Monday, May 16

44 miles: Long Branch, NJ to Garden City, NY

When we first conceived of this trip we thought maybe we’d stay a few days in NYC, take in a musical, look up a few friends and family. But, it was probably in South Carolina, we ditched that idea. For one thing, we had a birthday party in Colorado to get to so we were pushing to finish well ahead of Memorial Day weekend. Then, as we got closer, we realized we’d been blowing our budget enough so it was difficult to justify spending the money. And space anywhere is at a premium in the city; what hotel would have room to store our bikes? We live close enough to The Big Apple so we could always hop on a bus after planning a proper visit.

So our plan was to take the ferry from New Jersey into the city and zip right out.

We thought we’d first meander through Rob’s home town of Fair Haven, New Jersey, but scrapped that plan when we kept hearing of severe thunderstorms, and possible tornadoes, in the afternoon. So, rather than take the 12:20 ferry from Atlantic Heights to NYC, we raced through breakfast, packed up our bikes and were on the road by 7:30. We zoomed through an easy 12 miles, arriving at the ferry with time to spare for the 9:10 departure. Along the way we passed luxurious beachfront property and had a pleasant ride along the water on the Henry Hudson bike trail.

44 miles (1478 total) West Long Branch, NJ, to Garden City, NY

The crossing was an emotional one. I’d dreamed of this when we started our trip around the country in June of 2019. I thought it would be really cool to bicycle into The Big Apple. In many respects it was like coming home. I was born in Brooklyn, spent my first two years in Queens, and grew up visiting family there, easily walking with my siblings from my grandmother’s apartment to my great aunt’s apartment to my aunt and uncle’s house, relatives on both sides of the family. As a young adult I’d go into Manhatten and meet my father for lunch.

As we passed the Statue of Liberty I thought of my grandparents who came to this country through Ellis Island, looking for a better life. My father’s mother came when she was 18, by herself.

We were expected at my cousin Steven’s in Garden City sometime later in the afternoon, just 22 miles away. Other than that we had no specific plans upon our arrival in the Big Apple around 10:30. We had a bicycle map of New York City with bike lanes and bike trails marked, and I’d heard that the city had become much more bike friendly, so I was eager to check it out.

We decided to try the bike trail that circles the island of Manhatten. It started out okay, then we had a detour. We got through that and were cruising along; then we hit a second detour. That was enough. We rode inland to pick up the bike lane on 1st Avenue to the bridge that would take us to Queens. It took us a while to get to 1st Avenue and then it took forever to work our way to 58th Street.

The cycling infrastructure in the city really is impressive. 1st Avenue runs one-way going north and the bike lane was protected from traffic on the right-hand side. There was the bike lane, a “shoulder” of sorts, and a barrier. There were specific traffic lights for bicycles and cars, theoretically protecting bicycles from left-turning cars.

The infrastructure was great; the problem was the New Yorkers. They’re all crazy. We were passed on the right and the left by bicyclists, no one using a bell or saying “on your left” or “on your right;” then there were E-bikes and motor scooters, and bicycles coming at us in the wrong direction. And there were cars turning in front of us at intersections.

It was nuts. Rob thought it was Number Three Fun. I gave it a Number Two because it was something I was curious to experience.

Along about 53 Street we stopped for lunch at what I thought of as a classic NYC lunch restaurant. Rob ordered a turkey sandwich and I had hot pastrami on a roll. When they came, Rob said it was the biggest sandwich he’d ever had. I could only eat half, saved the other half to bring along.

Refueled and rested, we got on our bikes and continued our journey. Once over the bridge to Queens, the frenetic atmosphere cooled down as we rode through places where it seemed like people mostly lived, rather than worked. We had long stretches on roads with good bike lanes mostly protected from traffic and felt pretty safe.

Then once we got further out on Long Island, the A+ infrastructure disappeared and was hit or miss, mostly miss.

I was using googlemaps on my phone to navigate. Agnes (that’s what we call the lady in the phone) usually does a pretty good job, finding bike paths and shortcuts for us. So we were happy when she steered us into a park, especially since there was a public toilet. We meandered for a while on paths and then on an abandoned roadway used by pedestrians and cyclists. It was really quite lovely, until we couldn’t go any further. Agnes failed us.

Before arriving at my cousin’s house I wanted to stop at my childhood home in East Williston. I hadn’t been back since we moved when I was 9 years old. First we came to the train station and fire station and library. I remember walking to meet my father at the train station. My father was a volunteer fireman and would take us to the station on rainy Saturdays and let us climb on the fire engines and get us a Coke in those bottles that came out of the big red Coca-Cola refrigerated cases.

Our house was less than a quarter mile away, which explains why my parents let me walk alone to the train station or even across the tracks to buy groceries my mom needed. When we got to my street I pointed out the house on the corner where the family lived who got the first color TV on the street. We went over there on a Sunday night to see the Walt Disney show with the fireworks over the castle in color. 

The street looked like the kind of place you would find on Leave It To Beaver. And in many ways it was. We’d play kick ball and SPUD in the middle of the street and when the ball went into our grouchy next-door neighbor’s yard, no one wanted to go get it.

Today the houses are all well-cared for with manicured lawns, except the one I grew up in. Mine looks tired, in need of a good washing. Otherwise, it looks the same. My sister says that the same people who bought the house from our parents in 1964 still live there. That would make them really old and that would explain why the house is looking rather beleaguered.

So far the day had been gorgeous, little sign of the pending storm. But just as we left East Williston for the three miles to my cousin’s house, the heavens opened up. We didn’t bother putting on rain gear, just tried to outrace the thunder and lightening. We got wet. And just as we arrived at our destination, the rain stopped.

Steven welcomed us warmly and right away we had a much-needed beer. He and his wife Jeanine cooked us an incredible chicken dinner with salad, orzo, and asparagus, and Steven’s sister Linda joined us for dinner as well, bringing home-made cookies. One of their grown sons also popped in. It was incredible that they put forth so much effort for us with only a couple days notice.

Our mileage for the day was only 44 miles, but it felt like so much more, going from the Jersey shore, through the heart of New York City, out to my childhood home. When I was growing up there and we’d drive to Queens to visit family, it felt like we were in the car for hours. I remember my father having to pull over because I’d get carsick. But it was probably only about 20 miles. What a different perspective a bicycle and 60 years can give.