Coney Island dreaming

Oscar and I biked to Coney Island a couple times this summer, most recently today, on this bike I’ve tricked out to carry him (or the groceries, or a tuba). Partly to see it before Hurricane Irene washes it away. It’s a long ride – four or more hours with all the necessary bathroom breaks, playground breaks and dining stops – and once or twice I’ve looked back to find him falling asleep on me. But still, he’s gung-ho to do it. He really wants to do the longer Rockaway ride, though I don’t think we’ll get to it this summer.

The magic of it, for me, is the movement through a diverse stretch of city: down through the neon jumble of Chinatown, with its olfactory overload; over the Manhattan Bridge, it’s sweeping vistas and cool ocean breezes; through Dumbo and downtown Brooklyn and Fort Greene (usually with a stop at Junior’s) and into the lush green expanse of Prospect Park, where we’ll stop to kick a ball; and then down Ocean Parkway, its broad boulevard flanked by Soviet-esque mid-rises, oldsters and teenagers and young families sprawled out on the benches that line the weird median bike path. The signs shift from Chinese to English to Hebrew and Russian along the way.

And then, sea breezes again and the big payoff: cotton-candied Coney Island. A few rides, maybe a walk on the beach. A pretzel or a hot dog or mango from a pushcart on the boardwalk. And of course, a wallop of sugar. Perhaps a disagreement over whether or not to get that Batman balloon. And then we schlep up to the F train, because by now the sun is setting and it’s past his bedtime already and I’m a bad dad, not to mention an exhausted one, but one who’s spent an enjoyable day with his kid of quiet togetherness and mutual wonderment at this incredible city we live in.