While I’m not technically beholden to any kind of posting schedule, I couldn’t let June go by the boards without some kind of comment here. My second month on the workforce sidelines hasn’t been bereft of activity by any means, but at times it’s been hard to distinguish between days of the week. The job hunting and site redesign have been as constant as the hum of the compressor in my refrigerator. But while progress is being made on both fronts, it’s the slow and maddeningly steady kind.

Meanwhile, our hero has:

• Helped install a rooftop TV antenna (without breaking my neck).
• Seen a parade chocked full of Mermaids and muscle cars (in a lovely rain sauce).
• Favored friends and strangers alike with my presence at bar-b-q or two.
• Finally stepped foot on the High Line…and it was good.
• Repeatedly learned that web developers are more in-demand than web designers, and that recruiters can’t tell the two apart. Seriously: READ the resume and not just the damn Dice keywords!

There…I feel a bit better. With this paragraph I hereby proclaim the ends of the first half of 2009. Far more tumultuous than I ever dreamed it would be, but that’s life, right? Anyway, stay tuned for the second half, because I guarantee things will be just as exciting. After all, unemployment can’t last forever, right? ^_^

Oh to behold the days again when these words were put on display for all the world to see so easily.

For once I’m not bemoaning the fact I find it hard to post as prodigiously as I used to, but how with age has come a level of self-censorship my younger self would have laughed at.  Many have always thought it peculiar to write about your inner most thoughts, advertising them to complete strangers.  All the more strange when I think about how much of an introvert I tend to be.

Chances are the idea of it all held a great deal of magic to me, in the fact that I was unique in what I was doing in that point.  An early adopter in this new field, free to do what he wanted — to redefine his poor self image by bearing his soul and becoming enigmatic and mysterious instead of off center and to looked at as a walking oddity of social inadequacy — worthy of psychological study in his own eyes.  But the very act of writing was cathartic.  The more life started to give to me, the more I shared, the more people reacted, and the better I felt about me.

But as the rest of the world work up to the reality of personal publishing that the internet brought, I felt the internal censor that permeated my real conversations begin to creep into my virtual sessions of shouting into the void.  And what’s more, those who came after me found much greater success with it then I could ever have dreamed possible.  No longer was I unique, but I now I wasn’t even as good as what I was doing as I felt I was.

That’s why it’s so much harder to write than it used to be.

There was also more of a willingness to share the large mistakes I made in my life, and peer into the inner darkness of my true self.  Even if you’ve read my words and though I’ve exposed a lot what goes on in my head, trust me — I haven’t even scratched the surface.  Over the last month and a half I found that to be true beyond truth.  Some seriously dark and misguided thoughts ran through my head; sinking me into levels of depression I hadn’t faced in a while.

I know there were ways it showed outwardly, and it spurred on some self-destructive behavior — mostly in my dietary choices and lack of motivation to leave my bed when I didn’t absolutely have to.  Then again, being forced back into the sea of uncertainty about employment will make you think of terrible could be’s and horrible what if’s — given enough time and silence.

All the more reason to now redouble my efforts of seeking catharsis, just like this.

Sure, I’ve seen more early mornings on the end of a night wide awake then I have rising with my alarm clock, but there I was pulling myself into the shower at five in the morning.  Warm water soothed me while I tried to hack the sick of the night before from my still sore lungs.  Then it was rush, rush, rush to find some suitable attire while double checking my gear and  trying to down some instant oatmeal — the melting minutes of the clock looming all the while.

Shortly after six it was out the door and onto the Light Rail to Hoboken Terminal — bike in hand.  The ferry terminal looked closed, so I descended into the PATH station where I found similarly situated citizens.  In fact, there was more people with bikes than without on the platforms, and those numbers only grew as we headed to the World Trade Center station, and exploded exponentially when I reached the intersection of Warren and Church.

Just me and 30,000 friends

This past Sunday was the 31st annual Five Boro Bike Tour, and sick or well, rain or shine, I was there to press my luck — 42 miles on two wheels.  I had never done anything like this before, so just finishing was going to be a big accomplishment.

Just before 8:30, the pack of riders I was in finally started moving — not the first get on the course, I’m sure.  But did I ever try to catch them.  I kept a pretty brisk pace as I raced up 6th Ave. from lower Manhattan to Central Park.  I just can’t properly describe how exhilarating it is to ride unobstructed through those streets!  Even if I had only ridden than leg of the course, I think it would have been worth the effort.  The only real obstacles were the few impatient pedestrians who tried to dart across the course instead of heading to one of the intersections being controlled by the bike wardens or police.

Through, over, past, down, up, and down again

Things slowed down as we entered the bottleneck of Central Park.  Still, it gave me a chance to enjoy the view more.  Strangely enough, while we had control over the majority of the road, the bikes had to give up use of the bike lanes on this day.  The joggers apparently needed somewhere to run without the threat of becoming a speed bump — go figure.

Soon enough there was a steady pace going and the scene of trees was replaced by the stately looking buildings in Harlem.  The first boro crossing of the day was at hand, and I was getting excited.  Up the entrance ramp of the Madison Avenue Bridge we rode, across the Harlem River to the south Bronx, and less than 4 minutes later we were crossing the Third Avenue Bridge and leaving the south Bronx.  It almost feels like cheating to call that a trip into the boogie-down, but if the organizers count it, I guess I can too.

Back in Manhattan, we began the next leg of our trip by heading south on FDR Drive.  I started to see a bit more variety in the types of bikes being used, with recumbent bikes, two person bikes, and even some guy riding a unicycle.  There were also groups of riders with similar helmet adornments:  beer bottles, wine glasses, birds, butterflies, carrots, and some with just handfuls of cable ties arranged into interesting configurations.

Of Queens and bridges, parks and pandemonium

As the Queensboro Bridge appeared on the horizon, the true scale of this event started to dawn on me.  To see a street full of riders was one thing, but to see riders from one end of the bridge deck to the other was somewhat awe inspiring.  Somehow I managed to make the assent up the bridge without having to get off my bike at any point — a feat I would not be able to repeat on many of the other assents on the course.  While all the rain and mist was conspiring to rob us of the truly grand views we could have had, it was still cool to see the 100 year old double cantilever bridge up close and at a leisurely pace.

We descended and turned north as we made our way to Astoria Park and the not-quite halfway point rest stop set up under the RFK, er, Triborough Bridge.  There was free food for the riders in the form of bananas, orange slices, and the like.  I got an additional pick me up with some kisses from my girlfriend Jill and some smiles from my friend Erin, who were both volunteering at the rest area for the afternoon.  I was there just long enough to chow down and then it was back onto the course.

Now the real work begins

As the course snaked its way down along the riverfront towards the Pulaski Bridge and Brooklyn, the rain started to pick up, and the weariness in my muscles started to grow.  Every mile was felt more acutely than the last one, and making it to the end of the course would mean going five miles further on a ride than I ever have before.

Of course, I’ve never been one to do things the easy way.  Part of my pain was due to the fact that I was one of about dozen people who decided wearing jeans on the trip was a good idea.  Jeans and athletics are normal for me.  I’ve worn jeans for roller hockey, touch football, basketball, bike rides; summer or winter, spring or fall.  Of course, I forgot to figure in the fact that wet denim is heavy as all hell and my pants would be acting like a sponge.  My pack was still full, and I was gradually gaining weight with every revolution of the pedals.  Viola!  Instant agony multiplier.

Onward we rode; through Greenpoint and Williamsburg, past the Navy Yard and Brooklyn Bridge Park (both present and future).  The twists and turns in the course were reinvigorated me a bit, as did the near miss I had when someone in front of me had a blowout.  But that all adrenaline drained soon after I turned onto the B.Q.E.

B.Q.E. to Gowanus to Belt Parkway to hell

Leaving downtown Brooklyn behind, we were now biking on expressways all the way to the Verrazano.  You would think that would make it somewhat easier, but this was the point when the rain and wind was actually the hardest all trip  The climb over the Gowanus Canal was more brutal for me than the Queensboro had been, and the whole Gowanus Expressway was elevated above the buildings, giving the elements all the more power to make the riders miserable.

By the time we hit the Belt Parkway, I was damn near delirious.  I kept waiting to see the outline of the Verrazano, but with all the rain and mist, I couldn’t be sure if I even would see it until I was almost on top of it.  I must have walked my bike about a half-dozen times to give my legs somewhat of a rest, and I laughed quite crazily when I finally made out the bottom of the Brooklyn tower of the bridge.

Putting it into perspective

I didn’t even try to peddle my way up to the bridge deck level of the Verrazano — I knew that was a fools errand in the state I was in.  Instead, I took that opportunity to rest and snap some pictures, enjoying a structure I could never see on foot if not for this event.  As I looked down upon the Belt Parkway, I really had a growing sense of accomplishment, knowing I had just survived that crowded, rain soaked mess.

Of course, there was a greater sense of accomplishment when I finally reached that magical equilibrium point on the bridge where it stopped ascending and started descending into Staten Island.  Hooray! — the long, long coast had begun!

There was a festival set up at the foot of the bridge, on the grounds of Fort Worth.  Free massages, music, food…and all I wanted was a quick bite to eat and to head home.  As far as I had come and as much as I had accomplished, I was still far from Weehawken, and the Staten Island Ferry terminal was still three miles away.

In the end, I found that salvation looks very much like a street sign….

NOTE: More pictures from the tour are available on my Flickr page.