Ex Cathedra From The Queen of Corona

Here is one of my "dream trips":  I would go to Paris in August.  And there would be no tourists there.  


Barbara, Sue and I experienced something like that today.  None of the streets we cycled will be mistaken for le Boulevard St. Germain, but they were interesting in their own ways.


We rode by the Silvercup Studios in Long Island City.  It used to be the Silvercup Bakery, which used to supply bread to New York City schools as well as any number of tables in Queens and Brooklyn--including, sometimes, those of my immediate and extended family.  As I remember it, it was basic white bread.  But it was just fine for peanut butter and jelly, or other kinds of, sandwiches.


The streets around it were deserted even though they lead into Queens Plaza, which lies at the end of the Queensboro (a.k.a. 59th Street) Bridge.  One of them is even cobblestoned.  So Simon and Garfunkel actually knew what they were talking about in that song!


By the way, their "Queen of Corona" is fictional.  "Corona" means "crown" in Italian, Spanish and Latin, so she would be the "Queen of Crown."  However, there is a "King of Corona"--or, more precisely, a "Lemon Ice King of Corona."  They actually have a right to their self-proclaimed title.  I have tried the eponymous frozen confection, as well as many of the other flavors they offer.  The lemon and other fruit flavors actually have fruit in them.  Ditto vanilla and pistachios in the ices named for them.


But Barbara, Sue and I didn't go there today, as our ride didn't take us that way.  However, we have gone there any number of times before, and we did stop at Gino's Pizzeria on Cross Bay Boulevard, in Howard Beach.  One of the last remaining Italian neighborhoods in New York surrounds Gino's and supports yet another great pizzeria--New Park--a few blocks up and on the other side of the Boulevard.  In both eateries, one usually finds families or older single men.  It's not normal to see three forty- or fifty-ish women together, much less riding bicycles.  But either pizzeria--Gino's if you're on your way to the Rockaways or New Park if you're going the other way--is worth, if not a detour, at least a stop.


We rode to the Rockaways even though we knew the boardwalk would be crowded.  After all, today is Memorial Day and the temperature got up to 85 F (about 29.5 C).  At this time of year, there is even more difference in temperature between the beach and areas only a mile inland than there is in, say, the middle of August:  The water in the ocean is still only about 60F (15C), so the breezes from it can be rather brisk.


Instead of riding the boardwalk, we rode along a road that parallels it.  So we were still treated to the play of the warm sunlight flickering on cool waves and, as our ride progressed, turning into what I like to think of as "sea haze":  It can almost obscure the sun and the blueness of the sky, yet it has its own sort of steely translucence, like the ocean itself.


In all, we rode about thirty miles, as we took a route that meandered through Brooklyn (All right.  Maybe things don't "meander" through Brooklyn!) before returning to Queens in Lindenwood, a neighborhood a bit inland from Howard Beach.  I fiddled with my saddle with a couple of times in the first few miles.  Barbara and Sue were expecting that, as I am riding a new saddle on doctor's orders.  It'll be a while before I know whether it's a "keeper."  


It's a Terry Falcon X saddle.  As I was riding it, I knew it was reminding me of a saddle I rode back in the day, but I wasn't sure of which.  Actually, now that I think of it, I was recalling two saddles:  the Sella Italia Flite, circa 1992, and a French Ideale 2002 I rode about a decade earlier, during my first foray into racing.  I rode that 2002 on my racing bike and I rode the Ideale 90--an all-leather saddle very similar to a Brooks Professional--on my tourer.  Apparently, Ideale went out of business not long after I started riding their saddles. If you find an unused alloy-railed model, you can sell it to some Japanese collector on eBay and retire.


The 2002 was a nylon-based saddle with thin, dense padding and a very nice leather covering.  They were similar to a saddle Cinelli used to make, but were less expensive. And both the 2002 and the 90 seemed to flare more gradually from the tip of the nose to the rear than Brooks or Cinelli saddles. Brooks saddles--at least some models--seem almost T-shaped by comparison.  The Brooks may be somewhat better in quality, but I actually liked the shape of the Ideales somewhat better.  And it's echoed somewhat in my new saddle.  


And the Terry seems to have a flattish top which rises somewhat toward the rear.  That's what was reminding me of the Flite, which is one of the flattest saddles I ever rode.  Vetta used to make a similar model that was even flatter:  They were my favorite for a time, but Vetta had stopped making them by the time mine fell apart.


Of course, the Terry differs in one significant way from those, or any other I've ridden:  It has the "hole" in the middle that the doctor recommended.  I think it will take me a while to see how or whether I like them, or whether the hole is in the right part of the saddle for me.  Another thing that will take at least a few more rides to decide whether I like is the length of the saddle:  It, like most women's-specific saddles, is a bit shorter than most men's saddles.  


All right...Those of you who aren't cyclists are probably still wondering how someone can make such a fuss over a bike seat.  It doesn't make much difference if you ride only around the block.  But on longer rides, and more time spent  on the  saddle, you will notice whether it's right for you.  Plus, I don't want to undo all that nice work Marci did down there!

How Many Degrees of Separation?

Today I went for a ride with Barbara and Sue, my sometime riding buddies.  I first started riding with them during my second year of living as Justine.  I met them, ironically enough, through the now ex-wife of  a guy with whom I used to ride "back in the day."


Funny how "back in the day" is--in terms of my own life, not to mention the greater continuum of time--not so long ago, really.  About ten years ago I was riding with Sheldon and a few of  his friends on some days, and on others I was riding with Mark, the husband of Carolyn, who introduced me to Barbara and Sue.  A few months ago, I learned, Carolyn left Mark because of another woman.  And Carolyn is the reason why Mark's first ex-wife left him.


All right:  I'm not going to write an expose on the secret lives of cyclists or some such thing.  Mark and a few other men I know give lie to a rumor that circulates every ten years or so:  that cycling causes male impotency.     If anything, it makes real men out of would-be men.  I know:  After all, as they say, it takes a real man to be a tranny.  Or, at least, it takes balls to be a woman.


Anyway...Barbara, Sue toand I rode from the Brooklyn Bridge Plaza out to the Canarsie Pier, by way of Ozone Park.  Yes, that way is not "as the crow flies."  But none of us were crows the last time I looked.


The Canarsie Pier itself offers quite the panoramic view of Jamaica Bay as it opens out to the ocean to the east and toward Breezy Point, Coney Island and Sandy Hook, New Jersey to the west and southwest.  You can forget that you're in Brooklyn, or any other part of New York City when you're on the pier--and looking toward the water.  Only a few hundred yards in back of the pier is the Belt Parkway and, on the other side of it, Rockaway Parkway and the neighborhood for which the pier is named.  And, near the entrance to the pier is one of those buildings that really looks like an oversized gazebo and is found on boardwalks.  Hot dog stands and such usually operate from such edifices, but the one on Canarsie Pier looks as if it's been vacant for about ten years.    At least I don't go to the pier for the architecture.


I sent Barbara and Sue on their way from the pier.  Actually, Barbara had to go to some family function and Sue had her business to take care of, and I didn't want to keep them. Plus, I wanted to spend some time on the pier, to which I used to ride at least a couple dozen times a year but hadn't seen since well before my surgery.


The first time I went to the pier was about twenty-five years ago.  I rode there with Mike and Gregory, with whom I worked at American Youth Hostels.  Gregory had lived in Canarsie all of his life and could recall when truck farms near the pier supplied stores and restaurants in the city.  He also took me on the one and only sea kayak ride I've ever experienced.  It's something I'd do again; I haven't only because I haven't had a friend or even riding buddy who has a kayak and access to a launch since I lost touch with Gregory.


As for Mike...I wonder whether or not he's alive.  I hadn't thought about him or Gregory for a long time until now.  Gregory was about ten years older than me; Mike was about my parents' age.  The last time I saw him, he was not much older than I am now. Last I heard--about ten years ago--he was on dialysis.  I heard about it from Holly, who worked with us in those days and whom I didn't see for about fifteen years until I bumped into her in a bookstore on the Upper West Side.  I have absolutely no idea of where she is now.  


I once introduced her to Morris, whom I met while working at AYH.  After they split up, Holly declared herself to be a lesbian.  Of course, there is absolutely no cause-and-effect relationship there! Still, I have made no attempt to be a matchmaker since then.  


It's really odd to think about those times.  I did a lot of things I enjoyed, and I did them with people whose company I enjoyed.  But I was still dreadfully unhappy.   It got to a point that I would warn people who wanted to develop friendships or other kinds of relationships with me that no matter what they did, they couldn't make me happy, so they shouldn't even try.  


I will probably never see any of those people again.  It's probably just as well:  Resuming friendships, much less love relationships, after a long hiatus has never worked for me.   I guess people never can do things they did "back in the day."  Or, at least, they can't do those things in the same way, with the same people as they did the first time around.  Then again, they may not want to.  I wouldn't, simply because of the price that my past extracted from me--and, sometimes, from the people who were involved in it.  


After I sent Barbara and Sue on their way, I sat on a wooden bench on Canarsie Pier, among fathers and sons who cast hooks and lines or cages with chicken necks inside them, and among the young lovers and old reminiscers.  None of them know me now; none knew me "back in the day."  I am happy for that.

Riding With "The Girls"

The temperature rose to nearly 70 F today. And it was one of those days that ended with the autumn sun burnishing the horizon with an orange glow like a hearth smoldering over the bay.

So I'll give you three guesses as to what I did.

I did a slightly longer ride, this time on Arielle, my geared Mercian road bike. Now she has bragging rights: Tosca, my fixed-gear Mercian, got my first ride yesterday, but Arielle got the longer ride.

Plus, Arielle got to spend the ride with Barbara and Sue, who've been my sometime riding companions for the past few years. Arielle likes it when people admire her. I don't fault her for that: After all, it's a trait she inherited from her mistress.

Today's ride negotiated the curves of Vernon Boulevard toward the RFK (nee Triboro) Bridge and along the Greek restaurants, food stores and bakeries of Ditmars Boulevard to the road that leads to the bridge to Riker's Island. No, we didn't go there! (You can only cross that bridge on a bus or if you have a permit for your car.) Then, we made a couple of sharp turns and soon found ourselves next to LaGuardia Airport. From there, there's a nice promenade that rims the shoreline of Flushing Bay. Moored boats bobbed listlessly in the wakes of the few other boats that sluiced solar reflections flickering in the ripples in the waters beyond the marina.

At the end of the promenade, on the other side of the Grand Central Parkway from Citi Field, we stopped. A young couple was getting into a boat that didn't look like much more than a jet-ski with a bubble-top. A jet took off from La Guardia and seemed headed straight for us, for a moment anyway. And a black and white cat I've seen before slinked around the tires of our bikes. The cat's been there for at least ten years: I've ridden that promenade for about a dozen or so years, and can remember the cat from about that far back. He's surprisingly friendly--with me, anyway--and has a smoother, shinier coat than one would expect from a cat who seems to have spent his whole life outdoors.

After a few minutes, as the sun began to set, we started back to my place. By the time we parted ways, we'd ridden about a dozen miles. And I was feeling really good, save for a bit of soreness in my lower vaginal area. I tipped my seat ever-so-slightly downward just after I left my place. I guess I'll have to fiddle with the seat some more, at least for a while. But at least I felt energetic and the ride went almost effortlessly. Thank you, Barbara, Sue --and Arielle!