I was in a good mood when I was biking home last night across the bridge. After seeing a so-so band (Autodrone. And yes, they did.), morningwood came on the Sin-e stage and just killed. The lead singer is so dynamic and fun to watch, and the music is catchy, and I was just happy to be out in New York. Also earlier in the evening Catherine and I stumbled on this little tiki bar, El Patio, where the bartender was wearing a bikini top and the chick dj was spinning Elton John and David Bowie covers. I liked it. I think there's something going on there, some weird undercurrent of coolness, though Catherine wasn't so sure. I want to go back again to investigate.
Stuff like that puts a smile on my face, plus it was nice to see my friend, plus I had a couple of drinks (okay, five), so I had a sudden burst of energy in me and decided to ride like a maniac back across the bridge. Usually at the end of the night it's a long haul back: I'm tired, I'm drunk, I just don't feel like making the effort. Sometimes I'll even walk it. But last night I was in a race with myself to see how fast I could make it, and then, all of a sudden, I was in a race with someone else.
As I cruised up the hill, I passed a short Latino man, maybe in his thirties. We were the only two people out there on a moist and quiet night, so I noticed him. He was calmly and slowly riding: maybe he had just gotten off work and was contemplating his day; maybe he hated his girlfriend, or roommate, or neighbors and was in no hurry to get home; maybe he was simply drunk and tired.
Passing someone made me absurdly happy. I'm not saying I'm slow, but a kid on a tricycle once passed me on the bridge. (I'm not making that up, either.) It wasn't my intention to dust him, but it felt kind of nice when I did.
Somehow I think he sensed my competitive energy, and a minute later, after I slowed down to a normal pace, he zoomed by me. Bastard! He didn't make eye contact or anything like that, but I had a feeling that it was becoming personal. He didn't want some chick in a short denim skirt and flip-flops kicking his ass.
I rode for another thirty seconds silently. Did I really need to take him on again? The first time was an accident, and this would be a deliberate pass, just to show him I could. I could see him up ahead, where he had slowed back to his original pace. He was within reach, but wasn't it sort of a childish act?
But when better to be a child than in the middle of summer? (Plus I just finished reading Seabiscuit, so now I hear imaginary roars of the crowd in my head all the time.)
I snaked past him again easily, then put a little distance between us. If he wants to pass me again, I thought, let him. I just wanted him to know I could do it. Sure enough, maybe twenty seconds later, he passed me again, and this time he didn't slow to a normal pace. He was willing to do whatever it took to maintain his lead.
I could have played this game all night, but why bother? It was more important to him to be in the lead (even though there was no clear basis for this desire) and I usually yield in situations like that. I took my time for the rest of the ride home, and imagined him pumping his fists in the air, happy to claim his small victory for the day.