oh i forgot to mention
Jun. 14th, 2005 09:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7I forgot to mention a humorous bit of our bike ride.
So we were on our way home. We'd missed a bunch of the Riverwalk bike trail and had had to ride on the sidewalk of a busy street down on Buffalo's waterfront, dodging cranes and forklifts and guys with hand trucks and cars ducking into driveways and the such. We wanted to actually find the real bike path for the ride home, to minimize repeat forklift incidents. (That forklift scared the crap out of me. The operator gave me a real friendly smile but damn, that was awful big equipment for such a small sidewalk.)
We realized that some of the trail was on Squaw Island, and the sign we'd seen had been the south end of it. So we went over the drawbridge, intending to ride north up the island until the train trestle where the bike path went back over to the mainland. Squaw Island is the island in the Niagara River where the sewage treatment plant is, but is also part of the breakwater between the river and the canal. The breeze is constant and cold there, which was welcome.
In getting onto the bike path I managed to run into a fence and fall off my bike, which was a bit traumatic. I broke no skin, however, and my wrists already hurt like motherfuckers so it really made no difference. So we took a bit of a break while I determined whether I or my bike was damaged.
While we were standing there watching the seagulls scoop up tiny silver fish from the super-fast river (this is the Upper Niagara, btw, on its way to go crashing over the Falls-- very cold Lake Erie water enroute to become cold Lake Ontario water), a couple rode by on bikes. They were sort of indie-hipster: he had a beard and looked like the actor in that funny short "George Lucas In Love"; she was wearing a ruffly green skirt and had artfully-messy-hair-in-an-elaborate-bun, and had neato wire saddlebags on the back of her bike. (Later I saw that her face indicated she was an age much greater than her attire suggested.)
So they went by, and disappeared northward. I took note of them because they looked so relaxed and recreational, as opposed to our rumpled, somewhat hideous aspect. By then, I was covered in grit (wearing shortish shorts, my legs were speckled with dust and grit and my arms were covered in a sheen of sweat and dirt, and sweat was running down my face), made worse by my recent spill (which had left me marked alarmingly with rust from the fence I'd hit). Dave looked like himself, but rather red-faced and dishevelled. And these two were sort of cruising along on their slightly-too-short, cutesy Schwinn-esque only more indie than that bikes, looking all isn't it a nice spring day, aren't we hip, bike riding is the anti-drug but only in a deeply ironic fashion.
We made our way up the path, which was pretty well-marked and straightforward at that point. Doot de doo. The path went over an overpass above the 190, and we were pedaling uphill very laboriously, and lo! there ahead of us were the Indie Hipster Couple, still cruising along attractively in their shabby-indie-hipster sort of way. We passed them up the hill (I felt a bit smug, given that my legs were ON FIRE and made of lead, and maybe I was red as a beet and covered in grit, but EAT MY DUST HIPSTERS!) and crossed the train bridge.
On the other side the path was clearly marked for a little while and then abruptly Dave stopped. "Wait," he said, and we got off our bikes and stood looking confused. "I think the arrow goes that way," he said. "That's the 198 [the Scajaquada Expressway] right there, and the path goes over it. But that's Amherst St. that way. And the Scajaquada Creek bike trail ends at Amherst and Grant."
We stood a moment. I heard bikes behind us. "Let's wait until that couple comes over the bridge, and see where they go," I whispered.
"Yeah," Dave said. We stood there trying not to look interested, and the man and woman came over the bridge. And saw us. And stopped. And looked at the trail, and looked at the street. And looked at us. And whispered to each other.
"They don't know either," I said, incredulous. "They're waiting for us to decide."
"Crap," Dave said.
So we went on the marked trail over the expressway, through a weird and dodgy little covered bridge. Behind us, the hipsters followed, maintaining their leisurely pace so that we soon left them behind again.
We went through a weird bit of trail between the fence and the expressway (the fence was sectioning off something marked "NO TRESPASSING: US GOVERNMENT PROPERTY" and there were signs on the other side saying "Army Corps of Engineers"). And then suddenly-- there were stairs in the path.
We had to stop and get off our bikes, and go down the stairs to cross the street. As we were getting back on our bikes, laughing almost too hard to get going, we heard the hipsters behind us, also confronting the stairs with incredulity (though much less humor).
We went along for a while and then Dave stopped again where the bike path crossed a street. "This is Hertel Ave," he said. "This path is going to take us up to Niawanda Park. We've come farther than I thought."
"That's far," I said.
We looked down Hertel. We looked up the path. We pondered.
The hipsters came by. They were too proud this time to wait for us. They hesitated a moment, but went past us and continued on the path. I waved cheerfully at them as they went by. The woman gave me a disapproving look. We rode home down Hertel. Very slowly.
And now I am drinking CC and Vernor's and my arms hurt. Dave's doing vector art. I am going to hurt tomorrow. There's thunder and lightning now. How cheery.
So we were on our way home. We'd missed a bunch of the Riverwalk bike trail and had had to ride on the sidewalk of a busy street down on Buffalo's waterfront, dodging cranes and forklifts and guys with hand trucks and cars ducking into driveways and the such. We wanted to actually find the real bike path for the ride home, to minimize repeat forklift incidents. (That forklift scared the crap out of me. The operator gave me a real friendly smile but damn, that was awful big equipment for such a small sidewalk.)
We realized that some of the trail was on Squaw Island, and the sign we'd seen had been the south end of it. So we went over the drawbridge, intending to ride north up the island until the train trestle where the bike path went back over to the mainland. Squaw Island is the island in the Niagara River where the sewage treatment plant is, but is also part of the breakwater between the river and the canal. The breeze is constant and cold there, which was welcome.
In getting onto the bike path I managed to run into a fence and fall off my bike, which was a bit traumatic. I broke no skin, however, and my wrists already hurt like motherfuckers so it really made no difference. So we took a bit of a break while I determined whether I or my bike was damaged.
While we were standing there watching the seagulls scoop up tiny silver fish from the super-fast river (this is the Upper Niagara, btw, on its way to go crashing over the Falls-- very cold Lake Erie water enroute to become cold Lake Ontario water), a couple rode by on bikes. They were sort of indie-hipster: he had a beard and looked like the actor in that funny short "George Lucas In Love"; she was wearing a ruffly green skirt and had artfully-messy-hair-in-an-elaborate-bun, and had neato wire saddlebags on the back of her bike. (Later I saw that her face indicated she was an age much greater than her attire suggested.)
So they went by, and disappeared northward. I took note of them because they looked so relaxed and recreational, as opposed to our rumpled, somewhat hideous aspect. By then, I was covered in grit (wearing shortish shorts, my legs were speckled with dust and grit and my arms were covered in a sheen of sweat and dirt, and sweat was running down my face), made worse by my recent spill (which had left me marked alarmingly with rust from the fence I'd hit). Dave looked like himself, but rather red-faced and dishevelled. And these two were sort of cruising along on their slightly-too-short, cutesy Schwinn-esque only more indie than that bikes, looking all isn't it a nice spring day, aren't we hip, bike riding is the anti-drug but only in a deeply ironic fashion.
We made our way up the path, which was pretty well-marked and straightforward at that point. Doot de doo. The path went over an overpass above the 190, and we were pedaling uphill very laboriously, and lo! there ahead of us were the Indie Hipster Couple, still cruising along attractively in their shabby-indie-hipster sort of way. We passed them up the hill (I felt a bit smug, given that my legs were ON FIRE and made of lead, and maybe I was red as a beet and covered in grit, but EAT MY DUST HIPSTERS!) and crossed the train bridge.
On the other side the path was clearly marked for a little while and then abruptly Dave stopped. "Wait," he said, and we got off our bikes and stood looking confused. "I think the arrow goes that way," he said. "That's the 198 [the Scajaquada Expressway] right there, and the path goes over it. But that's Amherst St. that way. And the Scajaquada Creek bike trail ends at Amherst and Grant."
We stood a moment. I heard bikes behind us. "Let's wait until that couple comes over the bridge, and see where they go," I whispered.
"Yeah," Dave said. We stood there trying not to look interested, and the man and woman came over the bridge. And saw us. And stopped. And looked at the trail, and looked at the street. And looked at us. And whispered to each other.
"They don't know either," I said, incredulous. "They're waiting for us to decide."
"Crap," Dave said.
So we went on the marked trail over the expressway, through a weird and dodgy little covered bridge. Behind us, the hipsters followed, maintaining their leisurely pace so that we soon left them behind again.
We went through a weird bit of trail between the fence and the expressway (the fence was sectioning off something marked "NO TRESPASSING: US GOVERNMENT PROPERTY" and there were signs on the other side saying "Army Corps of Engineers"). And then suddenly-- there were stairs in the path.
We had to stop and get off our bikes, and go down the stairs to cross the street. As we were getting back on our bikes, laughing almost too hard to get going, we heard the hipsters behind us, also confronting the stairs with incredulity (though much less humor).
We went along for a while and then Dave stopped again where the bike path crossed a street. "This is Hertel Ave," he said. "This path is going to take us up to Niawanda Park. We've come farther than I thought."
"That's far," I said.
We looked down Hertel. We looked up the path. We pondered.
The hipsters came by. They were too proud this time to wait for us. They hesitated a moment, but went past us and continued on the path. I waved cheerfully at them as they went by. The woman gave me a disapproving look. We rode home down Hertel. Very slowly.
And now I am drinking CC and Vernor's and my arms hurt. Dave's doing vector art. I am going to hurt tomorrow. There's thunder and lightning now. How cheery.
