Cold Spring Fishing

The Labor Day weekend has come to an end. Hermine ran out of steam and failed to throw her wrath and rain against our shores, much to the chagrin of every New York City weatherman. I had some time to kill so why not take the Fatboy out for a spin?

I left from Queens and hit the typical traffic on Northern Boulevard but it opened up just past Little Neck. The sun peeked out from behind a gray sky and stayed with me for the remainder of the ride. The breeze was relaxing and helped clear my head. Back to work tomorrow. One more quick ride.

Ain't She Purdy?

No particular destination in mind, so I'll just ride until I feel like stopping. A few good turns and I can feel the stress melting away. I lean into the wind, hit the throttle and pass a few drifters staring into their cell phones with one hand on the wheel. They drift right, I pass left. A squirrel darts to the roadside after reconsidering a dash across the busy street. He'll live to dart another day.

I pass the Christ Episcopal Church Cemetery and for a fleeting moment think of turning down Plandome Road for a quick drive down into Port Washington. The moment passes and I continue on. I think of my Dad who always blessed himself as he drove past a cemetery. One hand on the throttle and I squeeze the clutch into a higher gear. No more hands for blessing.

Crossing the bridge over into Roslyn, I'm buffeted by a few strong wind blasts. A subtle reminder that Hermine's fingers are reaching north but not enough to knock me off my bike. Not today anyway.

I pass a few cyclists heading west in the opposite direction and I'm not one to break code or the loyal bond between bikers. I extend a friendly peace sign with my left hand below the bars and low. Harley riders flash it low. It's cooler that way. He responds with a friendly wave. Bikers are always friendly to other bikers (or should be). We share a common doom, a common risk. We're exposed to the elements, the road, and the idiocy of those on four wheels. When you see another biker you acknowledge him. It's only right. They may be the last human being you see that day who understands what it means to hit the road with two wheels. You wave, flash the peace sign, nod if you're too busy shifting. You acknowledge you see them. You let them know, "I'm with ya man. Keep your bike vertical today. And if you go down, you'll know that I saw you. Wished you well. We're brothers." An unspoken tradition but one that just happens naturally. No prejudices. No cliques. You just do it. If you don't, you're just a dick.

More trees encroach on the roadway as it narrows further east. I take a hard left and Long Island Sound appears on my left. I slow down to appreciate the view through the trees and decide to pull over. Cold Spring Harbor. I spot a small fishing wharf just up ahead and pull into the tiny parking area. There's a small area not designated as a parking slot but the bike will fit. I pass around the parked cars and illegally lean the bike in this area. It's a holiday.

I sit down on a bench to take some photos and smoke a small pipeful of some good tobacco. A dark blue car rolls in and a family of three exits with fishing poles in hand. One older boy stops to admire my bike and snaps a few shots on his cell. I don't acknowledge that it's mine or that I care. He speaks to his brother in what sounds to be Russian and moves over to the dock. 

I breathe in the salty air and watch the small boats dance on the rippling waves in the bay. Snapping a few photos with my phone and smoking my short pipe, I must look either eccentric or bohemian...or both. A large woman sitting alone on a bench looks at me sideways. She smiles and looks out to the water.

An older gentleman walks up in a blue polo and khaki shorts. Carrying his fishing pole he slowly walks around my bike and smiles.  He looks up and asks, "This your bike?"

"Yes, sir." Mom didn't raise no farm kids.

"She's a Fatboy, isn't she?"

"She is."

"She's real pretty. I was here about a half hour ago and my bike has almost the exact same colors. She's a Road King. I was thinking about getting the Fatboy but I had to have the Road King. You know how it goes." I do.

"Thank you very much."

"You enjoy her." He turns and walks to the dock.

"I will."

I snap a few more pictures, including my Black Sabbath edition Converse hi-tops. I like the red shoelaces. 

Enjoying my smoke, I watch the fishermen troll their bait across the surface of the water. The sun is setting and the sky is turning a beautiful golden color, casting light across the ripples and lengthening shadows across the wharf. Time to head back.

Sabbath Bloody Sabbath

I take my time settling into the saddle, fire up the shotgun pipes and rumble out onto the abutting street. The first lean on the curve feels good as the cool air clears some of the smoke out of my lungs. A rider on a black Street Glide sits upright slowing behind a pickup truck, frustratingly following the 35 mph speed limit.  I slouch forward on the Carlini bars and poke up behind him. Unable to crawl behind the pickup, he passes it as we turn onto 25A. I'm stuck in a single lane behind, but I'm enjoying the flashes of light as they play across the road in front of me.

I take a deep breath. I can do this all the way home.