“This is so beautiful,” said Edgar as we cruised along the bike path beside the river. It was a gorgeous April day, and the view stretched for miles, bounded by trees and grass and not-too-fussy flower beds; sometimes New York gets it just right.

“See over there, across the Hudson? That’s New Jersey, where I grew up.”

“It’s like the White Cliffs of Dover.”

“With Walmarts.”

We pedaled faster and faster, reaching a speed that allowed intervals of effortless gliding, and I could see Edgar relax; he was so tightly wound that each micro-moment of surrender became visible, like an enhanced video of a flower blooming or a baby chick hatching and blinking at the world. Edgar was still ridiculously handsome, but his smile was becoming more genuine and less professional.

Two bike messengers, a man and a woman, pulled up beside us. They were true New York athletes, in customized spandex and ragged leather, with battered canvas bags slung across their backs. I’ve always admired these messengers, in their Mad Max couture, as they swerve in and out of traffic, outraging drivers, terrifying pedestrians and laughing at gridlock, young enough so that being underpaid and sexy becomes a fabulous drug.

This pair didn’t seem to recognize Edgar and would never admit it if they did. They pulled even with us and nodded, or their neon goggles and aerodynamic praying mantis helmets nodded, at the path ahead.

“Oh, it’s on!” said Edgar, and the four of us started racing, leaning over our handlebars. Edgar was fiercely competitive, because he had to spend most of his time being selfless and polite. I could barely keep up, but Edgar cutting loose gave me rocket fuel, along with awarding myself a few thousand extra cardio points.

While Edgar was an experienced cyclist, he was no match for the messengers, who outpaced us, laughed and waved as they headed back across the highway.

“Good God,” said Edgar, as he stretched out his arms and turned his face to the sun, drunk on thinking about nothing but fresh air.

“We’re here,” I said, because we’d hit lower Manhattan, right across from not just my favorite vista but my favorite anything: the Statue of Liberty, who seemed almost within reach.

“She’s magnificent,” Edgar said as we dismounted and walked our bikes to the railing.

“When I was little I thought she was real and that she waded through the river and stood there every day, to welcome the world to America.”

“And while I know she was a gift from the French,” said Edgar, “I’ve always felt there was something terribly English about her. Something utterly dignified but with a touch of wickedness around the eyes. Very Helen Mirren. She’s alluring.”