My favorite spot in my old neighborhood of Astoria in New York City.
Every day, no matter how hard the day was or how exhausted I was, I would pick up my crappy vintage bike and cycle to the park along the water. Groups of motorcyclists around with cups of coffee from the cart guy, warming their hands, snow piled up on the edge of the sidewalks... Satisfaction was hearing the crunchy, icy layers below my wheels crack, knowing they would melt into muddy puddles on the patches of grass on my way back.
Across the water, glimpses of tall East Harlem projects and the Manhattan skyline rolled on by, but they were not the focus of the day. Bridges were. They made me feel small, and I loved that feeling... In New York City, you need only look up to receive a reminder that you are ultimately not alone in this big city, that you are only the center of your own small universe of thoughts.
On rooftops, I become the ubiquitous spy of the block. Feeling grand from high up above, observing New Yorkers drag on in the way to work is a pleasure. With my eyes, I followed a red beanie in a jean jacket, maybe going to meet a friend for a slice and a beer, but more than likely, slapping some concrete to get the hell out of his cramped apartment.
Under bridges though, I get the reverse feeling, small and in awe. I like it.
I rode past the bridges, the perspectives changing, enjoying the way different angles are able to present the majestic sides of those industrial connectors.
It was here in this photo that I'd jumped off, pressing my weight into the handlebars, kicking the kickstand with my toe probably a little too brashly, almost as if to annouce, “I'm here! My spot... My place... my peace... And I'm here to share it with you.”
We'd watch each other, the skaters and cyclists... I'd tap the bench with my gloved hand, stretching my quads, doing step-ups, and squat jumps down, fast-and-furious, from as high up as I could.
