By Katie Barry
In the wee hours of the morning, the bike pilgrimage home can be a little daunting from my bar job in Chelsea to the Upper West Side. But on my three-speed red Huffy built more like a Lincoln Continental than a zippy fixed-gear bike, I delight in the challenge of dodging through traffic like the old-school video game Paper Boy. Mario Kart has prepared me for this stage. People, pets, vehicles pop out of nowhere, but at night, I welcome the distraction from my thoughts.
During the teen-numbered blocks, I recount my workday. Did I do the money right? What if that guy I slapped starts stalking me?
During the twenties, I think of the weeks ahead, which days I’m working where and how the money will shake down. Did I pay my cell phone? Where will I live next year? I think of my sports teams, and how we’re faring in the standings. Should I hit the batting cages on 75th and Broadway or rally people up to run routes and toss a football on Sheeps Meadow?
During the thirties, I draw up a plan of who I should be calling, emailing, or reaching out to. I’m laying the blueprint for journalism pitches, then coinciding it with costumes, cost of trips and who my traveling companions will be. Who wants to go to the Santa Claus Championships in Switzerland or compete in underwater rugby in Boston?
During the forties, I’m too focused on not flattening tourists or getting pancaked to pavement by errant drivers yet by the fifties, I can see the park and pedal faster. The horses have gone home, and the honeys and their homies are scampering down Central Park South into a hotel or hautey bar.
There’s a cascade of relief, like the feeling of water first hitting you in the shower, when I roll up on Central Park West. Perhaps it’s a feeling of being home, or closer to that, but at night, there’s this mystical sense about the Upper West Side. Central Park glows with a thin mist with big bulb lights beaming in the speckled sky, while the opposite side of the street rests these palatial, prominent, and prestigious buildings with the most decadent architecture. Churches. Cultural centers. Historical societies. Schools. Funky lamps, crazy chandeliers, and effervescent globes illuminate random apartments, like a scene from a dollhouse or Broadway play, highlighting floor-to-ceiling bookshelves housing literature they probably haven’t read but were gifts from their well-accomplished friends.
I get lost in wanderlust reveries about John F. Kennedy Jr. rollerblading and biking up these same streets with or without a shirt, and how he met his wife while jogging in the park.
Little round ladies are walking their dogs with no urgency or leash. A grey-haired guy is walking his ginger-colored cat on a leash. A burly man is snoring on a park bench, and even though he’s using bags as a pillow, he still looks like he’s sleeping soundly. Regal, costumed, and oft-bored doormen wave or whistle along the way, while garbage men deny my offering to help. Cops look at me like I’m about to make a crack deal…or just crazy, biking in a dress + tights in the pre-dawn hours.
My thighs start burning around the Natural History Museum, which pops up out of nowhere. One minute you’re admiring the Dakota’s gothic appearance, imagining the John/Yoko times and who lives there now; the next, staring down a 100-foot tall colonial soldier on a horse wondering what new exhibit is running and how you can squeeze it in. The planetarium is always lit up all shades of neon, highlighting the massive sphere, and you start to contemplate our life span on Earth. How will I ever have enough time to do everything I want?
As the tires go round-and-round, further north, I hear only the whiz of my wheels, my own lonely thoughts, and almost the soft hum of kids snoozing under IKEA bedding with cartoon dinosaurs and princesses. No honking, sirens, or squealing vehicles. The cleaners are still closed. Law, dental and real estate offices are dark and cavernous.
The bike lane is always clear, save the flattened leaves neon-bright. For the most part, it’s non-stop north. Cars are few and far between and always courteous. I get visions of villains chasing Macauley Culkin through the park in “Home Alone 2,” and sweet thoughts of scenes from “When Harry Met Sally,” wondering who will show up on New Year’s Eve.
I bike to a soundtrack compiled by my subconscious gathered throughout the day or week, and sing whatever pops in my head. One time after a particularly distressful night, I played at full-blast an audio clip saved in my phone of my grandma’s piano-playing. Like the fifth little piggy, I went WAH-WAH-WAH all the way home.
From 2 to 5 a.m. I am the most collected. No one is calling, there’s no pressure for emailing or social networking. It’s me, myself, and I. I’ve come to love these nights, lost in thoughts and reveries, at peace with my over-easiness, scrambled life and unanswered questions on the backburner. It’s all a matter of time and forward motion.
Photos courtesy of Katie Barry, and Ralph Hockens via flickr.
After many years of writing advertising copy, I can tell you, that girl can write! Once she puts down her bar rag she should get her portfolio together and hit the publishers and ad agencies.
Good luck Katie.