Last week, Mark Bittman wrote a piece for the New York Times about savoring the end of summer and escaping to the Northern reaches of Riverside Park–where it seems you leave the city behind. These kind of spots, where the city takes on almost bucolic proportions, are always the most fascinating (and no doubt it’s owing it part to them that so many people can call a relatively small swath of land their home). It prompted me to look back and find some photos of the first bike ride Aron and I took up to the George Washington bridge, a couple of summers back. We had rented bikes at the time, eager to take advantage of a recently opened stretch of bike path along the Hudson that made the route continuous from Battery Park to the bridge. At some point the crowds thinned and the trail became less urban. We even stopped to pick a few raspberries just off the path.

We were especially excited to come upon the little red lighthouse by the bridge–the only lighthouse left in Manhattan–something we’d only read about. Looking back at the city, we were somewhat surprised about how far it seemed. And yet in minutes we were back.