Part 2, that is, of the most photographed (by your Diarist, at least) BCP progressive ride ever. When last seen, Dr. Diarist and I were approaching the city of Philadelphia at the end of the club ride.
Fairmont Park’s trees were pulling out all the stops, displaying a white and fluffy exuberance quite different from the snows of yesterweek:
The city closes Kelly Drive on weekends, making it bliss — mostly — to ride upon. The qualification is due to the regularly scheduled special events, which often mean that we find ourselves dodging massive quantities of wayward pedestrians weaving across the road for various charity and sporting events.
Deserted Kelly Drive. (Ah, the arches of Philadelphia, how I well I like them!)
The Philadelphia Museum of Art, in all of its Grecian glory, is just across the river. It’s my favourite Philadelphia building.
That white swath below the museum crest is the old city water works. In summer, there’s usually a high-end restaurant operating there; otherwise, it’s a fine promenade, but one not much used, and not one on which bicycles are permitted to ride.
Next along, to the left, which should be northerly, if I’ve got my directions right, is boathouse row, famed for boats, yes, but also for the picturesque buildings which house local rowing clubs. Sculling on the Schuylkill River is a long-time tradition.
Then there is this tree, likely much newer than the boathouses, but quite appealing in its own right.
We cycled around a curve, and there was Philadelphia, proper. Or downtown Philadelphia, at least.
A little farther around the bend, we could see a bridge filled with lots and lots of traffic, quite unlike the lovely boulevard that Dr. Diarist, Argyll, Basil and I were traversing.
On the train home, we rode backward. I snapped a photo of this power farm; that’s the shadow of Basil’s saddle and saddle bag in the lower right.
I was only able to snap a section of this deco-ish bridge. Through the window of the train, the structure looks more like a sketch to me than a photograph; the color seems to be a pastel wash, lending the structure a look of fragility, or that of an image from an old-time post card.
Basil rode next to me on the train seat. When the conductor took our tickets, Dr. Diarist noted that offspring* of the wheeled variety ride the train at no charge.
Argyll rode between the seats, where he fit quite neatly, even with a Mini O perched on top.
Our total mileage for this week’s progressive was just under 46 mi/74 km.* “We treat them like children, babies, literally,” says Andrew Barnett, of Bumble Bee fame, describing Brompton owners and their bicycles, quoted in BloombergBusinessweek. Andrew knows whereof he speaks, and we do, too . . . (Basil and I are out of town this week, so response to comments and email will be slow — well, to be frank, non-existent — until our return.)