midnight streets
I saw him in the corridor, reaching for his messenger bag, fumbling for keys, making the motions of leaving. It was 3am on the tail end of a party. The musicians in the front hall were still jamming with their guitars, bongos, and wordless humming, but the fire spinners had put out their flames, and the conversations on black feminist queer theory and global monocultures had given way to sleepy lounging on sofas and rugs.
"So, you heading out then?"
"Yeah, it's a long ride back to Cambridge. You sticking around?"
"No, I think I'm going to pack it in too. Have brunch plans later."
"Well, if you're leaving, I'll wait. We can ride together."
Out on the street, as we pulled our bikes on to the pavement, I asked him what he was planning on using as a route.
"I was thinking of going up Washington for a bit and then turning at Columbus and getting on the path."
"You know, there's a short cut that gets you on the bike path faster. Here. Let me show you."
And so we set out by ourselves, on to the quiet streets of Boston on a weekend night, past shuttered businesses that looked frozen and dormant, and yellow streetlights that shrouded the streets in their amber glow. Together the two of us glided on to the darkened pavement of the bike path, and followed its curves and slopes, undulating like a river sculpted in asphalt, a stream of emeralds in the garden necklace that Frederick Law Olmsted laced around the city more than a hundred years ago.
We weren't going particularly fast, but it was nice to have that to ourselves, to let our tired brains think of nothing but our feet and our machines, flying with the wind.
We were getting close to Heath Street when I asked, "how do you want to cross the river? We could turn here and go for BU ..."
"I was thinking Mass Ave."
"Up Columbus and through Symphony?"
"Actually, back way between the Museum and Northeastern."
"Show me?"
"No problem."
And I let him pull ahead, watching his blonde dreads flutter beneath his helmet, following the line of his bike as he wove around potholes and took his turns fast, leaning in like a motorcycle, as we zigzagged past brownstones and the old mansions that lined the Fens, and into the western edge of Back Bay before making a left onto the artery of Mass. Ave. and crossing over the Pike, eerily silent in the early hour.
We hit red lights and cross traffic on Beacon, just before the bridge, and that gave us a pause to pull even with each other. Look across the wide, dark expanse of the Charles River and the half mile of pure uninterrupted straightaway. We do that thing where you take your foot of the pavement and balance yourself on both pedals, a track stand so that you can be ready to go as the light goes green. And it's green and we're sprinting, pushing, tucked low against the ocean wind, mind silently wishing that we drank an extra glass of water before leaving that party; breathing hard but trying not to sound like it. Trying to show each other that we weren't trying. Not really.
The two of us cross into MIT and he says, "you know, if we were smart, we would just gone single file and drafted each other."
"yeah, but it would've been less fun that way."
"point."
Then we're in Central Square and he says, "turn up Webster?"
"Actually let's do Columbia."
"I usually don't take that route, it's kinda tight."
"Yeah, but at this time of the night, with no cars around, it's a different street."
And it is. Without cars nearby you can notice the playgrounds and the churches and the scent of flowers blooming in spring. We get close to our apartments, and I know that at Hampshire he will have to turn, so I let him go ahead so that he can wave back at me as he makes his left, and I ding the bell on my bike, letting the single tone echo in the night.
"So, you heading out then?"
"Yeah, it's a long ride back to Cambridge. You sticking around?"
"No, I think I'm going to pack it in too. Have brunch plans later."
"Well, if you're leaving, I'll wait. We can ride together."
Out on the street, as we pulled our bikes on to the pavement, I asked him what he was planning on using as a route.
"I was thinking of going up Washington for a bit and then turning at Columbus and getting on the path."
"You know, there's a short cut that gets you on the bike path faster. Here. Let me show you."
And so we set out by ourselves, on to the quiet streets of Boston on a weekend night, past shuttered businesses that looked frozen and dormant, and yellow streetlights that shrouded the streets in their amber glow. Together the two of us glided on to the darkened pavement of the bike path, and followed its curves and slopes, undulating like a river sculpted in asphalt, a stream of emeralds in the garden necklace that Frederick Law Olmsted laced around the city more than a hundred years ago.
We weren't going particularly fast, but it was nice to have that to ourselves, to let our tired brains think of nothing but our feet and our machines, flying with the wind.
We were getting close to Heath Street when I asked, "how do you want to cross the river? We could turn here and go for BU ..."
"I was thinking Mass Ave."
"Up Columbus and through Symphony?"
"Actually, back way between the Museum and Northeastern."
"Show me?"
"No problem."
And I let him pull ahead, watching his blonde dreads flutter beneath his helmet, following the line of his bike as he wove around potholes and took his turns fast, leaning in like a motorcycle, as we zigzagged past brownstones and the old mansions that lined the Fens, and into the western edge of Back Bay before making a left onto the artery of Mass. Ave. and crossing over the Pike, eerily silent in the early hour.
We hit red lights and cross traffic on Beacon, just before the bridge, and that gave us a pause to pull even with each other. Look across the wide, dark expanse of the Charles River and the half mile of pure uninterrupted straightaway. We do that thing where you take your foot of the pavement and balance yourself on both pedals, a track stand so that you can be ready to go as the light goes green. And it's green and we're sprinting, pushing, tucked low against the ocean wind, mind silently wishing that we drank an extra glass of water before leaving that party; breathing hard but trying not to sound like it. Trying to show each other that we weren't trying. Not really.
The two of us cross into MIT and he says, "you know, if we were smart, we would just gone single file and drafted each other."
"yeah, but it would've been less fun that way."
"point."
Then we're in Central Square and he says, "turn up Webster?"
"Actually let's do Columbia."
"I usually don't take that route, it's kinda tight."
"Yeah, but at this time of the night, with no cars around, it's a different street."
And it is. Without cars nearby you can notice the playgrounds and the churches and the scent of flowers blooming in spring. We get close to our apartments, and I know that at Hampshire he will have to turn, so I let him go ahead so that he can wave back at me as he makes his left, and I ding the bell on my bike, letting the single tone echo in the night.