but I am no longer as alert. I'm not as cognizant of danger, more likely to take chances, and not as quick to notice the simple hazards of the road. And now I have nearly 30 miles to go.

Riding, as I've learned, is an incremental sport. The equipment you upgrade to, the stamina you develop, the doping you do - whoops, did I say that?! What I mean is, this kind of distance riding is fun, it's scenic, it's adventurous - but it's not easy. If you're gonna do it and push yourself, you're gonna need more help than the fruit, PB&Js - or even the great pies Glen is offering.** And as I talk to other riders, I learn that there are all kinds of aids out there. The one most often mentioned is Gu: basically caffeine in a tube. Well where was Gu in high school? Now that sounds like just the thing. I make a mental note of it, and pedal forward, hoping I'm not headed to a life of hard-drug dependency to support my biking habit.

Meanwhile, at least the bikes are resting...

After this last rest stop, it gets really pretty.

Ultimately, we rejoin Montauk Highway (an old friend by now), encountering a couple of hills I'm not particularly in the mood for.

With mixed feelings, I know this must mean we're getting to the end of the ride. And thanks to good training, I do just fine. Sometimes I think training is mostly a matter of knowing you've done it before.

Next thing I know, we're at the finish line, with people ready to ferry us.

And our bikes.

Back to the City.

There is beer. There is food. There are showers - yes hot showers. Glen has thought of everything. I walk past all of this. To the massage tables.

Truly Glen has outdone himself here (and no gratuities accepted). I have already been impressed at his meticulous planning for transportation, for marking the route, for all the logistics that go into a ride like this (not to mention dealing with the natives who don't always want us out there). But massages? I flop down on a table and let the masseuse have her way with me, feeling a wave of gratitude.

It's been a great trip, and I will spend the next week basking in the afterglow. My only regret is losing touch with K. I hope she enjoyed her ride as much as I did. And she's a dervish. With luck, I will run into her on a future ride.

As for The Big One, the hill I have been dreading?? Apparently I never read the fine print: Glen has taken pity on us and constructed a route without it. In hindsight I'd like to be able to say I'd done it. But in the moment?

Well, maybe next year with Gu.

*69.39 in actuality.
** Briermere Farms "With whipped cream made on the spot."

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The Five Boro Bike Tour

5/8/2015

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Question: What do martinis, fuchsia mohawks, trumpets and pipe cleaners have in common?

Answer: The 5 Boro Bike Tour, of course.

Founded in 1977, the original Tour reflected the more wild and wooly aspects of the City back then. Its 250 riders were encouraged to bring along "A kazoo, or even a guitar,"* if they wanted (no suggestion as to how to carry the latter). A rag tag group of bicycle clubs met at the Unisphere in Queens for the 50 mile course. And helmets? You're kidding, right?

By now the Tour has achieved legitimacy. Pared down to 40 miles, it now includes 32,000 riders and is sponsored by TD Bank. But fortunately, it still retains some of that original wacky spirit, which is what makes riding it such fun.

The first thing I notice is that the crowds, huge while standing still, are not so bad once we get going (we're divided into four "waves" with staggered starts, which helps). The second thing I notice is the creative approach to biking attire.

Yes, fuchsia mohawks.

And trumpets...

Who also have an accompanying sound track. In this case New York, New York, followed by the Looney Tunes theme.

My favorites, of course (are the trees mirroring the martinis, or vice versa?).

There is a method to this madness. Many people ride in teams. This way, they can keep track of each other on the course (much better than a t-shirt). There are as many approaches as there are teams it seems:

Flags.

Pipe cleaners (this was an actual team).

Don't ask.

Lots of cameras. And don't forget this year's biggest craze: the giant Selfie Stick:

Here is our course:

We proceed up 6th Avenue.

Starting to collect around Radio City.

And again as we approach Central Park.

(We know ahead of time this will happen - word on the street.)

But once we get going, it's a lovely ride.

In fact, I'm surprised at how easy the riding is. Having had a couple of experiences with group rides (over 90 cyclists on a narrow path), I have been expecting the usual number of hot-doggers, which make me nervous as hell, and a good number of inexperienced riders (who make everybody nervous). But I'm pleasantly surprised to find most everyone's manners in top form, and even the inexperienced cyclists behaving.

Up we go through Harlem (yes it is a perfect day).

Over the Madison Avenue Bridge (Google it).

And briefly into The Bronx along 138th.

The Bronx is the only borough in NY that really gets short shrift on the Tour, which is rather a pity - I'm assuming for traffic co-ordinating reasons. I'm hoping this will change on future rides.

Thanks to my adventures on my folding bike, Lucille, I already know this territory. But what's new is riding full out on major arteries - a whole other experience in enfranchisement. Like crossing back over the Third Avenue Bridge.

And riding along the FDR. The sense of empowerment is unmistakable.

You can't help wondering: if there were no cars, couldn't we actually manage pretty well on bikes? Even given some of the distances? Because with the streets to ourselves (and maintained as well as they are for cars), we could proceed so much more efficiently. We could own it!

Of course there's Winter….and the need for delivery trucks and…Well, maybe we could allow certain days for them just like they're doing for us today. Wouldn't that be special...

We follow the FDR all the way down to the Queensboro Bridge. The Queensboro (if you've never ridden it on a bike), is the most commercial of all of NYC's bridges. It's buzzing with commerce 24/7 - it never stops. You really notice it on the Queens side: you can hear the traffic 6 blocks away. To ride it as a cyclist is both a deafening (and polluted) experience. Don't get me wrong; we're grateful for the bike lane - but today?

Today, it is quiet and clean. And for the first time, riding the main road over the bridge, we can truly appreciate how beautiful this bridge really is. It looks like it's been cleaned since I last rode it.

Bike New York (along with its valiant volunteers) has done a phenomenal job of organizing this ride. But even Bike New York cannot promise us unlimited open streets; these things have to be synchronized with the City's traffic grid. That's the reason (I'm gathering), that after a trip up 21st Street, we are shuttled into Astoria Park (conveniently a rest stop) and held in a sort of open pen...

As you can see, many of us would prefer to skip the resting. It's perhaps the most frustrating leg of the Tour. But eventually we're on our way south through Brooklyn, via the Pulaski Bridge.

Normally a narrow and grim passage for bikes and pedestrians alike...

Today the bridge hosts us royally.

Hallelujah!

Down through Williamsburg we go.

Around the Brooklyn Navy Yard past DUMBO and along the waterfront.

Everywhere we go, we are greeted with people congratulating us and cheering us on (not that most of us need it. Given our d'ruthers, we'd ride twice as far if the roads were clear for us).

On a more practical level, there are volunteers and repair stations at the ready for the cyclist in need, which is comforting - especially for those not riding in a team.

When we hit Brooklyn Bridge Park, there is another rest stop, and this time my team, "Biker Ladies," ("Biker Sluts" was already reserved) takes advantage of it.

After which we find the road wide open on the BQE.

The BQE?! What must these drivers think? We know what some of them think, because they honk a supportive greeting from time to time (I think that's supportive...). After all, wouldn't you rather be on a bike on a day like this?

We ride the highway, past Bay Ridge and Dyker Heights (home of the famous Christmas lights**) following signs to Staten Island till we pass the final exit in Brooklyn.

Yes, that's an actual traffic sign that says, "Leaving Brooklyn, Fuhgeddaboudit." Brooklyn has always had a strong up-start attitude: bigger than Manhattan but with an inferiority complex. Which is gradually turning into a superiority complex (can't we all be friends?).

And then the Verrazano heaves into view:

The Verrazano Bridge is the longest suspension bridge in the country. More famous to New Yorkers for being the starting place of the NYC Marathon (though it very nearly became a tunnel). ***

The 5 Boro Bike Tour is the only time cyclists get a chance to ride the Verrazano - there is no bike lane here. There has been talk of adding one, but I'm wondering if that would be such a good idea; it tends to be both windy and cold. Today the temperature palpably drops as we make our way across.

From here, there's a final rest stop in Fort Wadsworth Park and then a 5-mile stretch through both industrial...

And leafy neighborhoods in Staten Island.

To the Staten Island ferry, where the hold-up is not unexpected.

For us it's 45 min. But we're rewarded with Popsicles...

And the always-glorious ride back to Manhattan.

It's been a great tour (though we may go for an earlier start next year). Here are "The Biker Ladies." K and R...

And the ever notorious L.

*http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com//2014/05/02/new-york-today-40-year-bike-trip
**http://www.bikeloveny.com/blog/christmas-lights-in-dyker-heights
***http://www.bensonhurstbean.com/2014/11/25-facts-verrazano-narrows-bridge/

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The Blessings Of The Bikes

5/5/2015

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The thing about bicyclists is, we have our own traditions. Especially in New York. Our traditions tend to be a unique mixture of old and new, of commercial and sacred, of human and mechanical – and with an ever-increasing bike population in NYC, they are ever evolving.

So it is that Lola and I find ourselves at The Cathedral of St. John The Divine for the Annual Blessings Of The Bikes.

This is a tradition that began in 1999 and it’s a sort of send off to the Five Boro Bike Tour. Not all present are taking the tour. No matter. Cycling is a big tent and The Cathedral welcomes us all.

At 8:30am, Lola and I are among the first to arrive.

But soon we are joined by many others...

At 8:55 we are ushered in.

Lola and I lead the procession up the left aisle following two bagpipes. Their majestic sound winds its way to the rafters and echoes throughout The Cathedral. And as we make our way forward, I find myself unexpectedly tearing up.

We (and our bikes) come in all shapes and sizes. But we have this one thing in common: a passion for life on two wheels. A shared understanding of what it feels like to have the wind in your ears, to have transportation fueled by your own efforts. We love the bikes that give us this: everything from joy, independence and a sense of accomplishment, to the simple ability to making a living. How miraculous! We are indeed a world-wide community and it’s touching to feel such a part of it.

The bagpipers continue to play...

Until we are lined up on either side.

And then the Reverend Canon Julia E. Whitworth reads the following passage from The Book Of Ezekiel.

Wheels and life. Spirit and wheels. An enigmatic vision indeed.

The ceremony proceeds with a psalm, a prayer and then the Blessings of the Bikes. The Reverend proceeds down the aisle sprinkling our bikes with holy water.

The action is met with a sweet chorus of tinkling bells (and one klaxon who after one honk, seems to have realized he’s taken it too far) which follow her up and down the central aisle.

I feel badly that Lola can’t participate. Road bikes are considered too serious to have bells. But why would I want to be serious? Why would I want to take the one thing in my life that brings me pure joy, and pollute it with judgments of what is valid and what is not? That’s the great thing about biking. It’s totally democratic; anybody can do it. I determine to find Lola a bell in time for the Tour.

After The Blessings, a moment of remembrance for those killed on bikes last year, and this year. Their names are read, and as the bagpipes play Amazing Grace, a symbolic “Ghost Bike” is wheeled in.

I don’t know how many of us personally know people who lost their lives on a bike, but it’s a statistic we’d all like to see disappear forever. I think, as always, of my dear friend Jamie, killed on his bike at age 38 in NYC.

There is a brief announcement encouraging a small donation (I brought no cash, but will do this online). Then a final benediction, and we proceed in grand procession around The Cathedral.

As the organ plays a powerful prelude with all the stops out, The Cathedral walls reverberate with grandeur. It’s inspiring. It’s regal. It’s – wait a minute. Is that the theme from ET?

I have to laugh. But why not? In thinking about it, it doesn’t surprise me. Because Steven Spielberg is one of us – he must be. Look at his logo:

As we exit The Cathedral, some of us group together for a ride down around The Battery to The Bike Expo – a shameless convention of bike merchandising featuring everything from bikes, to clothing to accessories. And we have to walk all the way through it to get our passes to the 5 Boro Bike Tour.

Yes, from God to Mammon in approximately ten miles. And like the Blessings of the Bikes, Bike Expo is also an annual event. The two are linked.

As I say, the thing about bicyclists is, we have our own traditions.

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