BACK THEN, I HAD TAKEN TO SOLO ROAD RIDES in the easterly direction, from Astoria out to Oyster Bay on Long Island, New York, exploring the North Shore roads that brushed up against the Long Island Sound and the fictional stories that lingered between the West and East Eggs. I was searching for a light across the water, some kind of lifeline, and motive to get out under the sun and pedal my bike. As I entered the pages of old-money family histories, I felt cocooned inside the coolness of luscious shadows, the charcoals, browns, and deep greens of tree-lined roads built for much smaller cars once upon a time. Where, today, rich men take out their convertibles for leisurely Sunday roller-coaster rides as if nothing has changed. The mansions and lavish states remain, in states of restoration or decay, with climbing ivy curlicuing up their gates, providing a softer layer of shelter. Downhearted and distraught, I rode. I was trying to avoid the sight of other tragedies-ongoing ones. Meanwhile, in this part of the woods, the grass was greener, and golf courses and country clubs remained lavish and lively despite recommendations of the CDC.
Like many, I was escaping. Riding away from lockdown and the impossibility of keeping a six-foot distance from the millions of people crammed into the city. On those rides, I would stop at a farm-to-table bakery for its tasty pastries and friendly chickens digging holes under the shade of a tree. It was the beginning of summer, after all, and nothing felt cooler than a fistful of dirt. I, too, wanted to dig a hole and rub my face against the cool and soft soil. And what if I moved to the country and bought a disheveled bed and breakfast? I could realize my dream of caring for chickens and goats. I could wear an apron and bake. Spend hours on my knees, thinning sprouting crops and munching the day away. I could rent out cottages to tourists and couples also looking to be somewhere else.
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