April 2, 2021 - From Issue No. 8 - 2020 “The Morning Routine” - Jamie Soltis - (II of II).

March 31, 2021 - The Morning Routine - I of II.

These thoughts flash through my brain in an instant as I turn left onto Church Avenue in Kensington. And then . . . Nightmare Time. Traffic! Now I remembered why my bike had been collecting dust for so long. I don’t know if you know this, but drivers around here have the right of way every time, all the time. And the really magical part of this is that amongst each other, each individual driver also has the right of way every time, all the time. For example, you might think that, as a driver at a stoplight who will be going straight (or, gayly forward, as my friend Jeffy liked to say) has the right of way –––– and you’d be right! But do you also know that a driver coming from the opposite direction who will be turning left also has the right of way? I know! It’s a miracle! And did you know, drivers absolutely adore cyclists. They like to blast their horns in greeting and open their doors into bike lanes and give little love taps now and then. And don’t be dismayed by that spit and cigarette ash coming towards you ––– it’s just their way of saying hello!

The traffic forces you to heighten your senses. As Erica Ferencik says in Into the Jungle, “The ones who survive are the ones who pay attention.” And eventually you get used to it, and you learn to work with all elements of the city, and you remember that you are not the center of the uni- verse. And you ride through new neighborhoods and marvel at the huge houses you didn’t think Brooklyn had the room to build. And you find yourself thinking about the people who built such large houses. Did they need to go to Manhattan every day? Would they walk? Did they have bicycles? Was this house surrounded by farmland at one point? And before that, all forest?

What jobs do people have that they can afford these houses today? Would I like to live in one of these? Do people with big houses clean them themselves? The whole thing? Do they hire cleaners? Would I do that? Would I feel I was giving someone an employment opportunity or would I have issues with the class differences humans dreamt up? Would I pay them way above the average salary? Would I be reinforcing the idea that money is society’s greatest value?

One of my other voices chimed in: “Hey. Stop it. You’re biking. Don’t you ever get sick of your own thoughts?” “Uh, YES. Every second of every goddamned day. It is exhausting.” I realize this may be a reason people like to exercise. Have you ever pushed yourself so hard that you can’t think of anything except how much the exercising sucks? That’s a gift. It allows you to escape from your own narcissistic brain for a while.

Be in the moment, Jamie. Look at how maddeningly beautiful Brooklyn is. Argyle Road? Are you kidding me? Tree-lined, quiet, beautiful . . . old houses that people care about and little lawns that they maintain. Just being here is calming. Cortelyou Road: full of life, even in this pandemic, since restaurants have moved their tables to the sidewalk. People drinking coffee, possibly reading the Times on their phones or sharing a bagel with a friend –––– looks like the old normal again, but cuter, since outdoor dining rules. I bike on.

Clarendon Road offers a nice long bike lane, making the ride a little safer. East Flatbush turns into Canarsie; along this whole route, the style of neighborhoods change so quickly I want to ride even slower to take it all in. I get to Paerdegat Avenue and pass a canoe club. Kayaking! I make a mental note to come back here someday. Slowly the crack in my brain that lets in light opens a little wider; I’ve remembered another thing in this world that gives me pleasure. Suddenly, a park I had never seen before appears right in front of me, adorned with open fields and bike paths. This is incredible. I pass a playground and a skate park and frisbee-tossing people enjoying nature.

I ride until the path narrows and turns into a tunnel of trees. Where am I? More joy. After ten years in New York, I sometimes think I’ve seen all of it. But I’m always wrong. I ride up the hill through this tree-tunnel when suddenly ––––– water. The tunnel ends abruptly and there, without warning, the world gets bigger and shows me Jamaica Bay. It’s like running and running and running through a paper towel tube--a beautiful paper towel tube--forever, and then finally exiting to see the world’s horizons expand in an instant.

I gawk for a minute, wondering if I should walk down the beach to the water, but instead I continue on. The bike path merges into another bike path that parallels the Belt Parkway. I ride on, the bay to my right. I explore Canarsie Pier, which would later become the site of a birthday party on my way back.

Soon, the colorful signs advertising the new Shirley Chisholm Park come into view. I think about the importance of naming things. Take the Kosciuszko Bridge: after crossing it a billion times, I thought, “Hey. Who is this Kosciuszko (guy, probably) anyway?” And I looked it up! (A colonel in the American Revolutionary War, if you’re wondering.) And I imagine the naming of this park with inspire people to look up facts about Shirley Chisholm, too. (She was the first Black woman elected to the US Congress, if you’re wondering. And the first African-American candidate for a major party’s nomination for President. And an author and an educator. And a Brooklynite!)

I enter the park, just to get a peek. More bike path, more water, more calm, quiet natural beauty. I come out, roll through East New York, whose style differs greatly from its next door neighbor Lindenwood which frankly, kind of freaks me out with its matchy-matchy suburban vibe. I tuck the image away in case I ever become a location scout for horror movies.

My sixth sense tells me that Resorts World Casino was a skip and a hop away, but the smart part of my brain tells me that a casino might not be the place to go during a global pandemic. Howard Beach comes next with its pretty driveways and great garage sales, and before I know it, the Addabbo Bridge is gayly forward ahead. I allow myself a sip of water and pedal on, knowing full well that my legs will one hundred percent become useless slabs of meat after today.

But I know what’s coming ahead . . . the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge. I had been there once before and was astounded by the size of it, not expecting the beach component that accompanied the forest. Did I see wildlife while I was there? Well, no, but I blame myself for setting expectations too high. Today, however, I do not stop there; I just enjoy the bike path that’s set between the road and the refuge, protected by a long white picket fence.

I make it to Broad Channel, a lovely fishing neighborhood, I’m guessing? whose houseboats I have seriously considered buying. A little loop to ac- cess the bike path on the Cross Bay Bridge, and up I go. Looking over the side of the bridge, I get a bird’s-eye view of this thing in the water that houses a water slide and two trampolines. I’ll have to find out how to get up on that. Down the bridge I come, standing on my pedals, until I am released into my favorite place in New York City, the Rockaways.

I love the ocean. It’s where life began. It doesn’t have feelings or motives. It’s the most spectacular part of our Earth. It can also be the most dangerous. I’m not sure what life lessons I’m supposed to take from this. No matter what’s happening in the world –––– wars, political tragedies, pandemics –––– the ocean will always be here. And as New Yorkers, we can always go to it.

I scoot over to the boardwalk to enjoy the ride there for a few blocks. Around Beach 73rd St, I finally release my bike from between my legs and lock her up. I give her a pat, take off my shoes, and walk down to the shore.

The Rockaways on a weekday in the autumn makes me believe in God again. I sit down on the sand, watching the few surfers who don’t let the seasons keep them from the waves. I start to cry. Maybe it’s the endorphins the long ride has released for me; maybe it’s gratitude for seeing some- thing beautiful that’s right in front of me, that’s always been available to me. Maybe it’s grief for all the time that depression has stolen from me, keeping me from this.

After spending some time on the sand, I ride back home and think about how lucky I am to have my legs, my lungs, my life. Then a car almost hits me, and this seems about right. God, you rascal, you. The master comedian. It’s crazy to witness how my sense of humor before-and-after cycling differs so vividly. Is it possible that there’s something to this “exercise is good for you” dirge that fitness-pushers are always yammering on about?

A couple of hours later, I am home, and it looks different now that I’ve been away from it all day. Less cave-like, I’m sure, but now all I see it for is a bed. I cannot wait to get my body all up in that bed! As I drift off to sleep, my mind is filled with thoughts of how I’ll wake up at five, ride to the beach again, and be home by nine. I can’t wait.

Well, Rome wasn’t built in a day (so they say). I of course wake at ten and, as I get out of bed, promptly fall to the floor. Jelly legs! Ah, to be old and out of shape! This felt more familiar. I cheer up at the fact that at least I’ll be able to sit around and whine all day. That’s part of my charm.

Before I could get too hard on myself, I heard my spouse’s voice in my head, reminding me that the way I went through life didn’t have to be all-or-nothing. Just because I rode my bike, say, every other day as opposed to every day, didn’t mean I was a failure, nor did it mean I should give up immediately. Maybe my morning “routine” could be divvyed up a little. If I couldn’t ride thirty miles, read a little, write a little, volunteer at the orphanage or whatever every day, well, maybe I could at least accomplish one of those things. A difficult concept for an ambitious-mind-trapped- in-a-lazy-body to behold, but I guessed it was worth a shot.

So! Here we are, in the present. Am I riding around every day? Absolutely not. But I do still have a morning routine; through which I’ve decided to set the tiniest goals possible. If I accomplish them, then I’ve won! What a great trick. It can be used for everything. Goal: shower every day. You did it! Goal: don’t be mean to your sister. Great job!! What a winner. My hope is that maybe the tiny goals will begin to bore me, and eventually, who knows? Riding around the city every day might just make its way back into the plan. And I hope it does.

Living through this pandemic makes me miss New York so much. But when I ride around and see New York, I always marvel at what we humans have built. And at what we’ve had to rebuild. And at what we are currently rebuilding. Nothing releases gratitude in me like New York—nothing elicits inspiration in me like New Yorkers! ––– but I’ve got to get out there to see it. So please, allow me to put an end to this writing and go out- side. It’s a habit.

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Jamie Soltis is an actor with a special affinity for comedy. She has ap- peared in shows like Difficult People and the Blacklist and currently works with the Episcopal Actors Guild, a 501(c)(3) non-profit that pro- vides charitable assistance and career support for performers of all faith, and none. Via Blog O’ Beer (Can Beer Make me Friends?), she writes about bars and restaurants in and around New York, NY.