NYU journalism prof Mitchell Stephens embarks on a bike commute from Ossining to Greenwich Village in the latest issue of Westchester Magazine (this is not to be confused with the psychotherapist who bikes from Pound Ridge to the Upper West Side in the January edition of Westchester Magazine).
Stephens has about 2 hours and 45 minutes to get to his office to meet some dubious Norwegians, and encounters no shortage of bumps in the road as he follows the North and South County Trailway rail-trails into Gotham. Among them: a dead end in Tarrytown, onerous hills in Yonkers, and finding a suitable bridge into Manhattan.
There comes a point in every great bike ride when thoughts turn to Lance Armstrong. It had arrived. Lacking only a motorcycle escort, a cheering crowd, and allegations of drug use, I flew ahead. Not a soul, of either sex, passed me. (True, I didn’t pass anyone either; indeed, that day I can’t say I spotted many—or any—other Westchester-Manhattan bicycle commuters.) My legs pumped piston-like. My eyes stared resolutely ahead. Nothing hurt excessively. I’m not generally known for speed; however I raced—that’s the only word for it—under another highway. Could it be the Cross County already? Time? Why only about ten o’clock!