And to think I had begun drawing green lines on my own personal Google maps.

Beware, thieves: With Twitter, every human is a security camera. And, journalists, is the job of observing is now more efficiently done by tracking down the feed of whoever is already on location? Or is there some distinguishing element to each person’s perception that makes it worthwhile to witness events first-hand, regardless of the cost? Oh, cost. Cost always wins.

Not all at once. Not for long. This is a reign at risk with every squeaking spin of my wheels. But for sweet stretches of asphalt that sometimes last just shy of forever, I am made a king by an offering the city intermittently bears only after it has settled into its sleep like a shark to the ocean floor: emptiness.

There are times Broadway is so clear of activity, I freely swerve my bike from one side of the street to the other for no other reason than that I can. No one honks. No one screams. I hit no one; no one hits me. There are no pedestrians in my path; no delivery trucks stop before me. None of my bicycling brethren claims my space. I have the city; for once, it does not have me. I am king.

In this quiet space, I notice what I normally do not: the dark spread of sky resting atop the skyscrapers; the joy tucked inside an aggravating wind; the relief in my legs as they stretch and compress, stretch and compress. If the quiet lasts, even a few blocks, I begin to hear my breathing. If the quiet lasts, I hear more: the stilling of my mind. If the quiet lasts, I begin to believe: I need this space of silence. It is here, in a tiny kingdom of one, perched atop a throne of leaves coalesced in the stilling of the city’s clamor, that I become more than a collection of second-by-second reactions to those around me. For a moment, I am choosing a future, not dodging the present.

This moment always ends, certainly by Union Square. More often than not, it is broken by the engine whine of a surging taxi. I return to my clearly marked bicycle lane. I keep my wheels between the lines until the emptiness comes again.