A New Walkway Almost Opens Across the Manhattan Bridge

"Where the fuck is everybody?" "Check the map," said Jean, "maybe there's another entrance."

"No, this is it," I said. "Jay and Sands. It says so right here."

"But it's all closed off," Vanessa said. "And look, there are bags of concrete on the stairs."

She was right. It was a dismal scene: a chainlink fence blocking the stairway, construction supplies everywhere and a sign warning that trespassers would be prosecuted.

We were there for the opening of the footpath on the Manhattan Bridge. I should say, reopening: it's been nearly 40 years since we nondrivers have been able to enjoy what is, in my opinion, the city's most beautiful bridge. I didn't want to miss it.

"Are you sure you got the date and time right?" Vanessa asked.

"Yes, yes," I grumbled testily, "I wrote it down."

"Are you sure it's happening on the Brooklyn side," Jean asked, "and not the Manhattan side?"

"Uh..."

Vanessa reached into her wallet and pulled out her Transportation Alternatives membership card. "Call them," she instructed.

I did. As it turned out, not only were we on the wrong side of the bridge, but I'd gotten the time wrong, too. Luckily, we were an hour early, so we could still make it.

"How should we get there?" Vanessa asked. "You want to just walk over from this side? I mean, what the hell, right? They're opening the path anyway."

I had to admit, it was tempting. I imagined the scene: Mayor Giuliani and Gov. Pataki, putting aside their differences in order to celebrate this great occasion, standing before a throng of thousands. I pictured a big podium, patriotic bunting and young boys in short pants holding nosegays. I saw a brass band and fedora-wearing photographers snapping away with big old-fashioned flash bulbs. Then, just as the Mayor and Governor, arm in arm, are about to break a bottle of bubbly and cut the ribbon?gasp! The crowd turns and here we come, the three amigos, strolling the wrong way down the path. A lady faints, children cry and a hound starts baying mournfully.

I remembered the time I was arrested. It wasn't fun. "Let's take the Brooklyn Bridge," I said.

Forty-five minutes and two roast pork buns later, we arrived at the corner of Bowery and Canal, where a sea of those silly-looking gumdrop bike helmets greeted us. Jean had brought her bike but Vanessa and I hadn't brought ours, preferring to take our time and enjoy the walk. I noticed, with some apprehension, that Jean was the only cyclist not wearing a helmet. I was worried The Man might try to stop her from joining the fun, or even write her a ticket. I am all in favor of bike helmets, even silly-looking ones, but shudder at the thought of a law forcing me to look like Rick Moranis in Spaceballs.

Still, I was excited. The Manhattan Bridge is just a few blocks from my new apartment. Now I could easily scoot into Chinatown for fresh fish and green tea. I'd be able to stumble home, drunk, from Wo Hop at 4 a.m. I would relieve myself into the inky water far below, and snarl at punks and troublemakers as they passed.

I made my way to the front of the crowd. There was nothing: no bunting, no podium, no nosegays. I could tell, by the relatively small police presence, that the Mayor and Governor would not be attending. What a gyp.

"Can I help you?"

An officious man with too much mousse in his hair and an earring was eyeballing me.

"I was hoping to get a look at the ribbon," I said.

"Nothing's set up yet," he said. Then, seeing the pen and notebook in my hand, added?with a hint of suspicion, I thought, "Who are you with?" I was about to say, "My wife and a friend," but then I remembered Jean's lack of a helmet. Sensing a setup, I took a different tack. "Uh, I'm freelance," I stammered, "and, um, New York Press, in a way, I guess. Sort of."

"Nothing's been set up yet," the man said again. He looked at me like he wouldn't relieve himself on me if I were on fire. I slunk back to where Jean and Vanessa were waiting.

"Is there a podium and bunting?" Vanessa asked.

"I don't want to talk about it," I said.

A woman approached us and offered us bike maps, and we took them and thanked her. She said she worked for the DOT, so we asked her if she was excited for the big event.

"Yes," she said, "but I'll be more excited for the real opening."

The real opening?

"The path doesn't open until June 25th," she explained. "There is still construction to be done. In fact, we can only go as far as the first tower."

"So why are we here?"

"We organized this so it would coincide with Bike Week, to get more publicity for the path. You know, you're lucky," she added, "Commissioner Weinshall is actually very pro-bike. Other DOT commissioners haven't been nearly so supportive."

We told her that we felt very lucky indeed.

"Attention, everybody," somebody yelled from the front of the crowd, "we need you all to move up, slowly, so we can take a big group picture!"

"Hang back," I told Vanessa, "that way we'll be in the front of the picture."

"Ham," she scolded.

The crowd of 100 or so rolled forward, to beyond where the ribbon was to be set, then turned around. A number of photographers snapped furiously. Somebody handed the Commissioner a plaque of some sort, and the Commissioner spoke, but mousse-and-earring man didn't give her a microphone until she was almost finished speaking. Even then, the volume was so low that I could only make out a few words: "...great day...bridge...path...pedestrians and bicycles..." A bland red ribbon was stretched across the path, and big gold-plated scissors were produced. There was some applause and a flurry of photography as the smiling and very pleasant-seeming Ms. Weinshall cut the ribbon. Then the first segment of riders was dispatched to enjoy the unofficial nonopening of a quarter of the new path.

Jean wanted to ride ahead with the first group, so we waved her off.

"Did you see those Transportation Alternatives t-shirts?" Vanessa asked. "They say 'Share the Road' on the back. I want one."

Vanessa and I, apart from a lone in-line skater, were the only people not on bicycles. There wasn't even a single skateboarder, which disappointed me somehow. Walking was a good idea, the better to see the Lower East Side and Chinatown slowly fading away below us, the Brooklyn Bridge and harbor gradually coming into view.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes. They did a great job on the path, too."

By the time we reached the tower, the first group of cyclists was already heading back. Jean had to get home, so we said goodbye and she sped happily, helmetlessly away. A few bemused construction workers were at the top, perhaps wondering what all the fuss was about. More pictures, more excitement. After five or 10 minutes of enjoying the view we turned to go.

The second group of cyclists, including Commissioner Weinshall, had begun their ascent up the path. The Commissioner was surrounded by various handlers, yes-men and cyclophants: Yes, Commissioner, you're so right, Commissioner, you don't say, Commissioner. The swarm of people jockeying to get within a spoke's length of Ms. Weinshall was paying no attention to the two pedestrians strolling toward them from the opposite direction. I saw what was coming, and pushed Vanessa against the railing and flattened myself against her. Two bikes clipped me, one on the elbow and the other on the wrist, as they huffed and puffed their way past. I raised my fist and shouted after them.

"Share the road!" I screamed.