How I Escaped New York on a Citi Bike
The following is adapted from West of Wheeling by Jeffrey Tanenhaus.
“Where the hell you going with that?”
The captain is blocking my path on board. A white shirt stretches over his puffed chest. Biceps flex like cannonballs. A seagull shrieks and flies away. The air is thick with tension like before a duel in an old Western. But I’m not in a dusty frontier town. I’m on the edge of Manhattan taking a ferry to New Jersey.
I pretend that my baggage isn’t out of the ordinary. Nothing to see here, folks, just a nice day to hit the Shore with my bike, which isn’t really mine. It’s a rental Citi Bike. It can’t leave the city.
The sun is packing high-noon heat at 9:00 a.m. It feels like one of those August Fridays when people take a long lunch and never return to the office, ending up on a restaurant patio packed with tables and chatter. Phones vibrate with work emails, but attention fades with every sip of refreshment. Weekend vibes take over.
The attitude on summer Fridays at Elite 1 was mercifully on this same wavelength. We got out early at 3:00 p.m. Otherwise, we worked from nine to six without a break. Lunch culture was grabbing a sandwich to eat at our desks in a windowless room, pecking away at projects and brushing crumbs off the keyboard. So at three o’clock on summer Fridays, I’d skip down the stairs and throw up my hands in delight. Sunshine. Air. Freedom. Monday morning seemed so far away.
What if I had a life where I looked forward to Monday? I’d been thinking about taking a Citi Bike across America for more than a year, and today I’m turning those thoughts into action. I’m launching myself into uncharted waters to see what else is out there. Nobody has tried leaving NYC quite like this.
Suddenly I miss the security of a routine. At 3:00 p.m. on Fridays, I’d Citi Bike down the Hudson River Greenway to yoga in Tribeca to de-stress from the week. At three this Friday, I could be doing poses for a mugshot. What happens now determines how far I’ll get on my journey. California is the goal, but I’ll settle for safe passage to New Jersey.
The captain calls my bluff. He’s built like a statue and stands stone-faced with bronzed skin. He demands to know why I’m taking this bike on the boat. The waves quiet down to hear what I have to say. Oh God, where do I start?
“Hey man, relax, just a day trip to the Shore…I’m coming back later,” I say with a smile.
Silence.
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, I am coming back later,” I insist. I have evidence. “I’m an annual member. See, here’s my key.”
“These bikes can’t go to Jersey. No-ho way,” he howls.
“I…I’m just…going for…for the day.” Choking on my own lie, I fumble for words.
The captain’s tattooed forearm swings forward. He grabs the handlebar. “That’s grand larceny,” he barks.
“No…no, you don’t understand, I — ”
“I’m calling the cops!”
***
Worst case scenario. I always brace for it. Expecting the worst helps me avoid disappointment, but not since jumping out of a burning building has my worst-case scenario been as bad as getting arrested.
Thankfully, I’m not. None of the doom swirling around my mind is happening in real life. There is no burly boat captain. The ticket taker is a skinny guy with spotty skin who has no reaction as I roll the bike aboard. Nobody says a word. Nobody calls the police. Nobody cares. It’s New York. It’s summer. It’s Friday.
Being a goody-goody ends today. I’m breaking bike share terms of service and crossing state lines with property worth more than one thousand dollars. Grand larceny is a felony. Consequences are stronger than a B in math. My shoulder angel is hopping mad, but I tell it to calm down.
Back when this idea was a pipe dream, I asked Citi Bike for permission and was laughed off the phone. Follow-up emails were ignored. I even upgraded my LinkedIn account to message marketing execs at Citibank and outdoor brands about collaboration and sponsorship. No response. So just like Sinatra sang, I’ll do it My Way and pay $1,200 for the bike. That’s the maximum overtime fee, which was billed to my membership-linked credit card. Citi Bike took my money, so I bought their bike. (Maybe Citi Bike wouldn’t mind. In 2015, the year I departed, the company made $5.2 million just from overtime fees.)
Of course I could get a proper touring bike for less, but I wanted to find purpose and explore America on the same trusty equipment that empowered me in NYC. I banked more than $6,000 after giving up my apartment and crashing with friends while working the last two months of my job. I’ve saved for this. In my mind it feels a little wrong, but in my heart it feels just right.
I lean into the breeze. The World Trade Center pierces the sky. The Statue of Liberty salutes the sun. I wave her goodbye and flick my shoulder angel into the wake leading back to the island where I was born. We pass under the Verrazzano Bridge, and New York Harbor becomes a watery desert. This bike on a boat looks out of place. Is it nervous like I am? I turn to catch a last look at the skyline and tear up. The buildings are shrinking. I don’t know when I’ll be back or what lies ahead.
Laughter breaks my thoughts. Two guys are joking around. The sun is out and the sky is blue. People on board have beach chairs and straw mats. They’re relaxed and ready to start the weekend early on this summer Friday. Their worries can wait until Monday but mine cannot. The captain cuts the motor and the boat bumps into the dock. New Jersey. Everyone gets off except for me. I’m stuck to the seat thinking about the worst-case scenario. I’m about to find out what happens when a Citi Bike leaves the city.
To learn more about Jeffrey’s bicycling adventure across America, you can find West of Wheeling on Amazon.
Jeffrey Tanenhaus is the first person to cross a continent by bike share. The native New Yorker broke away from the rat race to ride a Citi Bike 3,020 miles from Manhattan to Los Angeles. Jeffrey now lives with his two bikes in Tulsa, where he gives city tours. Connect with him at countribike.com.
