Thomas’ Essay

PERSONAL STATEMENT

No one bikes from New Canaan to New York City. It’s just not something that’s done for many obvious reasons: The distance of almost 40 miles, crazy roads, insane drivers, endless potholes, construction… not to mention no bike lanes. But, for a boy my age — armed with a bike, a milk crate, and an inspiration to chase the skyscrapers that once caught my eye across the Long Island Sound — these deterrents made me certain that I needed to give it a go. 

Ever since I found my Trek mountain bike leaning under the Christmas tree in sixth grade, I’ve probably spent more time exploring than at home. Years of riding my bike around town fostered this curiosity, pushing me to travel beyond the boundaries of my daily expeditions for new adventures. With the milk crate I attached to the rear rack, I biked as far as I could without my legs giving out. Crossing over the borders of nearby towns, I experienced that indescribable feeling of doing something new. 

Once I had built up enough endurance and courage to make the trek to Manhattan possible, I set out for the open road. With each passing mile, careening along tight turns and speeding through intersections, the familiar sites of past expeditions morphed into more and more unfamiliar street signs and neighborhoods, many of which were only vaguely recognizable from countless times driving past. Reminded by the honk of a monstrous semi-truck that I was no longer on quiet suburban streets, the risk of being run off the road forced me to remain in the moment. 

Still, I continued to follow Route 1, watching an endless stream of cars race the barrelling Metro-North trains parallel to the road. I tried my best to appreciate my novel surroundings, but with each passing car resetting my focus on the road, I couldn’t let my attention drift too far. That was until my eyes caught an out-of-place, pot-hole-filled outlet branching off of the crowded street. Out of all the passing sites which had begun to blend together, I couldn’t ignore this unmissable rough patch inserted among the inconspicuous shops. I instinctively slowed to a halt and pulled my bike off of the narrow shoulder and onto the deteriorating sidewalk, sitting still by the perpetual movement of the traffic, peering into a development unlike anything I had ever noticed before. 

An awkward, aging development of darkened low-income housing apartments with buildings densely stacked next to each other lay partially obscured by the storefronts along the main road. Evident signs of joblessness and crime lay scattered across the ground: broken glass, torn clothing, and rusted car parts. Years of driving right past this chaotic scene, never once catching a real glimpse of this hidden world from the comfort of my car, left me wondering: what else have I missed and who else have I overlooked? 

Moving beyond this stop was both difficult and relieving. My eyes refocused on the road that lay ahead leading towards the glistening Manhattan skyscrapers. But as I tried to move on, I found my mind stuck on the scene of broken dreams — pedaling away without my spirit. Arriving in Manhattan, nestled between the grand buildings which I was once told couldn’t be reached by bike, I began to see everything around me in a slightly different light. This rich, alluring, magnificent city was hiding in its shadows unmistakable products of disparity and inequity — and as I took the train home, sitting in the pain of my throbbing legs, passing by the same sites which could only blur together at such a speed, I knew that addressing these complex issues was the road I wanted to be on.