Jeffrey Tanenhaus - West of Wheeling: How I Quit My Job, Broke the Law & Biked to a Better Life

W hen the fire alarm went off, nobody moved. Probably false. At work in Times Square, I was scrambling to meet a deadline. I didnt have time for dri lls.

A screaming fire truck pulled up outside. My coworkers at Red Carpet Events peered out the window and then went back to their desks. More sirens. The sound grew louder. Seven months pregnant, an event operations manager called it a day just in case this wasnt a false alarm. Our graphic designer followed suit, but she didnt do much anyway. Rachel, the sales director, went out to investigate. The click - clack of high heels echoed down the hall. She returned a few minutes later, saying she smelled a little smoke. My fellow event developers began packing their bags, but not me. I couldnt go. My proposal wasnt d one.

Jeffrey, youre going to get Bianca everything she needs today, right? Rachel asked, raising her voice above the noise and drumming her nails on the metal filing cabi net.

Yes, I needed to email the client by five. I couldnt evacuate now and come back later. Id miss the Amtrak train for my dads birthday upstate. We didnt use laptops or cloud software (still new in 2011), which made remote work impossi ble.

The building was on fire, but I was panicked about the time of day. The event planning agency was on the fourth floor. Worst case scenario, I could probably survive by jumping if they put a bouncy mat on the sidew alk.

Stop getting distracted, Jeffrey, I told myself. Everyone had bailed and I needed to focus on pricing out meeting space at the Metropolitan Club, down to bottles of mineral water. I locked the door so the flames and firefighters wouldnt reach me and stared at the spreadsheet with a clenched jaw and ringing e ars.

This was my dream job.

Corporate event planning was stressful, but one thing made it bearable. My bike commute. After burning out at Red Carpet (which, fortunately, did not burn down), I worked for another company under similar pressure, but with none of the Times Square views. In fact, there werent any windows at Elite 1 Events. Riding a Citi Bike to and from my new job was sometimes the only time of day I felt sunlight on my s kin.

Citi Bikes are named after Citibank, which paid $41 million to brand NYCs bike sharing. The system launched in 2013 with 6,000 rental bikes that could get New Yorkers where theyre going cheaper than a taxi and faster than the subway or bus.

Five thousand founding memberships sold out on the first day. I was #1387. The ninety - five - dollar yearly cost was less than a monthly pass on the subway. Annual users like me had forty - five minutes per trip before overtime fees kicked in. Returning the bike to any docking station reset the clock. One - way rides on equipment that you dont own, maintain, or store in a tiny apartment made bike share convenient and e asy.

Most large American cities and colleges have similar programs. But bicycles for the massesin this city? Fuggedaboutit . The press predicted mayhem and malfunction. They would be stolen, stripped for parts, and thrown into the river for fun. Broadway would run red with the blood of tourists wobbling around on two wheels. Blue bikes parked outside brownstones would ruin historic neighborhoods. Residents would revolt over lost parking. Docking racks would stymie first responders. Casualties from biking would pile up like garbage bags on the sidew alk.

None of that tabloid fearmongering came true. New Yorkers discovered the bikes saved timethe one thing we never have enough of. The bikes were wildly popular. Membership rose to one hundred thousand. People fought over the last bike like an empty taxi in the rain. Trips soared into the millions, then tens of millions. There was not a single fatalitynot for four years, at leasta miracle considering pedestrians get mowed down in the crosswalk even with the light in their favor. Citi Biking was safer than city walk ing.

As soon as I tried Citi Bike I was hooked. Walking was too slow. The subway too crowded. While the masses were trapped underground, I exercised individuality outside. Moreover, my senses came alive. That fried noodle smell wafting through Chinatown. Arms turning to jelly biking over SoHo cobblestones. Afternoon sunshine warming my skin along the Hudson River Green way.

Each ride was an adventure. Biking in the city was like being in a video game but playing with real life. Consequences mattered, but so did the rewards. Every weekday I faced the same obstacle course, but the dangers popped up in new places: shopping carts full of cans, double - parked delivery trucks, taxis turning across the bike lane without yielding. Sure, there were pitfallsand plenty of potholesbut rather than rely on the subway or bus, I was moving at my own speed. I was in control of the rhythm and route. No waiting, no transfers, no delays. Self - propelled power was addictive, especially in the worlds most exhilarating c ity.

My commute began near DUMBO by selecting a bike docked two blocks from my apartment in RAMBO, one of the few neighborhood acronyms that didnt catch on. Minutes later I was huffing and puffing up the Manhattan Bridge, which fed me into Chinatown where I cruised up Allen Street past tenements, restaurants, and bars on the Lower East S ide.

More commuters joined the bike wave surging up the protected lane on First Avenue. After avoiding jaywalking doctors and nurses on Medical Mile, a left onto Thirty - Ninth Street led me into the heart of traffic - clogged Midtown. I docked the bike on Broadway just south of Times Square, five miles and forty minutes since leaving Brook lyn.

My workplace on Fortieth Street felt like a holdover from the bad old days when drugs and smut ruled Times Square. Ahead on Eighth Avenue loomed the Port Authority, a bus terminal that comedian John Oliver called the single worst place on planet Earth. Across the street from our office was a store with neon lights advertising XXX DVDs, adult toys, girls, a male room, and something called buddy boot hs.