Flaternalia (in which luck plays a part in unexpected events)

It’s Fall, and the squirrels are in overdrive. They are focused and just don’t respond to danger. They don’t respond to a bell...

They don’t respond to a whistle.

I've tried barking as a last resort. Other bikers respond to that (I try not to meet their gaze), but squirrels don’t. It’s as if they’re on a quest to find and bury acorns, and nothing else seems to penetrate their consciousness. I’ve recently seen them pay the ultimate price on the bike path for this, and as I marvel at their drive, the chorus of a song by Joe Jackson runs through my head - slightly altered: “Don’t You Know That It’s Different for Squirrels?”

The original chorus of course, goes “Don’t You Know That It’s Different for Girls?” which is the real issue these days, as I’ve been trying out a new bike saddle. All the ones I’ve tried so far have been for men, sold to me by sincere guys who keep repeating soulfully how well their seat will cushion the sit bones. No amount of pleading on my part for something that accommodates the Lady Parts seems to get through (indicating to me that in the 21st Century, men STILL don’t know where they are located). In desperation, I’ve gone off the grid to my budding network of female cyclists who have raved about this:

And bought it online.

It looks a little gynecological to me, but if it works I’ll get past its appearance. Meanwhile, only distance riding will tell me if it really does the job. I decide to take Lucille up to the George Washington Bridge today (have I mentioned I like to ride in the rain?).

We proceed along the Hudson Greenway passing the beginnings of fall foliage on the path.

And puddles.

And the usual Hobson’s choice left us by the NYPD’s horses, which I'll have to deal with on the way back – either ride through it.

Or risk riding into oncoming traffic in the opposing lane.

The Promenades are always lovely, but we are dissuaded from lingering at the Tennis Courts by the sight of a homeless guy washing up in the bathroom.

Statistically, the greatest homeless population in New York is women and children. But those aren’t the ones you see in the parks. These people are crazy (I’ve learned) so it’s wise to steer clear. We make a quick U-Turn and head further north.

This way lie other obstacles, especially in the rain.

As well as those nicely marked tree roots which bulge the path.

What? They don't think we'll notice them otherwise?

But there are some beautiful parts too.

Ah, Canada Geese. Lazy blighters. They don’t respond to a bell either – heck, from what I know they don’t respond to an Airbus. I try quacking. Nothing.    

What’s up with this jaded wildlife?

At last the Bridge comes into view.

And the Little Red Light House, indicating we’ve reached our destination.

The view from here is always dramatic.

You can go much further up of course, to Nyack and even Riverdale. But for today we turn around.

In a mile or so, the sun is coming out.

The ride down the Greenway is uneventful. But as I get I into Midtown, I start to feel really bogged down. Even on the flats, third gear seems a trial. What gives - am I bonking? Have I run out of fuel? I don’t feel that way. At the same time there is this illusion that the bike is getting lower to the ground, the handlebars up around my ears, and I wonder how I’m going to make it home at this rate. Then I start to notice the pavement feels different. Then I hear that familiar flappeta-flappeta. I pull over and check. Yes, Lucille has a flat in her rear tire.

For most biker riders, you could almost hear the record scratch as the needle comes off the LP, signaling the end of a good time. But because of Lucille, I feel a thrill of vindication. We’re right near the Imperial Terminal, where taxis are lined up to meet people coming off the ferries from NJ. And they’re just as happy to see us!

There are times when people have asked me what I consider a very “Foldist” question like: Have you ever ridden a “normal” bike? I’m guessing they mean a road bike of some sort, or maybe a hybrid. Well of course I have, but why would I do that here?

If you’ve never ridden a Brompton, they look like toys. It’s not until you ride one (and pay for it) that you realize they’re brilliant mechanisms specifically designed for convenience and city riding. And one of their best attributes is being able to fit very nicely into the trunk of a taxi.

Lucille promptly shows off the advantages of her tribe. The taxi driver is amazed. And before you know it, we are at our home away from home, BFold.

Where they will fit her out with a new inner tube. I am advised to get something to eat around the corner, rather than stay and watch the procedure. Perhaps it’s not for the squeamish(?). I opt for an early dinner.

(For the foodies out there, that’s grilled salmon with celeriac puree)

I pick up Lucille, and we head for home, encountering only one obstruction in the bike lane.

And the kind of curious conveyance you just won't find anywhere else.

But why?

Meanwhile, the bicycle seat has been a success. For cyclists, the search for the perfect bike saddle equates roughly to the search for the Holy Grail, and that goes double for women. I’ll probably tweak the position over time but for now it’s definitely an improvement over what I had.

You know, when I first came into BFold in search of Lucille, I remember a Brompton rider was there getting a flat repaired. He was discussing the cause with Dave at the shop, and he surmised his problem had come from some broken glass he’d run over. At the time, I thought this was the most romantic remark, so urban and cool. I couldn’t believe I was on the verge of joining such a hip club of cyclists in the City. And now I have joined it – really joined it (yes, it was glass). And Lucille has lived up to every expectation and then some. But for all of her flexibility and swank, I’m just as glad that flat didn’t occur at the Little Red Light House. I carry a repair kit with me (and an extra inner tube), but I’ve never used it. I hate to think what a long walk it would have been to hail a taxi.