Simple market mission for stocking up beyond the daily trip around the corner. And or more for the amusement of frame wagging pannier saddle rudderstock the city streets on what is now the utility bike, rack bell headlight blinkie heavy lock, a mid-80’s Bianchi road racer liberated from storage so that I’m not riding the actual race bike around anymore. Celeste paint ubiquitous enough on six years ago trendy fixies so that it doesn’t attract attention but historic enough so that those in the know might appreciate the lugwork and chrome peeking out from under the chips.
Into traffic intentionally at rush hour, jolting alongside time curled curbs, all the gutter grate slots parallel to the direction of travel, taxis loud in their yellow salience and then the black city I’ll hire a car cars double parked, jackhammer ROAD CLOSED hard hats, always the effort of reconstructing the wearing away concrete corners and asphalt stratum. Timing of the lights seems perfect for getting caught at every corner, Brooklyn Manhattan Williamsburg bridges sentinel overhead in turn, fetid puddles but not organic the way they might be elsewhere, oily smoky metallic distorting bits of sky. Slowly learning the labyrinth where streets might inexplicably go from one way one way to one way the other way. According to another obscure logic, the bike path switches sides, dotted lines coaxing one into a pythagorean intersection crossing three lanes of traffic. That’s a big hole, weave around it. Pedestrians almost never watch, step into the path look around register alarm step back “Oh! bicycle!”
Pointless to incur the cost of wrestling these things, so instead pit patience and quiet against irrational indignation. We’re all motion, we’re all here.