I have a confession: Last night, I took the subway home.
It had nothing to do with the weather: chilly but neither unseasonable nor as inhospitable as some other conditions through which I’ve pedaled. I also didn’t forego riding home due to a lack of lighting or reflective gear.
Riding to work was great. I arrived invigorated and more than ready. Perhaps that, paradoxically, was the reason why I felt so tired at the end of the day: I stayed late and finished a bunch of mundane but necessary tasks. I had the energy, but I also was motivated by my wish not to go in tomorrow.
So I took the 4 train from Fulton Street, across from the World Trade Center, with gray-suited Financial District workers and pastel-jacketed tourists and tried not to be this person:
I took an end seat and held my bike as close as I could, at 45 degree angle to my left. That left the other seats open as my bike took up no more floor room than another passenger. With each stop, I offered my seat to boarding passengers. Some looked as if they needed it more than I did. All refused.
What struck me, though, was that I sensed no hostility from otner passengers. A few even smiled even though I suspect their day was harder than mine.
I wonder whether they were simply happy I wasn’t that guy in the photo. Or did they see a woman in the middle of her life—you know, someone’s auntie.
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