New York Installment 4: Death on Wheels

Panic fills my lungs. Sweat drips down my leather jacket, but I don't dare remove the bovine layer of protection. That would mean stopping, and I'm not entirely certain that the Pakistani cab driver behind me has come to appreciate the wonder that is his brake pedal. I've been cranking my head around like an overexcited owl every five seconds. What was I thinking? This is nothing like the gentle slopes of Idaho, or the peaceful bike paths in Washington. The light ahead mercifully turns red, and as I stop and attempt to stay upright I think back only a few hours ago when I made this asinine decision...
...It was a lovely, brisk afternoon. Having just completed my first shift at the theatre, I stepped outside and marveled how beautiful it was despite the fact that we were in mid-December. I only had a few hours until my next shift, and was bored with people watching. I thought how fun it would be to take advantage of the nice weather and ride a bike in Central Park. It sounded so divine, like swimming across the English Channel or clog dancing in Switzerland. No sooner than the thought popped in my head did I see a bike store right across from the cafe where I was eating lunch. Surely they weren't renting out bikes as well? I decided to take the advice of my wise mother, who always says, "if you don't know, ask. It couldn't hurt, right?" So I popped into the bike shop and sure enough, they were renting out adorable little silver bikes and matching helmets. I quickly mounted my bike, set my mini radio to an oldies rock station, and let Jim Morrison guide me to Central Park.
In Moscow, if you want to ride your bike on the sidewalk, it's not a problem at all. Of course, the only people on the sidewalk is the occasional student or polite squirrel. But in New York, forget about it. Even the tourists know that's a stupid idea, and really, they're right. Sadly, there is just no middle ground. Either you are feeling like a candidate for the Special Olympics by riding your bike on the sidewalk, or you are feeling like a candidate for an insane asylum by riding your bike in the street. After two blocks, I knew what I had to do. Join the insanity. After all, I had spent my years in college watching boyfriends play racing video games. How different can it be?
After defying death in the forms of a pretzel stand, two very determined bike messengers, and a VERY arrogant pigeon, I found myself in Central Park. It was beautiful, cold and crisp. Here there were actual bike paths, designed for bikers, and I rightfully took my place among the elite. I passed joggers, dog walkers, and many tourists. I soared over bridges, gazed at the skyline, and sang along with The Beatles as the sun began to sink past the trees. After glancing at my watch, I noticed that I had about 45 minutes left until the bike store closed and my shift began. I figured it would take me about ten to fifteen minutes to get back, plenty of time left. Still, I thought, best to not chance things. I turned around in the twilight air and made my way toward one of the many exits from the park.
Only to discover that Central Park was the proverbial sexually ambiguous movie villain to my doe-eyed princess that discovers that life is just another poisoned apple....

Stay Tuned for New York Installment 4 Part Deux: Leaving Central Park.