Riding home tonight I channeled Amelia Earhart (as I imagine her). Scarf flying, salty eyes wide open. Skimming low, low over the Park, laced with the day's barbeque flavors, and the gossip of crickets and birds and airmail.
My voice is a billowing curtain in a window of The Mayor's Hotel, which is not a real hotel, but rather a diary and palette. When I'm not writing (or riding), I'm running Redbeard Bikes with my husband, Ilya. We are a big little bicycle shop in DUMBO, Brooklyn.