Sex and the city

Chapter 13 Bicycle Family (1)
A few weeks ago, I ran into a bike boy.I was at a book signing at the time.Events are held in a marble-clad ballroom surrounded by tree-lined streets.I was sneaking smoked salmon into my mouth when a writer friend came up and said, "I was just talking to the man who was the funniest person in the world."

"Oh, really? Where?" I asked, scanning the hall suspiciously.

"The guy was an archaeologist, and now he's writing a popular science book... so interesting."

"Stop talking." I said.My eyes have locked on to a man who looks very questionable.He was dressed like an urban version of an expedition team—khaki pants, a canary-yellow checked shirt, and a tattered tweed jacket.His gray hair was combed from the forehead to the back of the head, but he looked handsome from the side.So I rushed over in strappy high-heeled sandals.He was having a lively conversation with a middle-aged man, but I took control immediately. "You," I said, "someone told me you were funny just now, and I hope you don't disappoint me." I dragged him to the window without any explanation, and handed him cigarettes and cheap red wine.After chatting for 10 minutes, I went to have dinner with my friends.

I got a call from him early the next morning.I was in bed with a hangover at the time.Let's just call him Horace Eccles.He told me about his romantic history.I figured it would be nice to lie in bed with a headache and listen to dudes flirting on the phone, so I decided to have dinner with him.

Unexpectedly, this is the beginning of a series of troubles.He called first to say he'd be an hour early, then called back to say he wouldn't be there early.After a while, he said it would be an hour and a half late.He then claimed on the phone again that he had rounded the corner.He ended up showing up a full 45 minutes late.

The crux of the matter is that he actually appeared on a bicycle.

I didn't realize it at first, just noticed his overly messy hair and shortness of breath - I thought it was me. "Where do you want to eat?" he asked.

"I've made a reservation," I said, "Elaine's."

His expression immediately twisted. "I thought we were going to grab a bite around the corner."

I gave him the look and said, "I never eat around the corner." We got into a stalemate, and finally he blurted out, "But look, I came here by bike."

I turned around and stared at the nasty thing chained to the street lamp.

"I don't think so," I said at last.

Mr. New Yorker and his geared bicycle
This isn't the first time I've come across Manhattan's legendary species—I've dubbed them "bikers."Some time ago, I had dinner with one of the famous cyclists.He's the editor of The New Yorker, so let's call him Mr. New Yorker.He looks to be only 35 years old (but is much older than that), with limp brown hair and a killer smile.He was always taking single women out, and not just because they wanted him for a New Yorker piece, of course.He can be a little rough at times, but he's gentle.He will sit next to you at a party, chat with you about politics, and listen carefully to your views.This will give you the blissful feeling of being smart.But then he slips away without you noticing. "Hey, where's 'Mr. New Yorker'?" they asked each other, and it was just before eleven o'clock. "He made a phone call," one woman said, "and went off to get his bike, like he was in a hurry to see someone."

Immediately, this image appeared in front of my eyes: in the boundless night, the figure of Mr. New Yorker flashed past.He wears a tweed jacket and pedals like crazy on his geared bike (with fenders carefully fitted to keep his trousers from getting dirty).I guess he's headed for an apartment on the Upper East Side, or a loft in Soho.He rang the doorbell and hoisted his bike up the steps, panting.The door opened, and his lover, giggling, helped his beloved car find its place.Then they embraced warmly and fell on the carpet together...

Cyclists have a long tradition in New York.Their leaders are the ace writer George Plimpton of the "Paris Review" and the popular columnist Murray Kempton of the "New York News Daily".The former majesticly hangs his bicycle upside down in the office, just above the heads of the employees, like an aristocrat among bachelors.They are used to cycling and are regarded as idols by the new generation of bicycle racers.This trend has spread in the literary and artistic circles, affecting countless young writers and editors - including of course the aforementioned Mr. New Yorker.They pedaled alone and proudly through the romantic landscape of Manhattan, thinking they were insanely cool.Bikers are definitely a unique breed among New York bachelors -- smart, funny, romantic, thin, and with a charm that's unlike any other.They represent some kind of unrealistic dream in the adult world.There's something indescribably alluring about a guy in a tweed jacket waiting for you on a bike—especially when he's wearing a pair of big, dumb glasses.

Such men can easily ignite the passion and love of women.But there's a dark side to everything - almost all cyclists are "single".They're not married, and they don't plan to be—at least not until they lose interest in bikes.

Why JFK Jr. Isn't Bicycle Boy
"Bicycles don't do any harm," said Mr. Eccles, "unless you're someone of George Plimpton's aura. You'd have to hide your bicycle on a street corner every day, sneakily, and then Sneaky and plucking the cuffs out of the socks.” They don’t ride bikes for exercise—they’d rather die than be lumped in with the idiots who ride round and round the park to exercise kind.Of course, half of their cycling is for convenience—in Manhattan, which is congested with traffic, bicycles are a good choice for getting around.But the most important reason for them is to retain their youth, their youthful youth.Imagine, on the Oxford campus at dusk, you are riding leisurely on the cobblestone road, a girl in a long skirt is waiting by the River Cherwell, holding a book of Yeats's poems gracefully, with the corners of her skirt fluttering in the wind... …bikers fantasize about being the heroine of a romantic image — when in reality they’re in crowded Manhattan, dodging noisy traffic and potholes.

JFK Jr. is one of New York's hottest bachelors, and although he also loves cycling, his toned body and prodigious energy set him apart from the rest of the cyclists - who would rather wear seersucker Bike across the city and don't want to wear gym shorts and a tight T-shirt.They even despise the kind of leggings specially designed for cycling, and the large piece of foam sponge that protects the crotch is extremely ridiculous to them.Cyclists don't mind the pain of a stiff bike seat—they feel the pain elevates their artistry. "I wouldn't buy those stretchy sweatpants!" Mr. New Yorker proudly declared, and then added hesitantly, "I will wear long johns to keep warm in winter."

This may be one of the reasons why cyclists are more likely to be injured - compared to real cyclists, cyclists are more likely to be attacked on the street.Another reason is their travel time.Although you may see them at any time and place, rain or shine, but they like to go out in the middle of the night-they think they are very romantic.

"At night you can hear the roar of drunks all over the street, it's horrible," Mr Eccles said.Of course, there are worse things than this.

(End of this chapter)