Here's a blow-by-blow description of my Sunday on the Five Boro Bike Tour, in which 32,000 people ride the streets of New York in a simultaneous "happening" and test of endurance.
Saturday I treated myself to a new multi-tool for the bike, and some chain lube, in case I ran into problems on Sunday. And I treated myself to a fairly lazy day, or rather, a lazy three days before this event. I wasn't all that sure I would finish.
I woke up at 4:15 for the Five Boro Bike Tour as planned and left at 4:55, a little late. Right until the BQE exit I wasn't sure I was going to park in Staten Island or Manhattan. I was following an SUV toting bikes and figured he was headed to the tour, and he went on the BQE so followed him. I think he took one of the bridges into Manhattan but I kept going until I got to the Verrazzano, then parked near the ferry. In chatting with some folks later, as we waited to get started, I think that was the right decision. The only think I'd do differently is take the Bike New York brochure's advice and park south of the Verrazzano, so that leaving the festival would have been easier. It wasn't really a problem until I got lost in Staten Island on the way home, stuck in traffic in Bayonne and Manhattan. Geez, all I had to do was pull out a map, but NOOOOO.
Thanks to the SUV bomb in Times Square, we got off to an hour-late start: we didn't start until 9am instead of the usual 8. [Edit: my late start was more likely due to my far-back start location in front of Trinity Church.] Thanks to the crowds, the "Tour" was also a "Walk" and a "Stand" at times. The late start was the first "Stand" part of the event. I got some pictures of Cousin Brucie as we passed the gate, and made a quick stop at the first toilet. Riding and sipping, I didn't need to stop again until the next-to-last stop, which was in Brooklyn.
In Central Park we met up with other riders who apparently joined the tour late. [Edit: not true, we split from them before entering the park, and merged in the park.] As a result, about 1/3 of Central Park was spent walking because it was so crowded. The hills were OK, though. I think I could enjoy a trip around Manhattan and through the park one quiet Sunday.
There were half a dozen other places where everyone bunched up and had to walk: 135th street before the Bronx, 63rd St before the Queensborough Bridge, coming off the QB, climbing up from the Gowanus towards the last rest area at Cannonball Park. That's the ones I remember. The tour is a victim of its own popularity, and on a beautiful day like today, it's just too crowded to enjoy.
I think we were in the Bronx for about 8 minutes.
Unfortunately I was so intent on riding without crashing into anyone that I hardly looked up at the scenery. In less crowded years I bet that was a wonderful addition to the experience, but not this year, not for me.
On the way down the Harlem River and FDR Drives I briefly remembered other times I had been there, with Ronni to or from the hospital. The memories came back in several other places but I didn't dwell on them because I was dogging.
The Queensborough Bridge was quite a climb, and my lack of conditioning forced me to stop-and-go on the way up. I walked a bit, too. Once you start coasting down, it's easy to go too fast; marshalls were there with "slow down" signs and megaphones to keep us in check. At least the tour wasn't ALL pedaling.
I noticed that there was no option to head towards Astoria, probably because they closed the route at the usual time (whatever it is) despite the late start we all got. [Edit: more likely I was just too darned slow!] I guess only the fastest people got there. The vendors must have been pretty ticked.
Queens into Brooklyn is a blur. I know I was there, just don't remember a lot of it until we got to the Gowanus, where there's a very long, mostly slow incline on which I had to stop several times. That's a recurring theme - my legs and lungs still need work.
Somewhere in there I stopped at one of the rest stops, parked my bike unattended without fear of theft, and refueled with banana, yogurt, water. Too crowded to wait on line for anything good. I probably stayed a bit too long - have you ever exercised then stopped then started again and found that it hurt like hell to restart? Fortunately, the soreness faded.
Soon we were under the Verrazzano and close to the last rest stop (which I skipped). What I remember here is that we slowed to a walk, and that the crowd was booing some bikers who tried to cut the line on the way up the exit ramp (the marshalls sent them back in line). If we hadn't been walking I certainly would not have been able to ride without stopping.
Then there was the climb up to the closed lower deck of the Verrazzano itself, which I did as well as I could do in fits and starts. If I had "let go" over the top I would have been doing 30mph on the way down, but again it was too crowded. I noticed they put padding over the grates on the bridge (the gaps are probably too big for narrow bike tires) and I was grateful.
Finally at the festival, once again too crowded to enjoy - who wants to stand on line for a half hour for a drink after riding for 5 hours? But I did stand in line for about 45 minutes for a free photo of myself, because unless I got that photo nobody would believe me when I told them I completed this ride. Then I had to stand in line to leave the park, perhaps because there was a collision or someone collapsed from heat exhaustion - I only know there was an ambulance outside the exit, and nobody was allowed to ride away for awhile.
Once we got out, we rode 3 minutes and stopped again, for what reason I don't know. Eventually we got going and did the three mile ride to the ferry. I rode to my car while most of the others hopped on the ferry. I then proceeded to get lost in Staten Island and ended up in Bayonne, New Jersey and Manhattan, stuck in heavy traffic. Leave it to me to fail to stop and read the damned map. It's OK, I got in a little more sightseeing.
I am surprised that I don't feel too bad. Just wait till the ibuprophen wears off... and I didn't use enough sunscreen - I'll pay for that tonight!
I swear I spent two hours standing, between the start area, Central Park and the festival, and I spent another 45-60 minutes walking when it was too crowded. Finished near 5pm.
I really did at least 39 miles instead of 32 if you count the ride to and from my car. Would I do the Five Boro Bike Tour again? Yes, but not every year. Maybe it will rain next year and the crowd will thin - I should ask people about last year, because it poured. It sure was a hoot riding on those main roads with nothing to look out for except bikes. Maybe I can gear up for the Montauk ride - the 65 mile version sounds like a reasonable goal to shoot for.
I promised Ronni I would take care of myself, and I am. It's slowly becoming possible to enjoy things without missing her so intensely. I still wish she had been here to join me on the ride - I think I would have enjoyed that. But she was with me in spirit, and that will have to do.
A few pix: http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/sredir?uname=chris.ihm&target=ALBUM&id=5467473038224038929&authkey=Gv1sRgCPHjj42ngLfFygE&invite=CMH-_okL&feat=email
Ihm Still Here: musings that I've just got to publish, but not on Facebook, dammit.
Sunday, May 02, 2010
Friday, May 22, 2009
A walk in Caumsett Park
This past Saturday I arrived at Caumsett at 7:30 am and took the service path on the right towards the mansion. It seems that in this solitude with beautiful surroundings I fall easily into conversation with Ronni.
At first I used to vocalize what I had just thought, then realized I was being redundant. Now I just let the thoughts come and go. I feel she's right there with me, chiding me, comforting me, planting ideas. I forget how I came to this conclusion, but I feel that she is able to see what I see, through my eyes, and that she wants me to look at things and at people full in the face. She wants to see her mom, and Allison, and Zach, through my eyes.
As I walked up towards the mansion I saw a tree whose shape Ronni wanted me to see. It must have been 50 years old, had grown at a 45 degree angle from the ground, or maybe had grown straight then fell over. When it fell it didn't die, but curved upward and continued growing until its top leaves were near the crown of the forest. That's you, she said. You've been blown over, but you'll continue to grow and thrive.
Later there was the half-inch thick vine spiraling around one tree, then jumping to another. That's me, she said. I grew up in a strong, close family, then I joined with you for the rest of my life. I think I ignored the condition of the trees, not sure if they were still alive, or even if the vine was alive. There was another vine which was actually a cluster of them, wrapped around each other in a rising spiral. That's all of us, she said, dependent on each other for our comfort, security, growth.
As I walked along the first path there was a rising and fading drone sound which I didn't recognize, but didn't think much about. It barely rose above the chatter of birds and rush of leaves in the light wind. Later, as I walked near the heart-shaped pond near the mansion, I realized it was a foghorn, or more accurately a fog whistle, since it was not the booming bass sound I would have expected. The sound punctuated the whole walk, but I was barely aware of it most of the time.
My middle-aged body sent me to the bathroom, where my thoughts of Ronni turned to the last days of her life. Approaching a complete meltdown, I clenched my hands together tightly and told myself to stop, stop punishing yourself. Ronni said the same. I cannot get past the regrets: how I spent more than half of her last day at work, how many opportunities I missed to be with her and tell her how much I loved her. I will incorporate those regrets into my being, that's how I'll move on. It happened, you blew it, you can't take it back, now move along. It will take years.
Then I was at the bench, at the top of the great lawn, where Ronni and I many times sat to admire the scene. Sometimes it was just us walking, for exercise. Sometimes it was Ronni in her wheelchair. This time it was me, alone. I could barely see the pond because of the fog, so I turned away to look at the mansion. It was someone's home, and someone's work place. It held someone's memories, of people who were gone long ago. I remembered reading that the family tore down part of the mansion because it had begun to feel too big; now it was asymmetrical and ugly. Mold and cracks were here and there, as the state (who now owns the building) tried half-heartedly to keep the place up. Ronni saw it through my eyes, wistfully.
Down the hill through the forest to the beach, I could hear drops of rain. When a storm approaches, it begins with a few drops, then a few more, then builds to a torrent. Today the rain was stuck in first gear, never going beyond the dripping. I don't know why I found this comforting. There wasn't going to be a torrent, because there was no line of storms on the radar this morning. But the rain would tickle and tease me, soaking my shoes as I walked through the fields, but never soaking my clothes.
I sat on a rock on the beach and watched the birds. A flock of geese had settled in the shallow water among the smoothed stones, and their cackling mixed with the plunk-plunk of the water splashing against the hollows. Two cormorants stood guard on two boulders directly in front of me. They watched me warily, then one decided to take off. She jumped towards the water and beat her wings furiously to keep from crashing into the water. She made a wide arc leftward behind the rock she had been sitting on, then straightened out and flew diagonally, gradually fading in the fog until suddenly I could no longer see her. A moment later I looked back and the second cormorant had jumped into the water but had not flown away. His head turned from side to side as though he was looking for his mate. He kept this up for several minutes, swimming away from shore towards the mist. I glanced away at the geese, then back to find the cormorant, but he had disappeared. I suppose he dove for food; I searched for a minute but never saw him again. I thought of Ronni and me, the arc of our lives.
Twenty years ago Ronni and I walked in Caumsett and I led us up a trail on the cliffs above this spot. It was fun and pretty, but the trail disappeared, and we found ourselves thrashing through the brush as though in a Peruvian jungle. Just then my pager rang - someone at work was looking for me! Before the time of cell phones all I could have done is find a pay phone, but here in the jungle we laughed, "Oh, well, no response today!" The last two times I have gone alone, and the trail has been clean and easy to follow, and of course, I stopped at the best view and cried bitterly. Ronni told me, knock it off, I can't see how gorgeous it is if your eyes are all cloudy. The drops splashed on my head and nose as I meandered through the woods.
You come out near a wide trail that could take you back to the parking lot by several variations in the route. I decided to find the perimeter of the park. Along the way there was a chattering, fluttering trio of birds (Redstarts, I found out later) for whom I just had to stand still so I could watch in amusement. You would have thought there were ten of them, but there were only three. I hope Ronni got to see them.
Consulting my map I guessed the direction I should move, but somehow I turned myself around and after about 45 minutes I found myself right back on the same cliff near the beach. In honor of my silliness I ate two "silly cookies" as I called them, then took the direct walk back to the parking lot and made my way home. On the way I listened to the podcast of "Wait, Wait" from NPR. Ronni and I used to listen in the car on Saturdays on our way to lunch together. Today I was immersed in the show as I walked, and it helped me forget the pain in my legs and heart.
I tell people I need to go through this, not around it or back away. But am I punishing myself? Am I pushing myself into places that make me cry? And should I? Maybe it's my way to keep Ronni in my life, because that's what I need. I can't have her back, but I can soak myself in my memories of her, even if it makes me miserable.
Sometimes I feel intensely alone. I cannot always summon Ronni to talk to her. Then sometimes I can.
The foghorn sounds far, far away, barely above the nearby bustle, and I keep putting one foot in front of the other.
At first I used to vocalize what I had just thought, then realized I was being redundant. Now I just let the thoughts come and go. I feel she's right there with me, chiding me, comforting me, planting ideas. I forget how I came to this conclusion, but I feel that she is able to see what I see, through my eyes, and that she wants me to look at things and at people full in the face. She wants to see her mom, and Allison, and Zach, through my eyes.
As I walked up towards the mansion I saw a tree whose shape Ronni wanted me to see. It must have been 50 years old, had grown at a 45 degree angle from the ground, or maybe had grown straight then fell over. When it fell it didn't die, but curved upward and continued growing until its top leaves were near the crown of the forest. That's you, she said. You've been blown over, but you'll continue to grow and thrive.
Later there was the half-inch thick vine spiraling around one tree, then jumping to another. That's me, she said. I grew up in a strong, close family, then I joined with you for the rest of my life. I think I ignored the condition of the trees, not sure if they were still alive, or even if the vine was alive. There was another vine which was actually a cluster of them, wrapped around each other in a rising spiral. That's all of us, she said, dependent on each other for our comfort, security, growth.
As I walked along the first path there was a rising and fading drone sound which I didn't recognize, but didn't think much about. It barely rose above the chatter of birds and rush of leaves in the light wind. Later, as I walked near the heart-shaped pond near the mansion, I realized it was a foghorn, or more accurately a fog whistle, since it was not the booming bass sound I would have expected. The sound punctuated the whole walk, but I was barely aware of it most of the time.
My middle-aged body sent me to the bathroom, where my thoughts of Ronni turned to the last days of her life. Approaching a complete meltdown, I clenched my hands together tightly and told myself to stop, stop punishing yourself. Ronni said the same. I cannot get past the regrets: how I spent more than half of her last day at work, how many opportunities I missed to be with her and tell her how much I loved her. I will incorporate those regrets into my being, that's how I'll move on. It happened, you blew it, you can't take it back, now move along. It will take years.
Then I was at the bench, at the top of the great lawn, where Ronni and I many times sat to admire the scene. Sometimes it was just us walking, for exercise. Sometimes it was Ronni in her wheelchair. This time it was me, alone. I could barely see the pond because of the fog, so I turned away to look at the mansion. It was someone's home, and someone's work place. It held someone's memories, of people who were gone long ago. I remembered reading that the family tore down part of the mansion because it had begun to feel too big; now it was asymmetrical and ugly. Mold and cracks were here and there, as the state (who now owns the building) tried half-heartedly to keep the place up. Ronni saw it through my eyes, wistfully.
Down the hill through the forest to the beach, I could hear drops of rain. When a storm approaches, it begins with a few drops, then a few more, then builds to a torrent. Today the rain was stuck in first gear, never going beyond the dripping. I don't know why I found this comforting. There wasn't going to be a torrent, because there was no line of storms on the radar this morning. But the rain would tickle and tease me, soaking my shoes as I walked through the fields, but never soaking my clothes.
I sat on a rock on the beach and watched the birds. A flock of geese had settled in the shallow water among the smoothed stones, and their cackling mixed with the plunk-plunk of the water splashing against the hollows. Two cormorants stood guard on two boulders directly in front of me. They watched me warily, then one decided to take off. She jumped towards the water and beat her wings furiously to keep from crashing into the water. She made a wide arc leftward behind the rock she had been sitting on, then straightened out and flew diagonally, gradually fading in the fog until suddenly I could no longer see her. A moment later I looked back and the second cormorant had jumped into the water but had not flown away. His head turned from side to side as though he was looking for his mate. He kept this up for several minutes, swimming away from shore towards the mist. I glanced away at the geese, then back to find the cormorant, but he had disappeared. I suppose he dove for food; I searched for a minute but never saw him again. I thought of Ronni and me, the arc of our lives.
Twenty years ago Ronni and I walked in Caumsett and I led us up a trail on the cliffs above this spot. It was fun and pretty, but the trail disappeared, and we found ourselves thrashing through the brush as though in a Peruvian jungle. Just then my pager rang - someone at work was looking for me! Before the time of cell phones all I could have done is find a pay phone, but here in the jungle we laughed, "Oh, well, no response today!" The last two times I have gone alone, and the trail has been clean and easy to follow, and of course, I stopped at the best view and cried bitterly. Ronni told me, knock it off, I can't see how gorgeous it is if your eyes are all cloudy. The drops splashed on my head and nose as I meandered through the woods.
You come out near a wide trail that could take you back to the parking lot by several variations in the route. I decided to find the perimeter of the park. Along the way there was a chattering, fluttering trio of birds (Redstarts, I found out later) for whom I just had to stand still so I could watch in amusement. You would have thought there were ten of them, but there were only three. I hope Ronni got to see them.
Consulting my map I guessed the direction I should move, but somehow I turned myself around and after about 45 minutes I found myself right back on the same cliff near the beach. In honor of my silliness I ate two "silly cookies" as I called them, then took the direct walk back to the parking lot and made my way home. On the way I listened to the podcast of "Wait, Wait" from NPR. Ronni and I used to listen in the car on Saturdays on our way to lunch together. Today I was immersed in the show as I walked, and it helped me forget the pain in my legs and heart.
I tell people I need to go through this, not around it or back away. But am I punishing myself? Am I pushing myself into places that make me cry? And should I? Maybe it's my way to keep Ronni in my life, because that's what I need. I can't have her back, but I can soak myself in my memories of her, even if it makes me miserable.
Sometimes I feel intensely alone. I cannot always summon Ronni to talk to her. Then sometimes I can.
The foghorn sounds far, far away, barely above the nearby bustle, and I keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Now what?
Told you I wouldn't be posting much.
Around Thanksgiving my daughter Allison received the bad news that she has esophageal cancer. Further tests categorized it as Stage III, meaning that it has penetrated the entire esophagus, hit one lymph node, but has not metastasized. She is currently undergoing chemotherapy, the specifics of which have changed this past week. She is about to add radiation to the mix, the idea being to smack it down hard before subjecting her to surgery in early April.
This type of cancer hits males over 60. Allison is a female just over 30. There are no stats that can tell us how well she will do; we just have to hope for the best. She does start from a position of strength, since she's young and otherwise healthy.
Having her, Mark and Zachary move in with me seems like a good idea. She would be near Memorial Sloan-Kettering's Commack satellite where she's getting treatment (surgery will be in NYC). She would have more close family and many of Ronni's friends available. So I have embarked on a clean-the-house mission, which is going well, with the intent to clear the upstairs so that we can put down laminate flooring to keep allergens low (Mark has a few allergy problems) and put up new sheetrock and paint where needed. Probably need a door, too. The work keeps me busy at night and weekends.
Between cleanup and helping Mark and Ali with Zach while Ali gets her treatments, I haven't had much time to be sad. I'm still on that sawtooth curve, though, where I feel my misery building until it pours out in sobs, then subsides for a week or two only to build again.
Allison reports being numb. If anyone's numb, it has to be Mark, who has been hit from all sides these past months. All I can do is be there for the three of them. It helps me, too.
Check the time of this post: sometimes I need to stay up until I'm exhausted, in order to sleep.
I don't have the same conceptions about God that I had a year ago, that's certain.
Oh yeah, Happy Birthday Jonathan, now 24.
Around Thanksgiving my daughter Allison received the bad news that she has esophageal cancer. Further tests categorized it as Stage III, meaning that it has penetrated the entire esophagus, hit one lymph node, but has not metastasized. She is currently undergoing chemotherapy, the specifics of which have changed this past week. She is about to add radiation to the mix, the idea being to smack it down hard before subjecting her to surgery in early April.
This type of cancer hits males over 60. Allison is a female just over 30. There are no stats that can tell us how well she will do; we just have to hope for the best. She does start from a position of strength, since she's young and otherwise healthy.
Having her, Mark and Zachary move in with me seems like a good idea. She would be near Memorial Sloan-Kettering's Commack satellite where she's getting treatment (surgery will be in NYC). She would have more close family and many of Ronni's friends available. So I have embarked on a clean-the-house mission, which is going well, with the intent to clear the upstairs so that we can put down laminate flooring to keep allergens low (Mark has a few allergy problems) and put up new sheetrock and paint where needed. Probably need a door, too. The work keeps me busy at night and weekends.
Between cleanup and helping Mark and Ali with Zach while Ali gets her treatments, I haven't had much time to be sad. I'm still on that sawtooth curve, though, where I feel my misery building until it pours out in sobs, then subsides for a week or two only to build again.
Allison reports being numb. If anyone's numb, it has to be Mark, who has been hit from all sides these past months. All I can do is be there for the three of them. It helps me, too.
Check the time of this post: sometimes I need to stay up until I'm exhausted, in order to sleep.
I don't have the same conceptions about God that I had a year ago, that's certain.
Oh yeah, Happy Birthday Jonathan, now 24.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Mourning
For those who don't know, Ronni passed away on August 10, 2008, after her two-and-a-half year battle with kidney cancer. She was 54 years young.
I don't see a reason to blog about it, but I have spent a little time journaling. Putting my feelings in a journal feels like a private diary, while blogging feels like a highway billboard. Don't take it personally, but my private feelings are mine and will remain so, except when I share them with people I select, as opposed to the universe.
I will say, anyway, that I am completely miserable. It's been more than three months, six months since the decline to death began. If anything, I'm feeling worse as time goes forward. It comes in waves: I'll spend days off-and-on in tears, have a deep, sobbing, smack-the-pillow session, then vegetate for several days until it happens again. I don't know how to go on. I have so many regrets. Keeping busy helps, but not always. I went for counseling once so far, didn't click, will try again.
The things that have comforted me:
I won't be posting often.
I don't see a reason to blog about it, but I have spent a little time journaling. Putting my feelings in a journal feels like a private diary, while blogging feels like a highway billboard. Don't take it personally, but my private feelings are mine and will remain so, except when I share them with people I select, as opposed to the universe.
I will say, anyway, that I am completely miserable. It's been more than three months, six months since the decline to death began. If anything, I'm feeling worse as time goes forward. It comes in waves: I'll spend days off-and-on in tears, have a deep, sobbing, smack-the-pillow session, then vegetate for several days until it happens again. I don't know how to go on. I have so many regrets. Keeping busy helps, but not always. I went for counseling once so far, didn't click, will try again.
The things that have comforted me:
- Late afternoon on the stormy day of the funeral, I looked at the weather radar. Clouds all around, except that a clear patch in the shape of a heart opened around the time she was buried. It moved across the island and broke. I see it as her message to me.
- Towards the end of the shiva week I came home alone, sat on my bed looking at the hospital bed she died in, and broke down. I asked aloud all the usual "why" questions. I could swear she gave me the answers. Mostly "That's just the way it works."
- Coming home from services a few nights later, over the horizon rose a beautiful bronze nearly-full moon. It made me laugh. I could hear her say, "I guess you'll be alright after all, if you can still see the beauty in the world."
I won't be posting often.
Friday, May 18, 2007
This Old Blog
It's been more than a year and a half since my last post. No time! Stuff that's been happening:
This blog has been a place for me to post stories that interest me, usually political. Dunno what, if anything, I want to do with it now. It's not for generating revenue, that's for sure. We'll see. Meanwhile, I changed some settings to see if I can clear the old stories to older pages...
- Ronni dealing with kidney cancer,
- Me finishing my undergraduate degree.
This blog has been a place for me to post stories that interest me, usually political. Dunno what, if anything, I want to do with it now. It's not for generating revenue, that's for sure. We'll see. Meanwhile, I changed some settings to see if I can clear the old stories to older pages...
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