Today I rode to, and along, a river.
It wasn’t the Hudson or East River—the latter of which isn’t a river.
And I didn’t leave the city. In fact, I didn’t have to go far from my new neighborhood.
The Bronx River cuts through the New York Botanical Garden, my building’s next door neighbor. Cycling isn’t allowed in the Garden. There are, however, trails along other parts of the only freshwater river in New York City and near its source in Westchester County.
I remember seeing the river decades ago, probably during a trip to the Bronx Zoo. Then, the water was barely visible because of the cars, tires and other refuse that had been tossed into it. Ironically, the building that once housed Lorillard’s snuff factory—one of the river’s first polluters—sits in the Garden, one of the organizations that helped to spur the River’s cleanup about 20 years ago.
I doubt that the water is potable. At least, I wouldn’t drink it. But people enjoy picnics and, I hear, fishing along its banks. And it’s become popular for canoes and kayaks.
Still, there are reminders that it is, after all, in the Bronx.
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I continued to ride for another two hours through unfamiliar streets in somewhat familiar areas. Soon, I hope, I will feel more at home, if for no other reasons that places become a part of me when I pedal them.
