Category: Tours, Trails & Group Rides

Sadly, I travelled without Basil,  as this was a fast turn-around, with no opportunity whatever to ride Basil — discounting the few short blocks I navigated by foot, which weren’t enough to justify having to check him with strangers for the rest of the day.

I was at the train station at 4:45 AM, and it was surprisingly pleasant.

Riding SEPTA at that hour is a lot like riding in a private rail coach, but not so posh.

I was in one of the new Silverliner V cars, and, for the first time, made my way to the front of the train.  On standard SEPTA trains, this window is blocked off, so a seat at the front is no different from a seat anywhere else.  Not so on the Silverliners.  I wasn’t able to get good photos while the sky was still dark — too much reflection from lights inside the carriage — but this was a long ride, and dawn made for a better result.

I usually arrive in New York at Grand Central Terminal and scurry through it without ever seeing daylight.  On this trip, I found myself outside. On another day, I’ll have to make a point of spending an hour or two exploring the building’s exterior. Clearly, there are points of interest!

Virtually all of this trip was spent indoors; I didn’t do nearly as much walking as is normal when I’m in New York, but I did manage to spy a few things of interest in the few blocks I traversed, including these new, as-yet-unoccupied, bike share racks.

New York’s bike share racks are not permanently installed; that is, they are not bolted to the ground.  Instead, they are held in place by weight.  The idea is that they can be moved around the city — using heavy equipment, not your pick-up truck, presumably —  as needed.  (Some cities with bike share programs have discovered that patrons prefer to cycle only downhill, which has required constant shuffling of bikes and, sometimes, racks.)

Roll-out for the program was yesterday:  Memorial Day.  There’s been huge interest in the program, with thousands of people signing up before the racks even began appearing.  It will be fascinating to see how the program works, how popular it is, and how both cyclists and motorists adapt.

Though this was an excellent day, it was, alas, a non-cycling one for me. I arrived home just as the sun was setting.  All was not lost: a nice sleep, and then I could be riding Basil once again!

a spring sighting:

A Victorian, with a exterior color scheme worthy of San Francicso’s Painted Ladies. Makes me long for Baghdad-By-The-Bay, it does. (And how I love those bay windows, wherever they appear!)

This has been a month of firsts for Basil and me:  First huge cycling event (the 5 Boro Tour), first time riding in New York City traffic, and this ride, my first attempt to conquer I ride I’ve feared for quite a while — the long steady climb into a local town. Inclines are not my friend; I have a lot of trouble going up, particularly if the action must be sustained.

This one doesn’t look like much, does it?  In my defense, it continues beyond the curve ahead; somehow I just can’t seem to capture its fearsome nature in a photograph. The ride is equally steep either way, with equal breaks, too, where Basil and I can just fly downhill.  It was hard work, and I struggled a bit, but Basil and I made it into town and back:  One more first!

We stopped along the way to explore a cemetery.   Though these trees are enormous, they have a certain grace. Basil posed beneath this one. (Mr. Diarist saw this shot, and said “Haven’t I seen this before?” knowing full well he hadn’t — Basil is just fond of posing with trees!)

From a distance, I wondered if the tree had been burned. I think, instead, that it must have lost a limb.  When I lived in orchard country, if I recall correctly, damaged areas on trees were often treated with tar (maybe creosote?) to seal and protect the vulnerable spot where there was no bark.  I think that’s what I saw here:

It’s a fascinating look at the texture of the wood — as well as testimony to the resilience of the tree itself.

Other than going, at times, very, very slowly, we had only one bothersome moment:  A single gust of wind nearly knocked us over.. When I checked the weather record after, the highest recorded gust was only 14 mph/22.5 kph, so it’s surprising that it affected us so greatly.  (Although it’s worth noting that measurement was taken at the weather station, not exactly where Basil and I were.)  In any event, we held our ground, and arrived home safely.  Now I want to see if, with practice, I become stronger, and more capable, at managing this route. That’s what spring is for!

After Basil and I returned from New York, Mr. Diarist, his mountain bike, Basil and I took a short ride together on a local trail.

It was a lovely temperate day. Newly-revived greenery provided lush frames for the usual sights along the way.

We spied this hearty little family, too.  Mama was leading nine goslings, all of them larger than usual at this time of year, having (apparently) gotten a good start on spring.

Mr. Diarist offered directional assistance to a fellow looking for another trail. Whereas I can’t find my way out of an open paper bag, Mr. Diarist has excellent geographic skills, so it’s likely that the lost cyclist found his destination, as he’d had to good sense to ask the right person!

I snapped a picture of this house while Mr. Diarist was assisting the cyclist. It’s perched on a hillside overlooking a lovely green patch (and, now, the end of the trail).   The location must have been wonderful once, but these days the building is all boarded up and no longer occupied.

Below the house, to my left as I took this picture, was once some kind on industrial installation — part of a mill, perhaps, as they were once common in this area. It’s likely that both were abandoned at approximately the same time. I’m surprised, though, that someone hasn’t snapped up the house and refurbished it. Though it now overlooks a trail parking lot, the setting is still marvelous, and that porch would be a marvelous place to spend a bit of evening on a summer — or spring — day.

Before the 5 Boro, I’d ridden in two events, both the previous autumn, and both so small that I essentially rode them alone.  A “real” event like the 5 Boro Tour was a first for me.  (Nothing like starting your cycling event life on one with 32,000 other riders!)  The same week, I marked another milestone by doing something I thought I would never do:  I rode in  Manhattan traffic.  A lot. And lived to tell the tale.

On Tuesday after the Boro, Basil needed a small repair, the detais of which I’ll post later.  He was fixed much sooner than I expected, so I collected him, and then took a bus back to the west sde, and then the subway to 28th St., with Basil in tow.  I grabbed an indifferent sandwich at a “gourmet” market next to a favorite sandwich shop (unexpectedly shuttered) while Basil waited patiently.

The paucity of quality ingredients in the sandwich were compensated by the glory of this creation, which made a much more satisfying lunch.

We were behind FIT (the Fashion Institute of Technology), and hadn’t too many blocks to go to reach our destination.  I’d seen a cupholder on a stroller that might work on a Brompton, so I wanted to take Basil to Buy Buy Baby to see if I could find the holder.  It was only blocks away.

I couldn’t stand the thought of having Basil with me and not riding; it felt far more wrong than risking death in Manhattan traffic.

We rode to the store. We failed to find the cupholder.  We left the store.

Then, much as happened on the day of the 5 Boro, I said to myself, “If I go east and then turn left, I must run into the Greenway eventually.”  And that’s what I did; well, I went east, and then left.  I never found the Greenway.

Before I knew it, I was passing UN Plaza, in the mid-Forties.

The blocks just fell away; I was in the high 6os before I’d blinked, it seemed, and then back on familiar turf in the UES. And Basil and I were both still alive!  In the process, though, I learned these things:

• In New York, it is possible to be doored from the right side, the left side, and the front. Take this seriously.
• Also, it’s possible to get doored from a traffic lane.  Really. When a New Yorker wants to exit a vehicle, said New Yorker will. No matter where the vehicle is.
• Motorists believe that bikes should use the ostentatiously painted — red — dedicated bus lanes, even though they (inexplicably) observe the prohibition themselves.
• When vehicle windows are open, it’s possible to get a driver’s attention with a bike bell.  And garner a smile, too, potentially.
• Bus drivers may toot their horns, very lightly, with several quick taps in a row, to politely let a cyclist know that the bus will be entering the bus lane behind, and next to, the cyclist.  (I was watching in my mirror, but that was really helpful.)
• Taking the lane, sensibly and overtly, is often Very Important.
• Some motorists will come very close to side-swiping a bicyclist, either because they don’t notice, they hate cyclists, or they just don’t care.  There’s actually very little one can do about this, except veer into the space one has kept between the parked cars’ doors and oneself, and hope none of those doors open at the same moment.
• Average speed of a slow-moving Brompton will well exceed that of any motorist travelling the same route, even if the Brompton rider observes all traffic laws, as she is wont to do.
• It’s possible that I was the only cyclist in all of Manhattan wearing Hi Vis apparel.  Really.

Taxis, blitzing across many lanes with laser-like focus toward prospective fares, and, in the process, completely un-alert to the possibility of a bicycle in the trajectory, seemed to pose a more serious hazard to cyclists than the occasional impatient civilian motorist.  On the other hand, several taxi drivers went out of their way to indicate that they saw me, and I had a great conversation with another taxi driver while waiting at a light.  He gave me a thumbs up, and said that walking and cycling were the best ways to see the city.

Admittedly, New York was in a great mood during this particular week: cars were being driven with the windows open, to take in all that cool, but definitely spring-like, air, and people were uncharacteristically smiling a lot.  All that aside, though, it was all-too-obvious how a freak moment could send a cyclist crashing into oblivion — whether or not he or she had been vigilant. I was terrified for most of the ride — also thrilled, and completely disbelieving:  Were we really doing this?!

Basil and I hopped the crosstown bus for the second time that day, and then took the subway to 168th, where we decided we hadn’t ridden enough, so we rode over to Amsterdam Avenue and down to about 155th, back again, and tootled around the neighborhood a bit before going “home”.

On Broadway (I think) somewhere around 170th, we saw a cargo bike — with a passenger on board.

Drivers were more easy-going, and generally friendlier, in Washington Heights, but it’s safe to say that vigilance is the skill of the hour.  Riding in Manhattan, especially in Mid-Town, feels like a death-defying act — but it was a completely exhilarating experience, too.  What a week this was:  Two “firsts” for Basil and me:  a huge group ride, and navigating New York City traffic.  Who woulda thunk it??!?

Altogether we rode over seven miles/11.2 km in New York traffic.  (It’s a small island, folks!)  Will I ever need a subway pass again?  We’ll see!

Here’s the route we took:

9th Avenue south to right on 26th

26th to 7th (errand stop)

25th to  left on 1st Avenue, with some noodling around looking for the Greenway.  (I could see the FDR below, but no way to get near it, or anything that I could positively identify as the path)

1st Avenue to a left on 71st, which I had mistaken for the street the M79 (yeah — go figure) takes across Central Park

71st to right on 3rd Avenue

3rd Avenue to 79th, the actual stop of the M79 crosstown bus (d’oh! — although, in fairness, you catch it at 81st on the west side)

Then we took the bus and the subway back to Washington Heights, riding down Amsterdam to around 155th, back up again, and a bit in the neighborhood.

SEPTA’s Market East station has an urban vibe; among various other indications, the roaming safety officers are inclined to remind people to be watchful of belongings.  (One saw me going into the women’s room with Basil recently and told me to be sure to take him into the stall with me.  The officer was obviously concerned that I could exit having found that someone had absconded with my Brompton while I was occupied elsewhere.  No worries there; I keep my little buddy by my side!)

It’s gritty, sure, but that’s part of city life. And the station itself is full of color and multi-level interest.  Bright-red benches, for example.

And overhead views of the tracks (through glass wired against vandalism, but you gotta deal with reality, after all).

And glorious, rainbow-hued, subway tiles, set akimbo.

Basil’s colors are well-represented, I note.

The station is clearly designed to be nearly indestructible, but the overall effect is playful.  There’s an assumption that this can be a nice place to pass through, not a grim stop on the way to somewhere else.  It’s the best kind of “gentrification” of all:  open to all, with the implicit expectation that this is a space of which to be proud, accessible to everyone.*

*Really! The elevators work!  So”accessibility” here  means people with physical disabilities, too . . . take that, MTA!

The hodge-podge of bridges in the Philadelphia region may provide testimony to unplanned growth, but the variety is endlessly fascinating.

Point of view matters, of course.  What looks very straightforward — even flat and slightly uninspired — at one angle can look quite different when seen from another.

This view is a little meh, I think.  (Unless, perhaps, your name is Valentino, and you choose to see it as a monogram.)  It’s a little rigid, a little dull.  Just a bridge support in the middle of a river.

But seen from here?  Sure, there’s a steely flatness in this ordered precision, but also a kind of grace in the swoop of the arches, and the open spaces between the girders, don’t you think?  And, maybe, a visual depth that enhances the protective, cave-like, underside of the roadway?

It’s all in how you see it.

Unlike our previous attempt, this time Basil and I showed up at the correct Spring Mill [SEPTA] station parking lot, and met this cheerful, friendly lot:

We set off on the Schuylkill River Trail, stopping at Betzwood where we ran into an evangelical who was handing out bagels. This caught the imagination of some of our gang, and much conversation ensued, along with bagel-consumption.

However, a couple of our crew had more urgent matters on their minds.  The bathrooms at Betzwood were inexplicably locked at mid-morning on this Sunday, so they headed off looking for other accommodations.

Once we got going again, the rest of us took a slightly different route, and passed these critters.

Llamas!  And, up on the crest to the left, burros. Or donkeys.  Anyway, furry fellows with wonderful noses (and ears).

This was a stunningly beautiful day.

After our bucolic detour, we joined up with the others, who had located bathroom facilities in the woods, far enough from a trail that I’d never suspected that they were there.  I have no clue where we were (other than outside Phoenixville), but that’s, of course, not unusual.

This was the chattiest group ride I’ve even been on.  It was good-natured, and a lot of fun, but I suspect more than one Sunday schedule was rearranged, as a result.  Not mine, though — one point of my faraway cycling forays is to intentionally leave daily obligations behind and just enjoy the ride!

Saul’s Dale and my Basil posed.  Basil’s a little guy, but the Brompton wheelbase is right up there with the big boys’, as you can (almost) see here.

Saul took my geographic impairments in hand, and announced to the crew that I’d be leading them into Phoenixville.  This instilled fear in at least one heart — mine — but he immediately began giving me cues.  (Good thing, too!)

We successfully made it to the Artisan Cafe.  I took a blurry shot of Basil, we ate and talked (and discovered, among other things, that almost all of us had once owned VW Rabbits and that two of us own vintage Beetles).

Not long after leaving Phoenixville, we all re-grouped under this bridge, and these marvelous arches.  Saul had phoned in a downed power pole, and stopped to clarify things with the dispatcher.

At this juncture, the Perkiomen and Schuylkill trails diverge. The signage beneath is a little confusing, and has apparently befuddled more than one cyclist.

Saul soon rejoined us, and we were on our way again.

We headed back at a much brisker pace than I am used to.  I held my own for a while, but ended up struggling quite a bit.  I could tell that Mike and Saul were keeping an eye out for me, which both worried and reassured me. (Mike commented on how helpful high vis clothing is —  he could see me behind him out of the corner of his eye).

As I dropped down to 13 mph (20.9 kph) and falling, I called to Saul and suggested that he and the others should go on; we were back on the Schuylkill River Trail at that point, and I was sure I couldn’t get lost if on my own, as the Spring Mill train station is next to the trail.

Saul said “Don’t be so sure” about getting lost (!), and “I don’t think that’s what it’s about” to the idea that others should go on.  Then he kept me company for a bit, and made some excellent suggestions: he stopped with me, and had me drink some water (in my zeal to keep up, I had ignored my water bottle completely) and he suggested I shed my jacket (I hadn’t considered that I might be over-warm, between a rising temperature and the exertion).

Note to newbies — Hydration:  It matters!

After these adjustments, and the short break to make them, I was in better shape.  We rode further, and found that the others had stopped at the Norristown train station and were waiting for us.  I was out of breath, but this friendly group was chatting again, and, by the time we were back on our bikes, I was in much better shape.

I think everyone slowed the pace for those last few miles, and I still think that was so kind of them — as was re-grouping at the Norristown station. I still don’t have the power of these more experienced riders — and, clearly, lack some of the riding skills, too.  I’m working on both, and feeling very grateful to have fallen in with such an incredibly nice, patient, group of cyclists.

And I’m grateful, too, that leaders like Saul and Mike are so giving, and eager to encourage, and even teach, new cyclists like me, who otherwise might not aspire to continuing to build skills.  Here’s to you, Inspirational Leaders (and your kind and friendly cycling pals)!

This Saturday’s Bicycle Club of Philadelphia D ride met at Penn Treaty Park (and I managed to find it! On Basil!)

There was some snickering about the text on these signs, since the  “peaceful relations with the Indians” referred to here eventually resulted in the demise of the native signers of the treaty. The kindest interpretation of the text is, perhaps, that it evinces hopeful thinking.

We met, actually, beneath the statue of William Penn, he of the Treaty.

Which is actually at the intersection of Columbia and Beach, nicely signed just across the street.

The purported meeting point is Delaware and Beach, about half a block away, which is the point at which Beach veers off from Delaware Avenue.  Some would say that the latter intersection is signed unhelpfully, but only I could have managed to miss the entire park on a previous trip.  Sigh. No more — now I’ve got this place documented!

My ride (and Basil’s, naturally) began at SEPTA’s Market East Station, and went down Race Street to Christopher Columbus, beneath the Ben Franklin Bridge.

The view was quire different on the water side:

Though I’d missed the cherry blossom festivals both in Washington, D.C, and in Philadelphia’s Fairmont Park, I was delighted to see this stand of trees on the median on Columbus Boulevard:

The day was colder than expected, but the predicted rain never materialized.

Five of us started out, and a sixth cyclist joined us later.  One cyclist was new to the club rides: I love seeing how welcoming the “old” riders are to the newbies.  It reminds me of how welcome they made me feel when I, too, was first, tentatively, starting out.

Leader Tim billed this as a “nitty-gritty-city” ride, but the first views were of the Ben Franklin Bridge and beyond.

Behind us, though, was this ancient power plant, conveniently located for coal deliveries via the river.

Tim is best fuelled by doughnuts; it wasn’t long before we stopped for a bit of refection.  The tables inside were mostly taken by a large group of older gentlemen who were clearly from the neighborhood (and who admired Basil!).  These gents were responsible for a bit of cognitive dissonance:  How on earth could an ordinary chain doughnut shop feel so much like a neighborhood diner?

Somewhere on these gritty streets we saw this sign, from a time when Al’s apparently delivered by bicycle.  It’s a good thing Al kept the sign; cargo bikes, like other models of their brethren, are enjoying a resurgence.  Delivery-by-bike is an old idea that is becoming new again, and if Al decides to jump in, he’s already got the sign.  I suspect Al’s no longer delivers, and probably won’t in the future, but that didn’t stop me from loving the sign.

Much of this ride was on urban streets, and gritty they were.  These are parts of Philadelphia that tourists don’t see, much of it tied to the city’s industrial past.

We saw lots of small grocery stores. I thought that this was one until I saw the photo at home. Nearly every corner grocery advertised that they sold frozen treats, but this apparently isn’t a grocery, but a water ice factory, meaning, presumably, that the ices are made on the premises.

When we picked up the Pennypack Trail, I discovered that the park wraps around a prison.  I’m not sure what the message is there, or if I want to think about it. This mural is painted on the side of one of the prison buildings.

Though the skies were still a bit gray, all that new green growth seemed to light the woods along the trail.

We took a second break at the end of the trail.

This ride was a good opportunity to try out Basil’s M bag on a longer ride.  I was hoping to make a different bag for the 5 Boro Tour at the beginning of May, but it seems unlikely that I’ll have time to do so.  I think the M will work well, though there are a few different features I’d like to have in a small bag on a 40 mile city ride.

Soon we were back on the streets.

Philadelphia is famous (or infamous, if you remember the administrative bombing of 1985) for its row houses.  These peaked roofs are a variation on the ones I’m used to seeing, which typically have a flatter roof line.

We passed large numbers of old churches, most de-commissioned or re-purposed.  Tim said that, at one point, we’d be passing five in a row, built at a time when many were built to serve immigrant populations deriving from a specific national origin. I missed the spot — there was so much to see, not to mention watching for glass and debris on the roadway.  (Can we pause a moment to praise those horrible plastic bottles? Street-riding is so much more feasible now that plastic rules the beverage world!)

Philadelphia is still using these wonderful trolley cars, built long ago; we crossed by this spot as we returned to Penn Treaty Park.  Ironically, I’ve ridden many of Philadelphia’s trolleys in San Francisco, but, as yet, none in Philadelphia.  San Francisco runs a small fleet of Philadelphia’s vintage trolleys as part of their Heritage Streetcar program, and they are used for everyday transportation.

This was a 35 mile ride for Basil and me —  a fascinating trip into worlds we see, if ever, only distantly by car, bus, or train — and one with good company, to boot!

I had a busy day, but managed to squeeze in a short run for Basil and me at Valley Forge, site of George Washington’s Revolutionary War encampment (and now a National Park).

Even in early spring, and in spite of the paths that now wind through, it’s possible to look over the land and recognize how bleak it much have been during the famous winter of 1777-1778.

The air was damp and the sky cloudy on this visit; this greenery just hinted at warmer weather to come.

This re-purposed train station no longer serves travellers — at least not those who would take a train directly to Valley Forge.

Some entity has put up a faux picket fence on the other side of the tracks. It’s also peculiarly short, and there’s still access to the river behind from either side.

I believe that these buildings date from Washington’s time, but many visitors would be surprised to learn that quite a few on this land don’t.

The asphalt path is new, though this building is not. This structure may have been a stable, but if I’m remembering correctly, it was a storehouse for supplies. (On these excursions, the cyclist in me  takes precedent over the would-be historian.)

Most of the cabins in the park are re-creations; the originals weren’t built for the ages, and did not survive.

It’s almost ludicrous to say that the accommodations were crude. That’s a very small fireplace in the back, across from a door that could not seal, and there are spare, uninviting, bunks lining both side walls.

There are half-a-dozen sleeping shelves to a side.

Lest anyone think that these cabins are a suitable size for human habitation, here’s a photo with my diminutive Brompton, Basil, to demonstrate the scale of these dwellings.  Basil’s handlebars come to just above my waist; I’m 5 feet, 2 inches (157.4 cm) tall.

There’s a split rail-fence next to this ridge of cabins. That’s a little unusual for this geographic area; split-rail fences exist, but if one encounters an old “fence”, it’s most likely a stone wall.  That may be because split-rail fences don’t endure as well, but stone was plentiful in the early days of settlement, and fields had to be cleared, which made rocks and boulders readily-available building stock.

Sometimes wars end, and the combatants even become allies.  Nearly 240 years later, these upstart colonies and their former British overlords are still getting along . . . and this US resident and her beautifully-built British bicycle are among the beneficiaries of that peace.