There’s something uniquely poetic about watching a fixie rider in Williamsburg pretend not to be out of breath while climbing the bridge ramp—like a pigeon trying to out-soar a hawk, confident yet tragically unprepared. This morning, as I sipped my artisanal, ethically-sourced, cold-brew nitro coffee from a cup that cost more than my first bike, I couldn’t help but reflect on how far we’ve come. And by “come,” I mean how enthusiastically we’ve embraced bicycle-themed fashion statements that have little to do with actual riding.
Once upon a time, you rode a bike because you needed to get somewhere. Now, it’s about which boutique built your frame, how ironically you wear your cycling cap, and how many followers your Strava KOM attempt earned you. Not that I’m judging—I’d post my carbon footprint too if my Garmin hadn’t glitched halfway through my “easy” 40-miler.
Of course, the city is as unforgiving as ever. Between rogue delivery e-bikes, car doors opening like traps in a video game, and tourists meandering into bike lanes with the spatial awareness of wet towels, riding through New York still feels like a real-life side-scroller. But we do it. Day in, day out. Because in spite of the chaos—or maybe because of it—cycling remains the last bastion of freedom in a world that insists we sit in traffic, boxed in steel, listening to a podcast about minimalism while paying $400 a month to park.
