Rush Hour

Back in my younger ...(80's, naive, aggressively corporate-absorbed and therefore-resilient) days in NY, rush hour was just something you endured, at first it was no big deal.

In my mid 20's in Port Chester, NY, I lived 5 miles from work, and was home eating dinner by 5:15 . Then things got tougher. Earning more money meant a 30 minute commute on the train to Manhattan.

NY times, or the NY Post if I was lazy (you can flip it easier without bumping the guy next to you, and its brain-dead news)

In those days, that half hour felt like an eternity, but today that's nothing. I would do it again in a heartbeat.

Recently, I almost cried when a friend offered me a "buttered roll". Back then they were like a 1.50, wrapped in a waxed paper bag and with fresh butter. Some things are just precious. But I chalk the occurence up to one of those everyday NY ramblings.

Later, I moved way- the- hell up the Hudson to a condo in Harriman/Monroe, which is a mindless little bedroom community for NYC . The train schedule to get there from NY is downright masochistic. The trains do not run every hafl hour like Metro North.

To get to the east side of the river, I had to drive over the "Goat Path" , The stunning Bear Mountain Bridge, then down route 9A, (or was is just 9?) which winds its way precariously around a mountain with a 1000 foot James-Bond style drop to your fiery death if your concentration lapses for even a millisecond.

And at 7:15 AM in a snow-squall, beleive me, it will.

(Oh the drama)

18 wheeled tractor-trailers also took this road, and cars would hammer past them Illegally over the double yellow on the bridge so they would not have to endure being stuck behind them as they downshifted to navigate this road.

Amazingly, the trucks knew this,and tried to accomodate this insane high speed passage as much as possible. No cops were ever around.

I don't think I've ever read, met, or seen anyone who has ridden a bicycle on this road. I do not think it's humanly possible. If you have done this, please respond.

I will make you a pasta dinner, but I will quiz you because you are most likely full of BS.

I remember, however, seeing (unemployed) granola-crunchy Bald-Eagle watchers hanging out on the 9A wall with huge Nikons with 3 foot lenses. Bald Eagles are now a common sight on the Hudson, and other areas, having bounced back from the DDT disaster.

Kudos that.

Eagles have to commute from the North Country , you see, but never mind.

So what? Where are we going with all this?

That commute ended up soaking up 62 minutes and 13 seconds per trip each day, a conservative estimate of ten hours a week spent in limbo.

But at least the scenery was stunning.

Being home was worth it, though. We had a great little condo on the first floor, it had a sliding glass door, so unloading all your wet, gnarly flyfishing gear from an amazing weekend in the Catskillls took thirty seconds.

My big fat shelter- rescued cat would sit there and meow excitedly as I pulled in.

I still miss him terribly. I hate to say it, but that greeting sticks in my mind more than my ex's.
He was so cute, you would just see his mouth open, sitting there on his haunches, all bright eyed.

It just killed me.

It was home. It was nice, it was always clean, and I enjoyed cooking in my kitchen. Right up the road we had the authentic Italian deli, and they had fresh store- made pasta in bags with cornstarch to keep the consistency just right. This is hard to find.

You would pull it out of the bag, it had this play-doh consistency, and firm wetness, it makes me want to drive back there. Like right now.

Bye!

But it's never as good as this...

The men behind the counter were fatter than you could possibly imagine. (There is nothing wrong with this)

They were cool guys. Like funny too.

I remember the lecture on LDL vs. HDL cholesterol from "Al", who twisted it all into a brilliant sales pitch. I was absolutely mesmerized, and that night walked out with armloads of stuff, a serious dent in my credit card.

Also FRESH GROUND Peccorino- Romano cheese, ( The parmesan a strong second) and Colavita Olive Oil.

OMG.

But the kicker was the bread.

The dreaded, almost outlawed, mind- bending, in-house baked fresh sesame seed bread. This stuff was downright freaking mind-bending. I made pasta "putanesca" , or "clam sauce with FRESH leeks, parsley, basil , thyme and tons of fresh chopped (or minced) garlic. The garlic of course was a focal point.

If you have never had fresh pasta with fresh spices you have not lived. A restaurant that can pull this off on a consistent basis is priceless, and you will pay big bucks.

Wa-ho.

The Kitchen was always my exclusive domain, and my ex never cooked, she gravitated toward being a "career woman", which is a whole 'nuther post. I would come home, make dinner, then we would just vegetate in front of the TV , and then get up and commute all over again. She also had a pretty brutal drive all the way to Newark NJ.

So we were fried, I mean, toast. Work, eat, watch TV, play with cat, sleep...

Bagels in the AM were a requirement.

This was before coherent cell phones existed. Well,they did exist, but were expensive as hell. So coordinating things was tough.

Thank God no kids.

While we ended up splitting up, I do respect her. She couldn't cook, but so what? She is a decent person, and I wish her well. She "let me have it" a couple times with both barrels. Of course I fought back , but years later I admit that some of her words rang true.

Thanks, Andrea!

I'm sure many can relate, and it's all about survival, nuturing vs. hunting and gathering, forging out your stake, tribalism, and all that crap.

You get bored, restless, irritable, discontent, ADHD, sleep-deprived, and the money runs out.

You give the cat away,then move to the cornfields of Illinois for a year to try to patch it together.

You almost got the cat back, but left him there, as he now seems ok in his new home in Redneckville, PA. He goes outside now to hunt, which is a whole different exposure.

And he remembered you at the keg party, so that was pretty cool.

Eventually, you notice the meaning of home has changed a lot. The pasta is not like it once was.

Through it all , you keep riding a bicycle, and people watch you, monitor you on the commute, and endlessly comment on that, if they can catch up with you.

Maybe they like your wardrobe, or maybe not. This often determines how they will react to you in traffic.

It's absurd.

They give you fatherly-toned advice which you smile upon and then secretly ignore, and then ride quietly home, while they sit in paunched-bellied= flexed-forward position at the light, processing and rehearsing their next campaign.

They have lower back problems. You notice that you used to have that too, but don't anymore.

Interesting.

Like they wish they could do what you do, but cannot , and you've heard this a million times, phrased in a million ways, usually starting with:

"So, Ummm, how many miles do you do per week?"

"None of your business, as it's all a bunch of BS anyway, this absurdly quantifiable exchange we are having, don't you think?"

....But hey now, thanks for asking! How much do you make? Got kids? do they ride?"

Usually though, you are in a decent mood from riding, so you can be more diplomatic and mutter something else as you strap on your helmet and turn your front wheel 90 degrees...


End of part One.