Monday, 09 August 2004 | Manhattan Ocean

I meant to walk my bike over the Williamsburg Bridge. Instead, I kept riding, slowly, absorbing each expansion joint with a bumper car-like jolt. I didn't make the decision to cross the entire bridge; I just never made the decision to get off my bike.

Most of the time, I forget about the slightly chipped tooth that the bridge chiseled last September, but for some reason, as I crossed the East River, I kept my tongue pressed up against the rough enamel, perhaps as a message directed at my left hand: stay away from the front brake; don't think independently.

It wasn't so bad. I think this is something that's going to get easier the more I do it, kind of like killing roaches.

The end of the bridge was like the mouth of a river, spilling us out into the more uncertain Manhattan Ocean. We quickly threaded through the Lower East Side, East Village, and Chelsea, avoiding potholes and surprise car doors, and observed the Saturday afternoon sidewalk traffic.

We drove west until we hit the Hudson River Park Greenway, where we turned north and traced the outline of the water, coasting past an aircraft carrier and sailboats, through tunnels and woods. There's nothing quite like a straight, carless bike path to make Manhattan seem rather petite; it seemed to take no time before we'd biked through a chunk of Riverside Park and reached 95th Street.

I like going places I've never seen before, in part because of the lack of prior memories, and because I don't overlook details that I think I already know. The second visit is always colored by the first.

Later we pedaled through Times Square, which was in the process of a busy Saturday night. The people, the cops, the cars, the horse-drawn carriages, the double-decker buses, and certainly the lights converged into one sweeping blur. For some reason, my bike made the place seem smaller than it feels on foot.