Sunday, 12 September 2004 | The tour

Yesterday I was dreading today. Today the alarm started bleating at 5:24 a.m., but I suppressed it until 6:15. (I'd gone to bed at 2.) By 6:45 I was wheeling my bike out the door of my apartment, taking the subway to another part of the city.

For close to an hour, I stood in other people's way, tilting my bike one way and another, playing gatekeeper to the passengers getting on and off the train. I wondered where they could be going so early on a Sunday morning, besides coming home after a late Saturday night. (Unimaginatively ascribing one type of lifestyle to others.)

Once above ground, I had to force my sleepy brain to see the world in photographs, to frame and to ask permission and to capture. At 7:45 a.m., the hardest part is being social.

I'd been asked to photograph a bike tour around the city (minus Staten Island), while riding along and being part of the organism myself. I'm sure I only dreaded it because I wasn't sure what to expect, and because I was without the comfort of having any friends join me for the day-long event. In the back of my head, I knew it'd be fun; I just didn't know exactly in what way.

The routes were broken up into segments, separating the men from the boys; the shortest path was 15 miles (Harlem to Park Slope), and the paths increased in increments: 35 miles, 55 miles, 75 miles, and an impressively insane 100 miles, which practically traced the outline of the city. I was a little jealous of the 100-milers, not necessarily for their endurance or commitment, but because they got to see parts of the city still unknown to me. (I really want to explore the Bronx, for one.)

I didn't know if I was going to be a 15-miler or something more; I figured I would try that and then take the subway to meet bikers on another part of the path, to get as many photos as possible. Instead, I randomly started riding with two men—N. and George—and, to my surprise, I eventually found myself completing the 35-mile trip with them.

I've never ridden anything close to 35 miles (or ever really thought I wanted to); it felt like an accomplishment, especially on an anorexic amount of sleep. It's a little bit bizarre to me that hard physical work can translate into entertainment, but somehow it works out that way, or at least it did today. (You bond with other bikers, even ones you don't speak to, on account of experiencing the same phenomenon.)

N. was well traveled and interesting and spookily observant, and George was a friendly life-long New Yorker. George's knees were in decline, and I'm really just a casual biker, so we agreed to ride at a slow pace. (George and I liked having each other as an excuse to ride non-aggressively.)

We talked and pedaled (and paused for pictures), and we sped past picnics and rugby matches, rolled over water on four different bridges, and saw glimpses of the day in Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, and back in Manhattan. We got stared at and were asked questions about the ride (what's with all the bikes?). We rode in packs of three and packs of 30 (which makes avoiding cars easier). We saw baseball games and landmarks and sailboats and skylines. (The weather was a benevolent sunny 77 degrees.)

The end of the ride was a little anticlimactic, except that one of my shoes disintegrated minutes after I climbed off my bike. I'm not sure what I expected to happen; confetti? For me?

At 5:00 p.m. I could barely carry my bike up the stairs to my apartment, I was so exhausted. My muscles now feel like they've been poisoned, and I'm walking like a droid. Today's ride already feels far away, even if my muscles claim otherwise.