Lately I’ve been busy. If not busy, then I’ve been tired. Short of that, I’ve been lazy. Between being busy, tired, or lazy, who has time for anything else?
Yesterday night saw me changing into my girlfriend’s clothing while she added the clothes I had worn that day to her load of laundry. Between the yoga pants and the sporting event t-shirt, I looked like a divorcee who had given up.
You might argue that it takes a strong man to be secure in woman’s clothing. But it doesn’t. It just takes a sweaty man who has no clean clothes of his own to change into. Anything is better than a damp dress shirt that clings to you with every move and jeans that are salty on the inside. Besides, yoga pants offer me access to a range of motion I’ve never known possible.
I’m sweaty often because I ride my bike everywhere. I’d say it offers all of the advantages of the New York subway system with none of the downside, but the truth is that there are ONLY downsides to the subway. Riding the subway is a self-guided tour of the saddest small town you can imagine, where frowning and a lack of eye contact are values to be upheld.
Biking is the opposite. There’s nothing that will put a smile on your face quite like tearing ass down the Hudson River Greenway and hollerin’ at tourists. You go the long way purely for the sake of it. You’re exercising and you’re out of your mind on endorphins, so people better not mess with you.
An hour on a bike can feel like 10 minutes. 10 minutes on the subway can feel like an hour. I haven’t bought a metrocard in over a year (a savings of roughly $1,200) and it’s all thanks to a green folding bicycle.
As a member of the vast bike-wing conspiracy, I was one of 32,000 two-wheeling assholes slaying pavement and pedaling my way through the Five Boro Bike Tour.
Starting at the southern tip of Manhattan, I joined the company of loads of New York’s finest cyclists. They were mostly Lycra-bound nutjobs while I was clad in my finest khaki shorts. The route took us up 6th Avenue straight into the Bronx. We were in the Bronx for all of 10 minutes before we turned around and immediately rode back on the FDR. That’s about all the time you need to spend in the Bronx.
We rode over the Queensboro Bridge and things started getting hairy. I didn’t see what happened, but I passed a guy who had more blood on his face than I have in my body. Everything above his neck looked like a crime scene. I was thankful for my khaki shorts, reminding me that I’m not Lance Armstrong and that I have no business speeding over a crowded bridge while surrounded by goobers on bikes.
Making our way south into Brooklyn, we got to ride on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Normally deadlocked with apocalyptic traffic, cops had closed the southbound side to traffic, so we got to freewheel on a major highway. It was a total trip.
Veering off of the BQE, we pedaled over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. To the left, the East River. To the right, the East River. In the East River? Jimmy Hoffa, probably.
The ride ended rather anticlimactically in Staten Island, 40 miles from where we started. I filled up my pockets with free granola bars, took the ferry home, and passed right out in bed.
I like this new HBO series “Girls.” It’s about young people with body issues and big hearts striking off to make it in the big city, so I relate to the characters on every level. That’s right - I’m a total lady. I know this because I looked in the mirror this morning and wondered aloud about if my pores are too big. I pay attention to advertising!
The show is the brainchild of Lena Dunham. She’s 24 years old and has created a show for HBO. I’m 25 and all I have to show for it is a semi-decent Klout score. I know Lena Dunham’s name because it’s hammered into you during the end credits. The first three names are hers – directed by, written by, created by. Come on!
(No hard feelings, Lena. When you read this after finding it via the Google Alert you no doubt have set up for your name, just know that I’m genuinely envious of your success. That’s all.)
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