Ftrain, by Paul Ford

Queens is for storing things. Cranes, cabs, bread. Buildings to store buildings. Warehouses to store trucks that carry cars.

Going over the top of Triborough Bridge the railing is just above waist-high. There is no net below, no catch. It's terrifying. One horrible, comic coincidence and a man could fly to his death.

Ward's Island/Randall's Island are storage for the insane and impoverished. A man walking muttering; odd units of housing; government-labeled vans. Thin people playing soccer in shiny long shorts.

The Bronx is where they put things that don't fit in Queens.

The rim of northern Manhattan is emptiness. Car dealers; weather; boats, piers, highways.

A man in Harlem said, "I'll knock the gums right out his motherfucking mouth." A girl in a store asked me about the lights on my helmet. A young woman was filming the quiet street around 150th with an old Super-8 camera.

My third gear on the front fell off at 155th St. Shredded; rivets pinging. The first two gears got me home.

The U.S.S. New York was in town, docked on the West Side, weighed down with the disastrous V-22 Osprey. Sailors everywhere. I was asked by a man in fatigues to dismount and walk my bike until the crowd thinned. I took a picture for my brother; he likes vessels. The New York is made from steel left over from September 11. America recycles its grief.

A man bigger than me shot by me on the bike path along the river. Later he slowed down and another man, in front of me, thin, in red, passed him, as did I. Then the big man passed us both. He was a good cyclist, and after 30 miles and without a third gear I was slow. The thin man in red suddenly began to cycle so fast that his bike was shaking. And there I saw it, as observer, not passive participant: fat bike rage. The thin man was less of a cyclist but radiated anger as he pedaled at great speed in order to pass the fat man, who was flying smooth. I sauntered on, let them go, slowed. Letting a fatty be better, especially in sport, it clearly grates on the vile slends.

I turned on the lights on my helmet and jetted up Court St. Stopped for dinner.

They were making a movie on the Carroll St. bridge, where [Wife] and I got married.

They were, were they?
They were, they were.
& they were they, & there they were.

Weight: 301.5 lbs