I know, the signs say it’s prohibited to ride your bike across the bridge. So then why do they put those little ramps on the stairs? But wait, they put them on the _wrong side_–at least it’s the wrong side if you’re me, trying to lug your bike up the stairs. I guess if you’re coming down, it’s the right side, but I’ve still never seen anyone use them.

But anyway: I rode across the Triboro today. It takes freakin’ forever. I haven’t been there since maybe 2004, when Peter fell off his bike and cracked a rib. (Maybe that’s why you’re prohibited to ride a bike here? Nah.) The last time I crossed, there was a lot of broken glass on the Queens leg, but the Manhattan leg was much nicer, because it only smelled of five decades of accumulated pee.

But this time, sweet Jesus, things have gone downhill. People may be snapping up brownstones in Bed-Stuy, but the far west end of the north-side bike path is a study in urban misery.

The bike path (ahem, walkway) is pretty narrow, barely wide enough for two bikes to pass, so I do a lot of looking way ahead to anticipate problems. The first problems I see are some legs. Turns out they’re two sets of legs, and they’re attached to two guys who are covered in oozing sores. They’re chatting away, but then as I bike by, they both look up and gawk at me, and I gawk back at all their sores. Yipes, whoa. Eyes ahead.

And good thing, too, because there’s obstacle No. 2: an arm. This is attached to a guy flat on his back, surrounded by bottles wrapped in paper bags. I swear one had a straw in it, which suggests a certain style for this wino.

No sooner do I swerve around this guy than I ride right through a puddle of very fresh urine. But no time to fret, because there appears to be a woman ahead of me crouching and taking a shit.

Really? Please, of all things. This is just the ultimate symbol of how cities can fail people. Bowels can fail people too, I understand, but when you have to take a crap on the street, there’s a little blame on both sides. Am I soft and liberal for saying that?

So I’m trying to avert my gaze, swallowing the urge to say, “Sorry, sorry, excuse me, sorry, just inching by here…” to no one in particular. But soon I’m close enough to see that her pants are right where they should be, and not around her ankles. A relief. As I wiggle by on my bike, she hunkers farther down and turns away over a pipe of something that smells pretty acrid.

And then, before I know it, I’m down at street level, and cars are zipping by, and everything’s industrious and thriving and urban-exciting. The smell of bus exhaust is refreshing compared to the smell of drugs and year-long benders. Honestly, only about 20 feet and a small curve separates these people from all the going and doing and zipping around.

I’m late for my doctor’s appointment, but not worried at all, because I feel pretty healthy compared.

I guess I come off as naive (we just don’t have this sort of thing in Astoria!), but I do see milder variations on this somewhat frequently. Take away a few feet of personal space, though, and it’s a whole different perspective on the city.