by Thaddeus Rutkowski
I carried my bicycle slowly, up the stairs from our building’s basement. In the front hallway, I guided the bike around packages, past the tenants’ vanity mirror, and through the heavy glass doors.
I’d been told not to lift more than ten pounds after my surgery, and the bike weighed more than that. I’d been told, in fact, not to ride a bike until I got my strength back. But I felt ready—I could walk, so I could ride. I liked traveling above ground, not in the subway. The bike was a Giant brand, from Taiwan; it would not let me down.
*
As I approached the East River bridge from the Manhattan side, I could see the long ramp. The metal girders of the bikeway had been painted red—maybe as a sign of danger, or maybe just for greater visibility.
I started through the entrances and covered about thirty yards before I had to shift into the lowest gear possible. Joggers passed me as they ran through the summer heat. I pulled ahead of some people who were walking—I was faster than a pedestrian. I felt a pinching in my right side, a remnant of the operation.
*
As I climbed the ramp, I heard a man on an e-bike say, “I’m on your left.”
I gave space on my left as the rider, carrying a cargo box over his back wheel, approached.
As he passed, he said, “I’m on your right.”
I looked to my right and saw no one.
Pulling in front of me, he said, “I’m ahead of you.”
Looking back, he added, “And I’m behind you.”
He was everywhere and nowhere, all at once. Perhaps that was how he got to his destinations on time.
*
I reached the top of the bridge, where I switched to a higher gear and coasted toward Brooklyn.
A year earlier, coming off this same bridge, I’d hit a barricade meant to keep people on the sidewalk. The steel fence was lying on its side, with two of its legs in the air. After I’d recovered somewhat from the collision, I picked up my wounded bike, swung onto the saddle, and forced the bike forward. The warped front wheel caught on the brake pads with each go-around. With effort, I covered the next four miles and made it to school.
Since then, I’d gotten a new bike, the Giant. It rode like a dream—smooth and silent—except when the pavement was wet. Then it creaked and groaned.
On this summer day, as I came off the bridge, riding conditions were perfect.
*
In the middle of the borough, I rolled along a straight stretch, keeping pace and making good time.
Suddenly, I noticed a man walking toward me in the bike lane. I was coming toward him fast. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and he gestured with one arm across his chest, as if to say I should ride between him and the sidewalk. I faded left—toward the street—and as I passed he said, “You’re going to get hit. You don’t listen.”
At that moment, an SUV shot by on my left, squeezing me toward the man. I slid between the speeding vehicle and the walking man and kept going.
*
On campus, I locked my bike to a stanchion and went in for my meeting. At the security turnstile, my ID card didn’t work—it had expired.
“We’ll let you in,” a guard said, “but the upper echelons might have a problem with that. We won’t tell the dean.”
Shortly, while I was getting some tea—the only stimulant I could drink—I heard, “Hi, Dean!”
I thought someone was calling to the actual dean, but the person was calling to me.
“I’m not the dean,” I said.
“Well, you look like him.”
“How so?”
“You’re short and have gray hair.”
Later, I went to an office to get my ID card validated. Many students were waiting for photos, but an attendant pulled me out of the line and led me to the camera.
“How did you know I’m not a student?” I asked.
“You look like Einstein.”
*
On my way out, I saw that the Giant was where I’d left it. Its presence was a mild surprise—several e-boards and -bikes had been stolen. I unlocked the keeper chain, strapped on my helmet, and pulled on my gloves.
As I was suiting up, a woman came out of the building. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“Manhattan,” I said.
“Be careful,” she said. “The drivers are crazy.”
I could still feel an ache in my side as I rode. But I wasn’t concerned. I had made it to Brooklyn, and I would make it back. As it was, the doctors had told me it would take six months before I felt normal.
About the author: Thaddeus Rutkowski is the author of eight books, most recently Safe Colors (New Meridian Arts), a novel in short fictions. He teaches at Medgar Evers College/City University of NY and at a YMCA. He received a New York Foundation for the Arts fellowship and a Best Small Fictions award.