Under and Over the Bridge

Sunday morning I wake up and as soon as I hear the rain hitting the window next to my bed, I think, Screw that. A few seconds later, I was asleep again, dreaming of carbon fiber frames that only weigh two-and-a-half ounces, polypropylene sock liners, and winning the first Category 5 race of the upcoming season in Prospect Park.

Obviously, I have some grand, grand dreams.

Make a short story long, by the time I actually got out of bed and sucked down a bowel of Raisin Nut Bran (which I highly recommend, by the way), the rain had since stopped and I figured I’d go out and get on the bike even though I neglected to make the rainy trip out to Staten Island to ride with the guys in the rain. I could have gotten out of bed to do a few miles with the group, but who wants dirty rainwater spitting in their face, up their nose, and in their mouth when you’re riding behind the guy or girl in front of you? Who needs that? Sure, I’m a fan of the sport, but I also have a day job, meaning I’ll leave riding in the miserably wet weather to the pros who are getting paid to push those pedals and drink down that foul rain water (mixed with some motor oil, I might add).

Again, make a short story long, I packed three fat-free Fig Newtons in some tin foil, filled the water bottle with Cytomax, checked the pressure in the tires, strapped on my helmet, and hit the road. Where would I ride on this misty Sunday morning? Over the Brooklyn Bridge and across Chambers Street to the path along the West Side Highway. From downtown I pedaled into a slight headwind (better to deal with it going there rather than coming back) all the freaking way up through Harlem to the George Washington Bridge.

Now, you would think that someone, some city official or park ranger, might have the common sense to place a handful of signs pointing cyclists (or rollerbladers, or walkers, etc.) in the direction of the bridge from the greenway. You might think that someone would have the brains to do this considering the GWB is a major crossing from NYC into New Jersey and vice versa, yet has anyone taken this concept into consideration?

Nope. Riding the greenway under the bridge, I knew I’d have to turn off somewhere to get on the bridge. It took me a few tries, although eventually a guy and his dog pointed me toward Ft. Washington (Street or Avenue, I can’t remember) and told me to make a right that would steer me toward the bridge. Actually, the guy did all the talking while his dog squatted down to do his business.

Then, once over the bridge on the New Jersey side, I was hoping I might catch a sign--either for cyclists or drivers--pointing toward 9W.

Nope. I stopped to ask another cyclist who pointed me in the right direction.

“Go down this way,” he said, pointing north while chewing on a bagel, “and when you get to the T, make a left. Then when you get to the light, make a right. That’s 9W.”

I wish I could sit here and extol the virtues of a ride along 9W, although sadly, I cannot. Once over the GWB, the fog had settled in for the day that made it impossible to see anything other than a wall of white beyond fifty feet or so. Riding through all that mist, my glasses fogged over, rendering them useless, and my gloves began turning white.

Despite the fog and damp, I’m sure 9W is a fantastic ride when you can actually see something. At the same time, though, I can’t say it was a bad ride either. Dealing with the wet road, the occasional drizzle, and the thick fog is what riding through the winter is all about, isn’t it? I may harbor something of a gripe considering I rode all that way looking forward to something a bit more scenic, but by no means was my Sunday ride unfulfilling. On the contrary, I believe that it’s during those rides when the conditions are much less than ideal, those rides when you’re alone and you’re pushing yourself progressively harder and harder that you finish with a greater sense of accomplishment. After pounding out those final five miles (out of a total of fifty-six for the day), those three fat-free Fig Newtons devoured an hour earlier, running on not much more than fumes, I finally reached home and popped a pair of Lean Pockets in the microwave before I even undressed. I wanted food and I wanted it as soon as possible.

Maybe relaxing after the ride is over is the second-best part of cycling. Maybe staring blankly out the window at the fog after the ride is over is what makes the effort worthwhile, knowing you were already out there suffering in the inclement weather only a few feet outside your front door. To me, there’s a lot to be said for busting your ass for three-and-a-half hours and them coming home, cleaning up, and sitting down to a quiet, warm meal of whatever it is you feel like eating.

And that was my Sunday.