8am Saturday crosstown quiet to the Hudson and north. Caffeine color rise warmup, slalom dog walkers and path center posts and all focus runners. Cantilever brakes warble at the stops, a quintet of roadies caravans by, get on for the ease of it, nod and wave when the last looks back, efficient Garmin 20.
Headed to a monument for a better general than President, blocks and buildings trembling wave tops and streets receding perpendicular. Rendezvous, the plan to follow a dirt path through the Bronx up to Westchester County on single and double track, bursts of trash and glass and chainlink glimpses. The neither illusion of it, of shrushing through the woods half a veil alongside the brick iron concrete knowledge of where we are, and that seesaw, not a countryside ride, not through hyper built spaces. Old Croton Aqueduct. Navigation would be tricky if some of the crew hadn’t scouted in advance. We revolve along short of the limit holding a bit for hills later and holding the bars chain clatters hop curbs top slabs in the drops for the better braking.
The script demands that riding a road bike comes with pretending to complain on the gravel and chatter, those on ‘cross bikes pretending back on the asphalt stretches. Day will be judged by the credibility of that equilibrium, too. Beer, pizza, twilight train ride home.
GPS courtesy Jon and Harry