New York City is a scary place to ride a motorcycle. The notorious cab drivers, Chinese delivery guys riding the wrong way on bicycles, mini-vans full of religious people, people on their cell phones who should get their licenses revoked, drivers from New Jersey (haha), etc.
We rode across the Manhattan Bridge from our little neighborhood in Brooklyn to the East Village in Manhattan. There was a bit of wind as we crossed the bridge. Jason, the great coach he is, tells me not to be afraid, but just hold the handlebars steady and straight. We get up to 45 MPH on the bridge. It wasn’t too scary.
Sundays are a good day to practice riding, or driving, in the city. There’s less traffic, and more room to see ahead and watch out for potholes.
We parked our bikes on Avenue A and 6th Street, since we planned to watch a girl we met the night before perform music at the Sidewalk Cafe at the same corner. We went to a divey bar, played pool, went to another place, played Buck Hunter (beat Jason again), drank terrible Margaritas, went to the Sidewalk Cafe to see Meg Cavanaugh sing and play guitar, then went to Karaoke across the street and down a block. Needless to say, we were too drunk by the end of the night to ride home. So, we got in a cab.
The next day was Labor Day, so we didn’t have to worry about parking regulations. It’s like having another Sunday. In the afternoon, after recovering from a bad margarita headache, we took the subway back into the city to get the bikes.