pushing pedal

South on Franklin, right on Greene, the prettiest street I know. Past Speedy Romeo, where they shot scenes of Girls (the coffee shop where Ray and Hannah worked), past Prima and playgrounds and St. James Place, then left on Vanderbilt.

Push pedal past Atlantic, a gaping maw of an intersection, made worse by the fact they dug up the street at the beginning of summer. Speeds shift as I make split-second decisions about whether I can fit in the sliver between the parked SUV and the one waiting at the red light. It looks a bit bigger than me-sized, but you never quite know. I wobble through, tense, but my calculation was correct. A little bit bigger than me-sized!

Uphill a bit, pedestrians are extra adventurous on the commercial corridor of Vanderbilt. Between the walkers, bikers, mo-ped-ers, drivers, skateboarders, rollerbladers, and strollers, every red light breeds a flurry of little games of chicken. I feel daring today and I roll through the reds. I don’t mind being sworn at.

Sometimes I think about getting hit by a car, flying over my handlebars, and landing with my bike mangled at my feet in a giant flurry of commotion. I’m on the ground, near the curb, and everyone has stopped what they were doing to stare. My shirt is torn to show a tasteful amount of chest, a bruised neck, one perfect little nick on my right cheekbone (my good side) spilling over with glistening bright red blood. Helmet is cracked in two next to me, (Thank God he wore one!), the scene of something that was almost horrible but by some stroke of luck ended up okay. In fact, it’s more than okay… For Pete’s sake, I look incredible! The shock I wear on my face is overshadowed by a radiant confidence. Did my jawline always cut like this? The sun is in love with me as I sit amongst the chaos of the accident. A photographer walks by, mesmerized by the story that has just unfolded, snapping pictures of me that wind up online and, within a month, lead to me being discovered by the editorial world. A gorgeous man sees me and helps me up. You’re so tall and mysterious and you seem really fucking kind, he says, accurately describing me. Would you want to make out for three hours later at my loft? I have no idea why a Tribeca bombshell is walking around on Vanderbilt Ave, but it’s not worth questioning the moment. Getting hit by that car changed my life…

In a second I am back in the current moment, wrestling my focus back from the compelling vignette. Hang a right onto Bergen, need to get past Flatbush Ave. I do and I relax. Gorgeous brownstones again, in the early fall it’s still warm and the sun is bright but not oppressive and the wind is good to me. I saw Ebon Moss-Bachrach over here once, I think.

Park Slope becomes Boerum Hill becomes Cobble Hill and my two wheels zip by attractive families that seem perfect. I wonder, for the millionth time, if raising a family in a brownstone in Brooklyn is actually worth it. Are you happy, like actually? I want to ask. And you’re living within your means? Just wondering. You can be real with me by the way.

Squeak for a red I can’t beat. Curse these brakes… I need to get a tune-up but errands rarely get done until they become urgent problems.

Left on Court, no bike lane here but the drivers are mostly beta Dads who wear Tevas and probably belong in Vermont or Marin, so I’m chilling. Right on Kane, or maybe Sackett, but you have to get this right, because most of these streets hit the bridgeless parts of the BQE so you can’t cross over, and then you get stuck in one-ways and start to get sweaty and pissed.

Since birth I’ve had a terrible disorder where my brain refuses to backtrack when I miss my turn. Rather than admit to myself that I screwed up, I prefer to guess my way back to my path, which winds up adding way more time than if I had just turned around right away, in the first place, and went back. Better to maintain the illusion that I am doing everything right, even when I am now a mile off in the wrong direction and about to accidentally cycle onto the highway. This is an infuriating way to go about life and it is also the only way I will ever operate.

Many annoying minutes later and I am over the BQE and finally at the end of Brooklyn. The New York Harbor opens up and I spot huge cranes, rigs, and ships grazing in the sea like cattle. Turn left and hug the water to Red Hook.

I think about this summer when I’d run from Clinton Hill to these parts, earlier on in marathon training, before I hurt my hip in August. My heart lurches and I curse my body for failing me. I fell in love with running and I didn’t realize it and now that my injury is taking me out of this goddamn 26-mile race, which I decided is my life’s mission to complete (never had the interest until two years ago), the mere sight of someone on a casual jog fills me with a cutting grief that genuinely surprises me in its intensity.

There was one Red Hook run I did in June that I would pay money to go back to. Healy called to gossip and we talked for 10 minutes while I ran. I had never run more than 4 miles at once until 2022, and now, I was chatting on the phone with ease and powering down the road with my shirt off. Holding 7-minute miles and wearing a shit-talking grin, I was in the best fucking shape of my life. The fact I will get back to that point eventually does not erase the heartache I feel now.

My wheels lead me to the cobblestone-y part of Red Hook, where it’s quiet and laidback and there’s coffee and beer and ceramics and stuff to buy and bring home and put on your dresser. A year since I forced myself to learn how to spend time by myself, this remains my favorite way to make use of a spare day (weather permitting). Until the day I crash on Vanderbilt (in a hot way) and my life changes forever, this will make do.

Secret cafe garden in Red Hook that is so beautiful I almost get religious.