Chapter 6

It was just two weeks into our relationship when Greg brought up the idea of going on the Five Boros bike ride. It felt a bit odd jumping into a commitment, months away, but also it was a grand gesture – a declaration. Greg thought this relationship was worth investing in. I was worth investing in.  In the end, I think he just wanted me to go with him because his ex had no interest in cycling. Now he had someone who appeared to share his passion. 

I was consistently riding the bike he bought me, practicing in hopes to handle a 40 mile ride. It was so much more than a bike – it was a symbol of his love. Why would a guy buy me a bike if he didn’t love me, right? I looked at him longingly when I saw the price tag. I couldn’t afford such an extravagant purchase. I was still processing my divorce and all the costs my new life alone incurred. When he proposed to pay, mumbling the offer as he crouched inspecting the bike’s lustrous advanced disc brakes, I was smitten. 

The most thrilling part of all, however, was seeing my ex’s face when he saw it. As he refused to tell me where he was living, I became his mail mule. We would meet along the imposing facade of the high end department store where he worked each time a new bill or legal document arrived. I strode up, pushing my brilliant new blue bike beside me. “Where did you get that?” he squinted.

“Oh this?” I looked down, nonchalantly, “It was a gift,” I beamed. He had no idea where I got it, or from whom, and I loved it! In that one small moment, I’d won. I don’t need you anymore, I have someone new to love me.

Now I was heading up I-95, my bike shining on the bike rack of the hatchback of another man who didn’t want me anymore. I still held hope though and as we crossed the Holland Tunnel into New York I took a deep breath to embrace the day – crystal clear and full of potential. 

We played the friendship game – putting emotions aside and striving to enjoy the weekend. We hit the Brooklyn Flea, strolling through market stalls, drinking coffees gazing out onto the East River. We met up with one of his old friends living in Astoria, riding our bikes through Williamsburg to Champs Diner for vegan mac and cheese. We cruised the bike lane on the Williamsburg Bridge, darting through traffic in the East Village and down around to the bike expo. I never knew what Greg told his friend about this girl he was bringing along – introduced simply by name, no this is my girlfriend… ex-girlfriend… friend… or this is some woman I used to say I love you to. It was strange, simultaneously creating and tainting joyful memories frozen as former lovers.

We meandered through the throngs of people at Pier 36 exploring stalls selling everything from reflective tape to carbon fiber bike frames. There was anticipation in the air, not just for the ride, but for what the weather would hold – conversations about rain permeated the convention hall. Saturday’s sunny skies would gray into a full day of relentless rain. I was woefully underprepared and at the last minute, in a panic against what I thought was my better judgement, I bought an expensive Marmot waterproof jacket. 

Best $80 I’ve ever spent. It poured. 30,000 of us lined up in the streets of lower Manhattan, filtering out from spindly alleys onto Church Street pointing towards 6th Avenue. There were middle aged men, decked out in high performance compression bibs in psychedelic colors with sharp, aerodynamic helmets next to weekender families in sweats, kids trailing behind, streamers glistening off their handlebars. 

Heavy green banners lined the street hyping everyone for a thrilling course north through Manhattan’s Central Park and Harlem, clipping the Bronx, then heading south through Queens, Brooklyn and on to Staten Island and a ferry trip back to Battery Park. The rain was steady as we straddled our bikes, everyone locked together so tightly that even the slightest turn of the wheel could lead to a serious collision. 

After a slow start we were off, Greg and I helping each other through the gauntlet of inexperienced riders, traversing puddles and gangling broods of blundering bikers and blistering weekend warriors. We were a team. In Central Park, we hit a breakaway, the road newly paved and slick. The world went silent – only the sound of the swish of water ricocheting off rubber tires.  I was moving fast, keeping up. It felt good. We flew across the first bridge at Madison Avenue then skimmed across a small wedge of the Bronx with the sounds of drums pounding rhythmically as locals cheered us on towards Third Avenue Bridge. Returning to Manhattan, we pedaled down FDR Drive, owning the highway through sheets of rain, traffic whizzing past in the opposite direction as we made our way towards the Queensboro Bridge. Taking a break at the top, we took in the Silvercup sign in Long Island City. Even with the haze and rain, it was turning out to be a great day for an epic adventure. There was little time to worry about anything but the ride. 

That morning as I dressed I had no idea what kind of day was ahead of me. I’d spent the night alone in my friends’ bed while Greg slept on the couch. The unknown of the day to come – the ride, our relationship – weighed on me, leaving me to toss and turn all night. I prepared as best I could in my new jacket, black leggings and favorite sneakers. While my flimsy white Converse low-tops may have looked cool, with their sleek, classic design, out there in the rain, I’d amassed two balls of heavy, freezing cold, cotton wadding around my feet. By the time we looped around Astoria Park towards Brooklyn, I was resolute that if a shoe shop, any shoe shop, came into view I would stop. Nothing. Fueled by a banana and a bagel at Commodore Barry Park I accepted my fate and persevered on.

Besides, it wasn’t the time to worry about shoes. As we approached mile 35, I was about to pedal my ass up the Verrazano Bridge – the longest suspension bridge in the western hemisphere. 

From a distance, the 2.6 mile Verrazano Bridge appeared relatively flat, connecting Brooklyn to Staten Island, but up close, it was a long sweeping rise. Magnified by the fact that I was on a bike, it was less a bridge and more like a sloping, murky tunnel of concrete and steel. Trudging up the long, steady pitch I watched riders lose their momentum, teetering from side to side while others gave up, choosing instead to push their bikes up the heavy gradient. Perched high out of the saddle, I drove down on the pedals, quads straining, begging them to pull my water-logged Chucks up for another revolution.  

Motivational quotes peppered the asphalt written in the vibrant colors of classroom chalk. “You can do it!” “Don’t give up!” “Just a bit more!” There was a noise, echoing ahead in the distance. DUN. DUN, DUN, DUN. DUN, DUN DUNNNNNN. I pressed on, peeking back to see Greg right behind me. He was keeping tabs on me, making sure I was ok. We pushed forward. DUN. DUN, DUN, DUN. DUN, DUN DUNNNNNN. The music swelled. Was I hearing it right?

Past the school yard slogans, streamers of pink and purple glitter hung overhead. SO MANY TIMES, IT HAPPENS TOO FAST... I was exhausted – quads burning with each push down on the pedal. Where the hell was the summit?!?  And where was that music coming from?!? I refused to give in. I wasn’t about to become an average bike pusher. Greg coasted past, unable, I assumed, to keep going at my slower pace. YOU MUST FIGHT JUST TO KEEP THEM ALIVE... The music echoed across the steel girders – notes becoming a song. My heart pumped frantically, music thumping in my bones…

IT'S THE EYE OF THE TIGER,

IT'S THE THRILL OF THE FIGHT...

I focused on my feet – push, push, push. The music was deafening – the sound of thousands of cyclists drowned out by Survivor. Did this mean the peak was near? I focused on my feet as they went round and round.  I let out a long, exasperated sigh, emptying my already strained lungs when suddenly, looking up there he was: one of New York’s finest in his NYPD cruiser perched at the top – windows down, seat back, sunglasses on in the darkness of the underpass blaring Eye of the Tiger. 

I’d reached the top! A surge of power ran through me, electric. Catching my breath, I sat, cruising over the crest. I did it all on my own! Not bad for a girl who was always picked last in gym class. Greg appeared out of the corner of my eye. He’d waited at the top for my arrival. Eyes wide, held tilted, he grinned, “Let’s go?” With a nod, I kicked off, and we breezed down the bridge at 30 mph towards Staten Island. 

Completely drenched, sustaining on soft pretzels and Coca Cola, we made it to the end where we froze huddled on the slow ferry back to Manhattan. By the time we got to Brooklyn, I was soaked through, my feet chilled to the bone. Yet I felt the warm glow of achievement, we had done it. Together. I stooped in the shower, head down, staring at my toes, wishing them to warm under the intense spray from overhead. Greg wanted to head back as soon as possible, citing dog sitting issues. We hitched the bikes, Greg cranked up the heat and we headed home. 

We rode in what appeared to be companionable silence. Of course in my mind a storm raged. Did this trip change anything? Did he want it to all go back to like it was before? I didn’t know what to say. With each passing exit, my chances to find out dwindled. 

Finally, I spoke. “Well, that was really fun, wasn’t it?” He nodded. “I mean, it was freezing,” I looked to my feet, pressed against the air vent at the top of the footwell. “I wish I’d better shoes,” I breathed in, “I guess I’ll have to make note of that if I ever ride 40 miles in the rain again,” I let out a small chuckle. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, watching the road, “it was brutal.”

I paused – a million years passed as I composed my next thought. It needed to be brilliant. A representation of all my thoughts and dreams. For the future, for us. I turned to him, “But we had a great time together though, right?”

He scrutinized the road ahead, then with a faint laugh said, “Well, yeah,  I mean, it’s not like I hated having to be around you. It was fine.” I stared out the window until we reached my house. He unlatched my bike and handed me my bags like a tour guide returning a guest. With a shrug and a nod he smiled his goodbye and drove off, leaving me standing in the street.  

That night, as I lay on the sofa, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so alone. More than that, I was crushed that I’d allowed all of this to happen to me. It had been four months and somehow this man, who I barely knew, had completely taken me in, transposed all my ideas of love into something new and, what I had thought was, meaningful. And now I was staring at a Trader Joe’s frozen meal on my own, drinking a bit too much cheap red wine, wondering what was wrong with me. How could someone profess such profound love for me in such a short period of time and then take it all away? Was this what it was like out there? I’d spent 10 years with my ex and had only gone out with a few men since our breakup. I didn’t even know what it meant to date when Greg arrived. Maybe I didn’t even want to know anymore.

I was heartbroken. I was sad he was gone, of course, but this felt like something more. Grief. Grief over losing all of the things I thought I was going to have. Stability, a family, joy – freedom in love. It’d all been snatched from my grasp. I felt the void slowly creeping in. If he could say he loved me and then turn around and change his mind so quickly, what hope was there?  

As the waves rushed over me I ignored what was hiding in the back of my mind. That, in truth, I’d never really loved him in the first place. I’d only told myself that I did. It was easier that way. A life of not quite love was better than no love at all. If this was my only chance it was better to try than not. And I had, so wholeheartedly, that now it weighed down on my chest like a concrete slab – a pain so intense it lasted a year.