In May, I excluded alcohol from my body for longer than a week for the first time since 2016 (or maybe longer, I don’t really remember). My resting heart rate dropped from 72 bpm to 46 bpm.
I biked 2947.99 miles from June 4 to September 6, all but a couple hundred within the raging confines of the five boroughs.
The summer screamed me awake every single day:
New York City beaches saw me on 22 days, the most time I’ve visited them since 2020. The water temperature peaked at 75.6 degrees on August 9 (I measured it).
Rockaways: 11 trips from 14th street to 108th
Brighton: 7 trips
Tilden or Riis: 3 trips
Orchard Beach: 2 trips
In July, I fell in love with someone on the concrete next to Astoria Pool. In August, I began repairing my broken heart as an eagle screeched overhead in the middle of Prospect Park and fireflies flew and the sky stormed. I wrote about all the dead animals in the park.
Fueled by the adrenaline of heartbreak, I biked another 41 days straight, averaging 35.27 miles a day. I rode my bicycle back to the same streets I was on seven years ago to cover new deaths at the hands of car drivers.
On 11 days, I spent time in the Bronx (not enough).
I spent a month of rent ($2023.40) on 45 rolls of film and their development and scanning. I wrote about our plant life flourishing and wilting. I saw places I had never seen before despite living here for 36 years.
I spent so much time outside that the sun bleached the hair on my arms white, something I’ve never seen on my body before. I can see the regular ones coming back now, and I injured a muscle in my chest from biking too much. I don’t know when I’ll email you again, but if you miss me, I’ll be moderating a panel about the FUTURE OF NYC at Cooper Union in 10 days, so come check it out!