In February, I wrote about the spikes installed on the girders at 30th Street Station.
There’s a reason they look like icicles; they’re made of translucent plastic.
No wonder they keep birds away — that’s a really unforgiving landing surface. Though it may not be a very durable one; there were a number of these spines littering the platform on a recent visit.
Completely OT (and yet not cats!). Mr. Diarist and I went for coffee a week or so ago, and perused the magazine section in the host bookstore. This, courtesy of “moderndog” [sic]:
Well. That topic’s covered.
There are still some traditional railroad ties along the routes Basil and I most frequently ride.
As this image illustrates all too well, though, aged wood appears to degrade over time. Tons of train passing over constantly probably accelerate the process considerably.
Cement seems to be the contemporary tie of choice:
I wonder what the longevity is for these. Cement is theoretically stronger stuff, but it’s not impervious to cold, and it’s often not sturdy when flexed.
Daily movement, of course, between the rails and ties, is accommodated by these attachments, which are almost delicate
especially compared to the traditional ones
which have broad plates attached with large spikes hammered into the wooden ties.
Both attachment methods allow the ties to “float” a bit; all that vibration from rolling trains needs to run out safely. That’s the same theory that demands that buildings flex in earthquake country: A building that flexes when the earth moves has the best chance of remaining intact. Ditto, I assume, for ties attached to vibrating steel rails.
I really need to stop taking pictures of Basil in bathroooms (having already made my point).
But that’s pretty darn good-looking tile, isn’t it? I couldn’t resist making it the background for a quick shot of Basil.
We didn’t make it. Weather reports leading up to Saturday were iffy, describing a mixture of rain and snow, possibly improving by 9 AM when the ride was scheduled to start. Basil and I travel for nearly three hours before we meet up with our BCP fellow riders on these rides, though, and assessing the weather in the early morning (and several counties away) is an art I haven’t yet well-mastered. In bowing out yesterday, I may have been too conservative.
Mr. Diarist and I went for coffee near the time the ride was winding up. Conditions looked pretty good when we set out, but by the time we’d finished our drinks, fat wet flakes were falling, and the road surface was approaching lethal.
This slight dusting of delicate white stuff doesn’t look like much, does it? (Though that poor tree looks as if it’s losing an awful lot of sap. I missed that when I took the picture outside the coffee shop.) We were sorry to miss the ride, and the companionship. Happily, there will be other opportunities, and Progressive IV next week.
The catenary rig atop SEPTA’s new rail cars is very spiffy looking.
That cheery red paint won’t last long, but, in the meantime, it’s quite a jaunty look.
Basil and I ride the train quite a bit. I’ve always loved trains, and probably love bicycling for many of the same reasons I find travel by rail so appealing. The window of a rail carriage provides a view of a world not easily seen by any other means.
Maybe that’s not exactly true: the neighborhoods we view from train windows aren’t really invisible. It’s just that their best-known face isn’t the one viewed from a rail carriage.
Some of the structures we see were probably built after the rails went through, like this little settlement.
Others look as if they probably pre-date the railroad.
In many communities, housing along the tracks can be pretty sketchy: rundown or carelessly built. Along the Main Line near Philadelphia, that’s not always (or often!) the case.
This sprawling house looks like a miniature estate., though the front yard is now a railroad line.
Though the grounds of this home appear a bit scraggly and the fence is rusted, the multiple chimneys testify to a significant past. This structure, too, faces the tracks, not the neighborhood behind the building.
Driving down a street, or even cycling, lets us see neighborhoods in a way we accept as conventional (though we see much more on a bicycle than by car). But peering into the less public side of the geography is like peeking into secret worlds. It’s a view at once intimate and completely impersonal.
This was an interesting sight along a road upon which I expect to be riding occasionally this summer:
I think this is a good thing . . . but I was happy to have been a passenger in a car when I spotted it, rather than on a bicycle.
Basil looks amazingly lean, even when all geared up.
I love being able to use thinner gloves in cold weather now that I can stuff my hands into these polka dot warmers.
Those neoprene bar mittens are truly ostentatious, but wow, do they work! This was just a quick 10 mile/16 km jaunt for coffee.
This was the Weather Challenge Progressive: It was 32 F/0 C when I left the house, and 58 F/14.4 C by the time the ride ended. Admittedly, I do leave the house quite early . . .
A hearty group gathered at the Azalea Garden (one of the crew is missing; he arrived shortly after the picture was snapped, and I didn’t think to take another). I’m a bad photographer on all fronts, it seems; I didn’t even notice that Basil is front and (nearly) center. I’ll be parking him against the wall next time. My natural affection for him may be clouding other sensibilities!
Midpoint of the ride is Bridgeport, where we stopped at Suzy Jo Donuts. During the January Progressive, I’d resisted the temptation, but I was determined not to, this time. (Let’s just say that this kind of carby delight forms no part of my usual dietary fare.)
Our ride leader, Tim C., claims that these donuts have a certain je ne sais quois that make them distinctly Philadelphia in nature. I regretted not finding out for myself on that previous trip.
This time, I took two, just to make up for my past error. The glazed doughnut was excellent, but not different from any other I vaguely remember from the distant past. But the chocolate slathered, lemon-filled bomb was seriously substantial, in the best possible way. Doughnut-like, but also somehow cake-y, without being heavy. Yum!
This must have been a healthy crowd; only Tim and I indulged.
Then we headed up the street to the Palm Tree Market, where those who were showing more restraint were able to procure comestibles of various other sorts.
Well-fortified with fuel and conversation, we headed back. A few miles out, Tim discovered that he’d left his pannier at the Palm Tree, so he sent us on ahead while he and another rider headed back to get it. (There were extra doughnuts in that pannier!)
It was at this point that I realized that we’d somehow lost the other women (probably Tim knew about this, and I’d just missed the point where they’d dropped off). Just three of us continued on.
As I’m sufficiently directionally impaired that getting lost on the Schuylkill Trail isn’t out of the question, I was grateful for company most of the way back (including a course correction near the end), and the excellent conversation about, among other things, Munich. (If you go, scout up Mike’s Bikes, and get yourself on some wheels in Germany!)
The day was sunny and beautiful, and the Schuylkill River clear, at least around the edges. Sunlight sparkled all over the river; I’d forgotten how bright sun is!
Near Philadelphia, especially, there were a lot of others using the trail. I have a sneaky suspicion that using this trail in warm weather may become challenging. Even today there were a few minor skirmishes, and some indications that not everyone is into sharing.
I annoyed a road racer who had sufficient room to blast past me, but was annoyed that I hadn’t known he was approaching, silently, at high speed. Why do so many road racers think that a whispered “on your left” as they are already on your left, is sufficient warning for a high-speed pass? I’m more than happy to do the right thing, but assuming that I’m clairvoyant is probably not a good tactic.
Basil posed by the river, since I hadn’t realized that he was already in the group shot.
Back at 30th Street Station, it was already spring. People must pick up flowers on their way home — or do they buy a bunch to take to their destination? I’m not fond of cut flowers, but the idea that someone might take a train to visit, and then present a host with fresh flowers is charming. But, I fear, very 1950s.
I liked the dried floral bunches, which remind me of herbs curing in open air markets.
Basil and I rode 36 fine miles today. I survived the temperature, largely by removing the sleeves from my windbreaker, but two more degrees might have killed me. My 32 F/0 C gear lacks sufficient zippers to allow for such drastic fluctuations; I may have to do something about that next season.