BACK THEN, I HAD TAKEN TO SOLO ROAD RIDES in the easterly direction, from Astoria out to Oyster Bay on Long Island, New York, exploring the North Shore roads that brushed up against the Long Island Sound and the fictional stories that lingered between the West and East Eggs. I was searching for a light across the water, some kind of lifeline, and motive to get out under the sun and pedal my bike. As I entered the pages of old-money family histories, I felt cocooned inside the coolness of luscious shadows, the charcoals, browns, and deep greens of tree-lined roads built for much smaller cars once upon a time. Where, today, rich men take out their convertibles for leisurely Sunday roller-coaster rides as if nothing has changed. The mansions and…
