Singing bicycle guy

A non-postcard moment in NYC

A few weeks ago I visited New York City for the first time, thanks to a work event.

This post is about one moment from that trip that stood out and lingered with me.

But first, some (maybe unimportant) context:

In my younger days, I had a WordPress blog called “Pieces of Eternity” where I wrote about moments that I wanted to capture.

Moments, as in: fleeting feelings, logical or incoherent thoughts, physical motions, reactions or reflections to something in front of, around, or within me.

I didn’t always know why I wanted to capture these moments, but I suppose I wanted to remember them.

And I wanted to remember them because sometimes they felt meaningful and significant, but more often, the moments wanted to be captured for reasons I couldn’t quite comprehend.

Moments are all we have.

I guess this is me returning to that root of trying to capture moments.

By the way, that blog is no longer up, but a few years ago I imported all of its entries into this Substack. So—if you must—you can check the archives for some cringe evidence of my youth.

(I could’ve left this part out. You’re welcome? Or maybe I need to apologize?)

Okay, enough (maybe unimportant) context. For now.

I spent my last half-day in NYC alone.

It was a morning with soft summer rain that brushed the heat off of the streets. I took an Uber south to save some time, wandered through the vivid street art of the Bowery, and window-shopped through SoHo.

And then, before I had to head back to my hotel, grab my luggage, and make my way to the airport, I felt an inexplicable pull toward Washington Square Park. Like a magnet.

Just a few days earlier, I had strolled through the same park for the first time with a friend, on the way to a chess shop that was nothing short of a hidden time capsule, tucked in a quiet street just a couple of blocks to the south.

That first visit to Washington Square Park left an impression too, perhaps because it was a first visit. It’s nice to continue to have firsts as an adult.

I suppose I’ll briefly set the back story—though there really was no story.

It was a mid-week afternoon, maybe around 5-ish. The city heat seemed to radiate from both above our heads and beneath our feet. In the park, drummers and magicians and jazz bands were all doing what they did best and what they loved to do the most—I’d hope—under the open sunny sky. In the centre of the park, a topless guy stood in the fountain—I’m sure the fountain was named after someone famous, but I don’t want to look it up.

My friend emptied a quarter of a bottle of water over his head to cool off, to my mild amusement.

I thought out loud about how visceral the vibrations in the air felt, saying something along the lines of, “I had forgotten until now that the word vibes is shorthand for vibrations,” to my friend’s mild amusement.

Anyway, back to my last day in NYC.

Since it was my first time in the city and the trip was short, as I typed Washington Square Park on Google Maps on my phone, the logical side of my brain asked: Really, Mary? Do you really have to go to the same place twice? On your last few hours here?

But something urged me to go back, and despite logic, I had to follow that something. I have to see what happens, I thought vaguely. And maybe absolutely nothing will happen, but I have to see.

So I walked from SoHo toward Washington Square Park, holding a shopping bag with a blond, naked lady printed on it.

Okay, fine, not that it makes a difference to this story, earlier when I said I “window shopped through SoHo,” it might have been a lie. I did semi-impulsively buy something. A pair of jeans from a store called Naked and Famous—a brand that caught my attention months ago for their raw denim as well as their provocative visual identity. They make limited-edition jeans for each of their flagship cities, and I’d wanted a pair when I happened to walk by it.

So there I was. Walking north from SoHo in a black, company-issued Nike hoodie with our logo on it. Black running shorts over black Adidas leggings. Laceless, black Adidas running shoes. A pink Coach handbag that bruises my shoulder every time I wear it all day. And that glossy, vibrant shopping bag.

Strangers smirked at me when they saw this shopping bag. I mean, fair. It was printed in loud colours, with a comic-style blond lady with her tits hanging out and the words “Naked & Famous” next to her. It was also comically oversized for only having one pair of jeans in it. I simultaneously wanted to disappear into the background and avoid the attention, and got a kick out of seeing the reactions.

Why am I describing this in so much detail when it literally has no impact on the rest of the story—if we could even call this a story? I’m partially procrastinating—for no reason—and partially trying to paint the picture.

Anyway. Now you have it. The picture, that is. And I can continue.

When I got to Washington Square Park, it wasn’t as lively as my first visit. This time, it was quieter. Much like my own inner state. I was by myself, the light rain from earlier in the morning had tuned down into a cool mist, and it was approaching noon.

The energy, or rather—I continued to feel viscerally—the vibrations, the heartbeats, the orchestra of the park, was different this time. More distinct, maybe. There were still lots of people and sounds, but somehow it was easier to tune into and stay with one track before getting pulled into another.

I found an empty, south-facing bench—quite a feat, I’d like to think—and sat down, looking around with wonder.

I loosely thought about the “why” of the moment, as I looked at all the people there doing their own things, together.

Why am I here, at this particular place?

Why now, at this particular moment?

I waited—half expectantly, half-heartedly—for something to happen.

Nothing in particular happened.

And within moments of sitting down, I forgot about the “why” too.

The park and its music begged me to stop thinking. To get out of my head and just be.

Time passed. Some unknown amount.

Nothing in particular happened.

And that was okay.

More than okay.

At some point, I realized I needed to be conscious of the time since I had a flight to catch.

Just as I got up to leave, turning my body towards the bench I sat on, about to pick up my bags, a new track entered the air. A voice singing, full of energy. A literal voice.

Before I could fully register what was happening, a guy on a red bicycle dashed into the bottom right corner of my vision. He was singing out loud while biking diagonally across the park. He passed in a flash, exiting the top left corner of my vision just as quickly as he manifested.

I have no memory of what he was singing. Or what he wore or looked like. I think there was a hat—and I love hats—but I couldn’t tell you if it was a bucket hat or a baseball cap, or what colour it was. I’m not even entirely sure that he was a “he”, so while I’ll refer to them as “singing bicycle guy,” I might shift to gender-neutral pronouns at this point.

I smiled when singing bicycle guy appeared, and I smile now writing this. Because, well, what a vibrant way to live!

Yes, I had to Google Image how to draw a bike…

Of course, singing bicycle guy isn’t singing bicycle guy all of the time. That’s just what I caught in that moment, that exact sliver of time.

Singing bicycle guys could be someone’s big sibling.

Someone’s coworker.

Someone’s ex-friend that never texts back.

Someone who sits on the toilet for too long, doom-scrolling.

Someone who makes the best homemade pizzas for their friends and family on Fridays.

Someone who sings—or cries, or both—in the shower.

Someone’s love—or heartbreak, or both—of their life.

But moments are all we have.

And singing bicycle guy didn’t become someone who sings while biking through a park overnight.

Singing bicycle guy most likely tried, enjoyed, didn’t enjoy many things before becoming singing bicycle guy.

Singing bicycle guy is also most likely going to continue becoming.

Maybe the day I saw them was their last day as singing bicycle guy.

Maybe they will become someone who brings a picnic blanket and eats convenience store sandwiches with their headphones on.

Or someone who makes out under the cool shade of massive trees with a lover they want to stop seeing but can’t seem to.

Or someone who plays the drums with the entirety of their being.

Or someone who plays chess with strangers.

Or someone who stands in the fountain, topless.

Or someone who sits on a bench, takes it all in, and later writes about it on a quiet little Substack.

Or maybe singing bicycle guy will stay singing bicycle guy, and also become all of the above, or none of the above.

And isn’t that also wonderful?