TTD - Bikes that Look Like Dinosaurs

This Tuesday we went to a bike shop in the West Village and rented a bakfiet, also known as a cargo bike. Generally, they look like this:

All week you asked to go see the dinosaurs again. But it's $25 for us to go to the Museum of Natural History, not something we can do every week. Trying to come up with a compromise, I thought of the five bicycles we have hanging on racks downstairs. You call them dinosaurs. You roar at them. I tell you they are bikes. You tell me I am wrong. Just recently, you've conceded that they are bikes that look like dinosaurs.

So we went to Hudson Urban Bicycles (HUB) to see more bikes that look like dinosaurs. A cheap alternative to actual dinosaurs.

This time you left Percy at home; Toby came in his place. You ran all the way to the train. You told everyone who would listen that Toby was the number 7 engine, and Percy was number 6, and Thomas was number 1, and Henry was number 3. We took the R train to the D to West 4th and walked down Christopher Street, past Sheridan Square Park, where a statue of General Sheridan overlooks some Gay Pride sculptures. New York City is so full of history. Events are layered one on top of the other, like the floors of the city's highest buildings. It makes me dizzy if I think about it too much, all the things that happened in one spot, all that knowing. We fit our lives around it all, and it's a tight squeeze. In a recent interview about his move to SoCal, Jonathan Lethem called it "mental traffic." I prefer the word "haunted."

The bike shop was just opening for the day - While the owner rolled out the bikes you played with Scout, the shop dog. We had our pick of the bakfiets. It was, after all, 10:30 on a Tuesday and not quite 50 degrees. No one else was renting bikes. We opted for their lightest model, which was black and plain. I took it for a test ride while you played on an antique trike and marveled at the "dinosaur" collection. When I came back you had the shop owner on board with your vision. "I can see it," he said. "There's something skeletal and predatory about some of these bikes." By that logic what we were renting was a slow moving herbivore.

I strapped you in and we were off! We rode to the Hudson River Greenway, a dedicated bike path along the Hudson River. There are all sorts of playgrounds and sports centers along the way, skate parks, a trapeze school, dog runs, tennis courts, we flew past it all, the wind at our backs. When I slowed down you told me to go faster. You weren't interested in the scenery. Your body was bent sideways, trying to get a better view of the wheels spinning under you. We rode down to Battery Park City, to Teardrop Park, where there's this really big slide I've been wanting to try. You were not enthusiastic - you wanted to keep riding. When I asked you where you wanted to go you said back to the dog, and back to the dinosaurs. So we turned around and pedaled into the wind, back to the bike shop.

We both marveled at the bikes. You played with the dog while I talked to the mechanic. I'd love to build us a bakfiet from spare parts and scrap metal, but for all the children's activities on offer in this city, I've yet to see Mommy and Me Welding. We will make do with the Frankenbike for now.

You threw a fit when we left the bike shop. Part of me was pleased. Roan Michael, I believe we are going to get along.

But as I carried you out I caught a whiff of that unmistakable smell.

A word about public restrooms in NYC: there are no public restrooms in NYC. Such services are provided to the public by Starbucks and McDonalds, and if you happen to be in a neighborhood like the West Village where there are minimal chains, good luck. The bike shop had no running water. The coffee shop up the block had a bathroom the size of a broom closet. You stood with one foot on the toilet and the other on the sink and I gave it my best shot. When you were dressed I let you out so I'd have room to bend down and tidy up. By the time I was done you'd introduced the barrista to Toby and bummed a hot chocolate.

We ate Israeli couscous on the train ride home, watched the cars and trains pass on the Manhattan bridge. Waiting for the R at Atlantic you wouldn't stop talking to the man who happened to be sitting next to you, a man who looked like he possibly killed people for a living. He gave you absolutely no encouragement or response, but your enthusiasm for talking to him could not be curbed. When the R train finally came, he made sure to get a seat in a different car.

At 25th Street we stood on the platform and watched the train go. Then we walked up the hill past the ConEd plant, which was screaming with birds. Some monk parrots had made their nests high up among the conductors. There must be thousands of trees in the cemetery across the street, but even the birds in this city have to make creative use of space. Or maybe they can feel it too, all that history and death, weighing a place down until it feels like you're wading through soup. Like the rest of us, they have to fit somewhere. They make a home where they can.

As we pushed through the doors of our building you looked up at me and said, "that was a good train day." And it was. It was the best train day yet.