We gathered in the middle of Central Park in Manhattan. A friend from my spinning class had invited me to join him and thirty other bicyclists from the “New York Cycle Club” for a fifty-mile ride to Nyack, NY and back.
At the allotted time, we headed north through the park. The towering trees that lined the road muffled sounds. The tranquility of our surroundings made it hard to believe we were in the center of one of the world’s largest cities.
We exited the park. The noise of the city washed over us. The roar of traffic and blaring horns, amplified by the towering skyscrapers, hurt my ears. We rode through concrete cannons, dodged potholes and traffic, made our way to the George Washington Bridge and headed to the New Jersey side of the Hudson River. As we crossed the bridge,
I looked south. Manhattan stretched away from us. The Empire State building towered over it all. In the distance, the Statue of Liberty, at the mouth of the river, beckoned to the tired and poor.
I stopped, stared and wondered aloud. “How did I end up here?” I was miles from the tiny fishing village in Nova Scotia, Canada, where I grew up.
It had coaster brakes and only one gear. My two older brothers used it before me. The twenty-inch, black frame showed its age. It was scratched and nicked from years of use. I didn’t care. It was mine now.
My tricycle stood by the front steps of our house—forgotten.
In the front yard, I held the handlebars, swung my right leg over, and settled myself onto the seat. I leaned to one side, with one foot supporting me. I looked around, made sure no one watched, and kicked off. My feet reached for the pedals and began to pump. After a few wobbly yards, I fell and landed in the grass on my shoulder. I jumped up, brushed myself off, got back on the seat, and promptly fell again.
A week later, I didn’t wobble or fall, as I followed the beaten trail I’d created in the grass. I was free. I was flying. It was the beginning of a life-long passion.
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