Summer Swansong

New York is a biking town. For people outside the city, this may come as a shock. Yes, there is quite a bit of traffic, lanes are subject to interpretation, and street-level flow is manic. All that is true, but Manhattan also has the busiest bike path in the country which runs along the west side highway and circumferences the entire island. You can bike around Central and Prospect parks, over the Brooklyn bridge, and all the way to Coney island on the oldest bike path in America. There are annual century rides, weekly races around Central Park, and a bike race through all five boroughs that attract thousands of enthusiastic participants. More and more people are using bikes as their primary means of transportation with a new lane on 6th making riding even easier. I was talking to a man the other night who rides from his Brooklyn home to his work in Queens daily. He said the fastest commute was on his bike followed by the subway. The slowest option was a car.

I hadn’t been on a bike since the start of summer and was anxious to get back on two wheels before Labor Day. My adventure started in Prospect Park Sunday afternoon and winded through Brooklyn towards Coney Island. Along the way, we rode past storefronts in Yiddish, Chinese, Russian, and even English. A pit stop at the famous Spamoni Gardens alone was worth the trip. The crunchy, sweet crust was spread with a creamy, salty cheese and topped with a tomato sauce that puckered your lips with its fresh tang. The pie melted in your mouth and expanded in your stomach. Without the post-lunch ride, I think I would still be in a food coma.

The ride continued through Coney Island along the boardwalk, past the Tatiana cafes of Brighton Beach and the party boats on Sheepshead Bay. After crossing a narrow bridge, we ended up at Riis Park at the foot of the Rockaways. With the absence of lifeguards and the $25 roundtrip ticket from the city, this beach is known for attracting its fair share of hipsters. Bikini tops are optional and tattoos strongly encouraged. The sea was rough from Hurricane Earl and I opted not to go too far out in the water for fear of being swept away.

In the evening we continued our journey to downtown Rockaway where we were staying at the D Piper Inn. When we arrived, Peter, the Inn’s owner, had opted for surfing over hanging around to greet us, but his friend Tom stepped in to show us around. After stashing our bikes among the boogie boards and surfboards in their overgrown backyard, we went in search of the famous Rockaway tacos. The pizza was now a distant memory, so we headed over to the taco shack at a brisk pace to make sure we caught them before they closed at eight. The shack was 10 feet wide with a single window where people walked up to place their order. Cartoon shapes were painted on its side in bright colors that had chipped off with the tumultuous ocean weather. Tomato plants lined the roof and a smattering of mismatched chairs and ½ dozen end tables were set up in a small alley off to the side. The crowd was mostly younger and many carried boards from their day at the beach. The fish tacos were divine and (because we ordered deluxe) topped with chunky guacamole. It was clear to see why this place was legendary.

From our taco feast, we walked along the shore to the Sand Bar, the only bar in New York with a view of the Atlantic Ocean. The bar was featured in the Times that morning and that notoriety was all the incentive we needed. Once we got there, we saw that while the bar was technically on the beach, the bright, garish, fluorescent lights instantly made you forget you were on the water.

There were less than 20 people milling about the square bar, sipping their gin & tonics and amber beers. We saddled up to a corner spot and ended up next to an inebriated elderly man who bragged about doing time for attempted murder in between questioning the manliness of “sissy Manhattan types.” The whole scene made me uncomfortable and I suggested we depart after a single drink.

We meandered through the sleepy, rundown town and found a commemorative park on the bay – about eight blocks west of the ocean. The park had an alter decorated in stained glass that was set amidst a backdrop of the lapping waves of the bay and a breathtaking panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline. It was not the first time I’ve been surprised by how visible that skyline is from so many areas in greater New York, and how many people must have been horrified by actual views of the devastation nine years ago.

I opted for an early night so I could see the sunrise over the ocean the next morning. It was worth the early alarm and the vibrant reds and oranges of the morning were like silent promises of a glorious day to come.

On our way out of town, we grabbed another taco for the road and biked the 10 miles to Long Beach. We got to the tip and pulled over to the shore where we thought the boardwalk began. Although we were wrong about the boardwalk, the attendant didn’t charge us the standard admission fee and the beach was practically empty. We decided to lock our bikes up and stay for the day.

The water was cold, but the sun was gloriously toasty. We lounged around like walruses, occasionally turning over in the sun to keep our bodies evenly warm. It felt like the last hoorah of summer – and as it turned out – it was. It was our final beach trip before the chill of Autumn breezed into New York, driving residents to their closets for scarves and turning green leaves red. It was as if the summer sun had looked at a calendar, and turned down its heat post-Labor Day. It was a wonderful summer swansong however, and one I’ll always remember fondly.

I look forward to welcoming the summer back with open arms…and a similar trip…in about nine months.