Vol. 1, Issue No. 3: In praise of society's greatest modern innovation
I know why the saying is “like riding a bike.” But in my humble opinion, there is absolutely nothing like riding a bike. Even one you had to rent.
This Thanksgiving, when I sit down in the dining room of my family’s home, prepared to eat my way through the inevitably abysmal second half of a Detroit Lions game, I’ll have plenty to be thankful for. I’ve stayed healthy through the pandemic, save a few hangovers and one ill-advised Chipotle order. I was able to spend much of the year that must not be named with the people I love around me. Some were at a distance at first, but once vaccines rolled out, we gradually rolled back some of our restrictions as a family, making way for hugs and board games.
Somehow, a lot of what happened in 2*** — a horror show, for the most part — was a blessing in disguise. I was home. I was with my family. When I moved to my new apartment in Hoboken, it was with two of my closest friends (who I now resent, of course, given that they’re my roommates and that’s what you do). But I’m thankful for them all the same. When my grandfather squeezes my hand and asks what I’m thankful for on November 25, I’m pleased to report that I’ll have quite a bit to say.
And I’ll close it all out with a tearful ode to the best of all: the Citi Bike.
Since I’ve moved, I’ve missed three things (not including my loved ones, and not necessarily in order): reasonably-priced coffee, grass, and bike rides. No matter the size, coffee here is, like, at least 65-cents more than what it is in Rochester. I’m sure this is something that has an explanation those in corporate America would deem sensible, but I would undoubtedly never get behind. As for grass, it appears every now and then, especially by the water and in a park down the street from my apartment building. But other than that, this really is the concrete jungle-lite. And despite my dastardly allergies, I’m a fan of running barefoot through the backyard, pretending like I’m on a season of Survivor.
My bike has been the most impactful casualty of all, though. I probably could have brought it along in the move, but there’s not a realistic spot for it in my apartment — not one that wouldn’t be an eyesore or a safety hazard for those entering the kitchen, at least. It also didn’t fit in the car. Needless to say, I’ve missed it.
At home, I would often disappear on a bike ride for the duration of a podcast, or three, though I wouldn’t know that until I looked down at my watch and realized I’d missed a meeting or that dinner should have been in the oven an hour and a half ago. You see, bike rides put me into a borderline-comatose state of being, where I can just glide without care or direction. Perhaps saying they put me on autopilot is a better way to put it; my mom is reading this, and noting that I zone out while biking on the shoulders of roads as steel cages fly past me at 35+ miles per hour probably isn’t the best idea. I promise, mom, I’m always aware of my surroundings. But everything else is tuned out completely. It’s just me, the road (and cars!), and someone in my ears shouting about the benefits of passing on first down or the box office success of Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings.
To fill the void left by my lack of a bike in Hoboken, I started taking lots (and lots) of walks, aiming to hit three or four miles per day, if time permitted it. I’m someone who hates running, so walks were a nice alternative to get my legs moving and to realign my spine after a 12-hour workday spent in a swivel chair. Alternative workouts worked their way into my routine, too; it could be something as simple as half an hour of tossing a baseball around in the park or finding a nearby basketball hoop. But no matter how many times I closed the activity rings on my watch — admittedly, a significant satisfaction of mine — a void in my days remained. I missed the neverending trips down streets I didn’t recognize, the wind destroying whatever attempt I made at doing my hair that day, and the waving at fellow bikers who all looked far more professional than me. (I don’t think you could ever force me to slide my way into one of those spandex suits, not even if I was about to take part in the Tour de France.)
For whatever reason, I had never considered trying a Citi Bike. I was familiar with the service — I knew about how its official introduction plans were hampered by Hurricane Sandy, thus forcing it to delay its launch to 2013; I knew its popularity grew exponentially over the course of the pandemic, which proved briefly problematic — but I’d never looked into trying one myself. It being a city-based service, I figured, like everything else, it’d cost an arm and a leg to hop on a bike and take a spin around the block. I expected flat fares to mirror the cost of adopting a dog. In short: I’m a fool, and instead of judging a book by its cover, perhaps I should’ve merely read its cover flap and saved myself months of monotony.
I was bored one night, so I decided to rent a bike; “just this once, as a treat,” I told myself. I downloaded the app, inputted my payment information, scanned my bike of choice, and I was off. I felt free for the first time in what felt like years but, in reality, was probably 50 days, give or take a few. I physically felt my body unclench. I exhaled and watched my heart rate dip lower than what its inordinate resting pace had been for what was probably a bit too long for comfort. This silly, imperfect public service made me feel free; I’m sure I sound like a lunatic, but I was so unbelievably happy in that moment that I genuinely pondered investing a large sum of my savings into Citi. OK, not really, but I was considerably more enamored at that time than I had been with a purchase in quite a while. And yet, I was still convinced that I’d look at my bank account after that 40-minute trip and be down $25 that could have gone towards a book or ingredients for a recipe or a movie ticket. The price of freedom, I suppose.
The charge: $3.73.
I was gobsmacked. Again, I’m likely portraying myself as some sort of internet-less idiot, but I hadn’t exactly read a bevy of positive reviews for this product, nor had I ever considered it as a viable option for someone not necessarily rolling in the dough. But $3.73, two or three times a week, I can do. That’s two or three fewer cups of unreasonably priced coffee, swapped out for two or three periods of uninterrupted, bona fide bliss.
This is a dumb thing to be infatuated with. I know that. But in a world currently defined by being confined, whether it’s to the rectangles in our pockets or our social circles or to the clean air offered by our homes, it’s nice to feel the unknown for a little while. A breeze that doesn’t come from a fan, noises that don’t come from devices, and sights that aren’t first seen from behind a glass pane.
Everything is unknown when you first experience it. Even the feeling of riding a bike after a long layoff. But then you start pedaling. And off you go to God knows where. At least that’s what it feels like for me. I might have to go rent one right now.
Consumption Corner, sponsored by Citi Bike (Kidding, don’t sue me)
I (somehow) find time to read a lot, watch a lot, and listen to a lot throughout my weeks here on the internet. Consumption Corner is where I’ll recommend some of the things I enjoyed the most. They may be old, or they may be new, but from shows to films to books, I figure the least I can do is lend some insight into the things that make me the cultured young man that I am.
The Reading List: I’m changing it up from here on out. I don’t feel like it’s fair to say you “need” to read this one thing I’d recommend over all other options. Because even that’s not true: I don’t necessarily find one thing on a weekly basis that I’d recommend over all other reads. Plus, I read far more than one thing a week (not an intentional flex). So, moving forward, I’m going to recommend a bunch of pieces I’ve liked lately — kind of like what I did in my last issue. Here’s this week’s collection:
Volume 3, Issue 81: I Am Trying to Break Your Heart by Will Leitch (This Here Newsletter)
Marc Gasol Made Magic in the Margins of the Game by Dan Devine (The Ringer)
Meheret FC wants to help Ethiopians live out their soccer dreams by Leander Schaerlaeckens (Soccer Stories)
As craft beer booms around the country, why isn’t it thriving at the ballpark? by Eno Sarris (The Athletic)
Most Hollywood Writers’ Rooms Look Nothing Like America by Hannah Giorgis (The Atlantic)
Biles and Her Teammates Rip the F.B.I. for Botching Nassar Abuse Case by Juliet Macur (The New York Times)
What I haven’t stopped watching: That this is true is almost as mortifying as the product itself, but I’ve been committed for so long that it was bound to come out one way or another: Bachelor in Paradise has done me in yet again, hook, line, and sinker. Brendan and Pieper are scum. Grocery Store Joe is a treat. Kenny is 40 years old. I love it all. It’s like catnip, but for bored people.
I do, however, feel like I need to read one of Ron Chernow’s biographies after every episode. Just to keep my brain cells intact.
And finally… what else I’ve written lately:
What if Reggie Jackson was a defensive stopper? (Clips Nation)
Exploring situational lineups for the 2021-22 Knicks (The Knicks Wall)
CelticsBlog Fantasy Draft: rounding out the roster (CelticsBlog)
CelticsBlog fantasy draft: you decide (CelticsBlog)
A goodbye tweet:
And another one, for Norm (1959-2021):
Thanks, everyone. As always, back here next Thursday. At some point before then, I encourage you to ride a bike, however it is you choose to access one.