Two lines, parallel. Naturally, they seem endless — after all, if parallel, they can never cross.
One can’t help thinking of them as straight. But two lines, parallel, can bend, which seems to bring another dimension to “endless”. And the tree? It’s full of possibilities, too: leaves to come, fruit, shelter from sun or rain, or, if destroyed, transformation into shelter of another sort entirely.
The water in the Erie Canal was so low the last time I visited that I got to see the locks in their full glory.
There’s no missing the usual water line on either of these gates.
The supporting structures are mostly concrete, but it’s fascinating that the gates themselves appear to be wood (though reinforced wood). Or am I wrong? I should have looked more closely; next time.
What is that peculiar rectangular opening? Probably not an entrance to an underwater dwelling. I’m guessing it has something to do with controlling the water flow. Or maintenance of the gates, possibly?
It looks almost cozy, though I’m quite sure it’s not.
See that oddly-shaped bit of concrete to the left? It’s a pivot.
This arm apparently swings out across the canal in front of the lock. Do they protect the lock gates? Prevent renegade ships from slipping through when the gates are open?
Here’s a view of different one:
That pontoon and its associated debris make this section of the canal look a bit like a junkyard, don’t they? I suspect, though, that the raft is fully functional, and will be pressed into service when the season begins.
My car was the only one in the trail parking lot when Basil and I started out. Note the spectacular sky, which I otherwise forgot to photograph. Love those roiling clouds!
Seeing the car there reminded me that I wanted a picture of Basil next to it, for size comparison purposes.
Heh, heh. My Brompton’s wheelbase is almost as long as my small car’s.
Basil and I took a trip to upstate New York recently. Here he is in the trunk of my subcompact car: Basil, suitcase, jacket, cycling gear (in the bag to the right), a tote bag of miscellaneous stuff, and still plenty of room left. Also, no bike rack, and no need to secure Basil along the way when stopping for coffee.
Thunderstorms were predicted for the entire week, but I was hoping for a window when we could cycle, if only fleetingly. We did manage a brief ride along the Erie Canal, for which I was profoundly grateful; a spin on two wheels is a great antidote to seven hours in a car.
As ever, Basil was ready to go.
When the opportunity came, I didn’t have time to change into cycling gear. I think this is the first time I’ve ridden Basil in street clothes. Fortunately, it turns out that stretch cord leggings are plenty flexible enough to be comfortable while cycling (at least for a short spin), and my tall boots were fine, too, thanks to their round toe caps. I took a panda shot to immortalize the moment.
The canal trailway is packed crushed stone here. It’s not a smooth ride, but also no problem for Basil or his Marathon tires; we zip right along.
The Erie looks completely different at the end of winter. This is the first time I’d seen the canal virtually empty.
It’s easy to forget how shallow it is; that’s why canal traffic is generally composed of long flat barges.
You can see the waterline on these pilings:
There was evidence of a little more water farther along the trail.
And more, with trees alongside, just beginning to blossom.
This far north, the grass is just beginning to return, and the lichen to brighten.
This ride was a beautiful interlude between storms. Another reason to love my Brompton: It’s so easy to take advantage of an unexpected chance to cycle.
There was a particularly “bad” storm one night, with thunder crashing for what seemed like hours. We don’t get storms like that on my current home turf. I did mind not being able to ride more, but I loved every minute of the thunder and lightening. Booming skies make me happy, particularly when the electricity stays on.
So, in my inimitable way, I not only failed to find the meeting point for a Saturday club ride, but I also failed to find the one for a different group ride on the same weekend. The second time around I was lucky, though, because Terri was also waiting in the same spot where Basil and I were patiently waiting for the rest of the group.
We were, as it turned out, on the wrong side of the tracks at the Spring Mill train station, but we didn’t know that until later. When the group didn’t materialize, Terri said “Do you want to go to Phoenixville?” Well, yes, I did! (But first I asked Terri if she could navigate . . . at least I’m beginning to understand my weaknesses!)
Terri was a great ride leader, and promised me that, if she got ahead of me, she’d wait along the trail until I turned up, so I wouldn’t get lost. Given my proclivities, that was very reassuring.
Terri started off at a robust 15 mph/24 kmh which had me worried. I could keep that pace for a while, but I’d be dead as soon as we got to anything resembling an incline. Fortunately, we settled into a pace that worked well for both of us.
It was another stunningly beautiful day. I was thrilled that Terri and I didn’t have to miss the ride. Terri confessed that she’d never gone this route before, except as a member of a cycling group. Neither had I, and we were quite proud of ourselves for having been intrepid enough to give it a go. Terri kept saying that all we had to do was keep to the trail, but I knew better . . . at the end of the trail there’s always some other navigation involved, and that’s where my troubles begin.
Thanks to Terri, though, we made it to Steel City, and Basil took up his customary spot.
We ate lunch (Steel City has a nice way with food!) and then set off on the return trip, but not before I took a picture of the mural on the side of the coffeehouse. (I had hoped to get a photo of the last cocoa of the season, but unfortunately forgot to ask for a mug; a styrofoam cup just doesn’t cut it as a memorial shot, I’m afraid. The mural will have to suffice.)
Steel City, indeed. I like this mural; it reminds me of those of the 1930s WPA. Workers, unite! Or, if they’re not united these days, it’s a vivid reminder that making steel is not for wimps, and that our buildings, cars, and even bikes, come at a cost.
Terri and I had just left the main road on our way out of town when we spied our cycling group heading into town. (The ride’s organizers are incredibly reliable people, so at this point we’d figured out that Terri and I had gone amiss, but we’d been a little concerned that something untoward had happened to the leaders.)
We stopped to chat for a minute, and considered finishing the ride with the gang, but Terri was pressed for time, and I wasn’t going to let her ride back alone — especially not after we’d just made it halfway through our first independent effort!
It’s people like this terrific group of riders, and inspiring leaders like Saul and Mike, who gave Terri and me the gumption to fly on our own. Thanks, guys! (And thanks, too, to Terri, without whose company I’d never have attempted to ride all the way to Phoenixville.) And thanks to the Bicycle Club of Philadelphia, which is where I met all these great people, and learned to ride ensemble!
When I arrived home early after having missed the connection for a group ride, Mr. Diarist suggested that he and I go for a cycle together. (These trails are a bit effete for Mr. D’s mountain bike; fortunately, it’s a good sport and was willing to come along anyway.)
This is most unusual; Mr. Diarist is embroiled in a huge project and generally chained to his desk 24/7 these days, so I jumped at the chance.
In the country, spring was bustin’ out all over, with green stuff beginning to peek through winter’s debris.
We rode under the bluest sky.
Love those rock formations: Pennsylvania’s share of the earth’s crust is always awe-inspiring.
The creeks are still shallow, and very clear.
Basil and his sibling mountain bike posed, dappled, under some evergreens, and then we headed back home.
But not without capturing a few wildflowers along the way.
And daffodils, naturally, who are always among the first of spring’s volunteers.
Mr. Diarist captured this photo of a post-winter tree in a park we passed through
and these buds, too.
So the re-awakening begins . . . now that I’m acclimated to winter riding, though, I wonder if I’ll miss the cold, crisp air of the previous months. We’ll see. And if I do? Well, that’s the wonderful thing about seasons, isn’t it? The next one is always just around the corner!
So I set out one morning to meet the BCP crew for what would have been my first official C ride. C rides are a bit faster than the scheduled D rides in which I’ve indulged so far, but ride leader Tim assured me that I’m quite capable of handling his C excursions. The gang was to meet at Penn Treaty Park. (As I’m sure, in fact, it did.)
I left the house at a little past 6 AM, caught a train, and ventured into Philadelphia, riding alone on the city streets for the first time. (I’d ridden in last year’s Tweed Ride, which in fact included a stop at Penn Treaty Park, but with someone else who navigated.) I’d printed out Google’s bicycle directions from the Market East train station, and viewed the route on Google Earth; I was good to go.
Or not. Although cold, it was a beautiful, sunny morning, and there was very little traffic where I was riding. A main street was missing a street sign, but I made that turn without difficulty, thanks to a lucky, and possibly logical, guess. Somehow, though, I never found the park.
I missed my ride. It’s an old problem. I couldn’t find my way out of a paper bag if I were facing the opening. Another day, I will figure out what went wrong, and get it right.
In the meantime, though, I headed back toward the train station, and realized that I was passing Reading Terminal Market. Reading Terminal is an indoor market full of food stalls and various other shops. It’s often packed with customers, but at 9:30 on Saturday morning there was lots of room to move about.
Not that we needed it. I’d added Basil’s front bag to his frame in case I needed to shed a jacket later in the (anticipated) long club ride, so I was able to move him around using the handle on the bag’s frame.
We wandered around a bit, checking out the various venues. Basil posed next to a store that sells honey in almost every imaginable form, including the marvelous dragon* below, which probably caught my eye because I’d seen the equally wonderful one, above, guarding a parking lot on my way back to the train station.
If I hadn’t had a healthy snack in Basil’s bags, I’d have been sorely tempted by the bakeries, even though I generally avoid such temptations.
The “general store” may be geared toward tourists, but it offers plenty of enticing treats, too.
This is Philadelphia, so naturally there are cheesesteaks on offer. I’ve never eaten one, and don’t intend to, but these coronary-inducing concoctions are the city’s iconic food. (Is orange squeezable cheese actually food?) Competition among local shops for the honor of the best cheesesteak is hot, and sometimes bad-tempered, but this morning the mood was strictly genteel.
Not every offering is Philadelphia-centric. This stall offers linens from Provence:
Nor are dining options limited to cheesesteaks. Foods from a wide variety of geographies are available.
There’s an “herbiary”, too, if you want to go home and make your own delectables.
Butcher, baker, and candlestick maker, all at Reading Terminal Market — and more!
Though no fan of cut flowers, I cannot resist the marvelous colors in stalls like this one. Basil didn’t mind posing here, either, and I noted how consonant his colors were with a number of the displayed bouquets.
I was sorry to have missed the anticipated 40 mile/64.3 km ride to Bristol, and even sorrier to have ridden only 7 miles/11.2 km by the time I got back on the train. The moral, though, is that no bike ride need be a disappointment: For the first time, I rode on Philadelphia streets, unescorted (though that “lack of escort” may have been an issue); spied new and interesting things; and enjoyed an unexpected look-in at a market to which I hadn’t been in years.
And just to cap it off, I went cycling when I got home. But that’s a post for another time.
* Edited: Whoops. The dragon is not made of honey. But don’t let that detract from the generally excellent stock offered.
For the first time since I acquired Basil, I went to New York City without him.
Nearly the first thing I saw when I arrived in Penn Station was a Turkish Green Brompton, folded, riding up the escalator in the opposite direction. I found the sight cheering. (The one below was on the wall at NYCeWheels; I didn’t move fast enough to snap the one on the escalator.)
Everything was cool until I walked into the lobby of the building in which I stay and looked across the lobby to the far wall where I’ve photographed Basil in the past, and felt a pang.
Separation anxiety; it was awful.
Given my antipathy to riding on NYC streets, the agenda for this trip (not very cycling-compatible), and the weather forecast (sleet and snow), it didn’t make any sense to travel with Basil. On my way elsewhere, though, I stopped in at NYCeWheels (who delivered Basil) just to see, if, by some miracle, my Brompton tool kit had arrived. It hadn’t, of course, but the fantasy, brief though it was, was lovely.
NYCeWheels, like many New York retail shops, has a rather battered look. This implies nothing whatever about what’s inside. Longing, as I was, for Basil’s company, I spent a few minutes communing with his kind.
Lovely Bromptons. Lots and lots of lovely Bromptons. See the yellow one in front? It’s 1 in the trial fleet, and, in fact The One, a three speed, that I rode when I took the NYCeWheels tour that convinced me that buying a Brompton was right for me. Well over 650 miles (and a winter) later, I’m still a very happy camper cyclist.
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.
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 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.