The COVID-19 has substantially transformed my mode of living. Having stayed home for more than a month, I find myself dwelling more and more upon my memories traversing the city, particularly via bike. As I foresee the epidemic to continue throughout the summer, and my imminent moving to graduate school somewhere else, I am occasionally dreaded by the thought that I may not be able to resume my biking routines, along with many other activities, before leaving NYC. So I’d like to write these memories down–to start with biking–so as to record the feelings that I may no longer be able to experience in vivo, and to create a repertoire of moments in the city that I will continually revisit and try to relive.
Riverside Drive and Park
It was late-summer of 2018 when I first discovered the path to Riverside Park from the Riverside Drive. Having descended from Broadway, I was immersed by the canopy of trees along the sidewalk, which protected me from the still-burning sun of 5:30pm. As I reached 96th street, intimidated by the roads uphill (which my Citibike was clearly not designed to overcome), I would turn right into the road shared by cyclers and pedestrians, overseeing the river. The view of the river was projected behind the veil of trees and sometimes I would park my bike and stare at the shades of the cloud from the chinks of the leaves. Soon I discovered a secret path leading directly to the bike lane right beside the river. A whole new part of the world was disclosed to me–the glimmering river, the unobstructed wind bringing with it a slight odor of the sea, and the pedestrians and runners that I had to pay close attention to lest I should run into them. Occasionally there would be old people sitting on the bench with their guitars, or couples picnicking on the meadow behind the benches. Upon its discovery, this route immediately became my favorite and I would bike through it whenever possible, sometimes all the way from 125th street, and sometimes all the way to 16th street, where I could indulge in the variety of dinner choices of Chelsea and West Village.
Time passed, and the view of the river changed dramatically in the fall. In mid-autumn, the time I got off from work would often coincide with the sunset. I would rush out of the campus to the bike kiosk if I saw a trace of the glowing sunset projected onto the clouds. As I reached the riverside bike lane, I would park beside a bench and watch the clouds as they transformed from white to pink, to red as if they were burning, and finally to dark blue as they became merged with the rest of the sky at nightfall. Before long, however I would be harassed by the intruding thought that my bike had to be returned every forty-five minutes and the closest bike kiosk was all the way on 70th, meaning I had to rush before time was up. The rest of my trip was neither distressing nor repetitive, though, since the landscape changed once more as I reached the hill at 79th street.
At 79th street was a hill that oversaw the pier and the bike lane. That platform on top of the hill cost considerable amount of effort to reach, but it was worthwhile. Not only was the view beautiful, but the bikers could enjoy a brief moment of excitement by rushing downhill and reaching perhaps the fastest speed possible along the entire riverside park (a speed perhaps rivaled only by the downhill ride from 116th to 125th on Amsterdam, which was much more dangerous because of the traffic and the police).
Then I reach the usual end of my biking route along the river (assuming my destination was home). It looked more park-like than anywhere else on the way, as bike lanes were completely replaced by pedestrian walks (of course I had to dismount), and I would always find kids throwing football with their parents, older people walking their dogs, and younger ones exercising. Whether I would be able to park my bike was completely a matter of luck, since it was the only Citibike kiosk within the five blocks of the Riverside Drive neighborhood. When I couldn’t park, I would find keep riding to Lincoln center and perhaps have a quick dinner at Dig Inn, or sit in the Starbucks on 66th if it was not yet dinner time. When I found a kiosk, however, I would walk back to the riverside and let the glass curtain walls of the luxury buildings inform me of the city’s modernity, updating my prior impression of archaicness, which had been formed as I occasionally caught a glimpse of the facade of the prewar buildings through the trees on my way, which I unconsciously used to mark the progress of my trip.
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