View from the cheap seats

19 rows from the top at Arthur Ashe stadium, we watched Federer give Blake a beating at the US Open. The fan experience at the US Open is very nice. The grounds are pretty, there are plenty of food stands, and the line for the men's room is just as long as the line for the women's room. One maintenance worker eyed the line for the men's room, and hollered, "Fellas, if you shake it more than twice you're playing with it!"

Blake came out hot and brought the first set to a tiebreaker, which he lost. The crowd got behind Blake, and you could tell he fed off their emotion. Federer was cool, detached, professional, as beautiful an athlete as Jordan in his prime, Montana on a great game day, Armstrong when he's on form.

While it was fun to watch the tennis, it was even better to watch the people. Every five minutes or so, a distinguished couple from Westchester county would come up the stairs, and look up. A look of shock and horror would come over the face of the women who wondered how on earth she could be up here in the nosebleeds. Surely this was a mistake, isn't there an upgrade available? Do you know who I am?

The other New Yorkers in the stands know who you are. You're the one person blocking the view of the match so SIDDOWN! In the cheap seats, a fair amount of seat hopping goes on, and I had to toss one gentleman out of my seat. He went quietly.

After the match, we walked out to the parking lot to find a car and it was as if there was a bizarre, nocturnal driver's convention. There were hundreds of guys standing around with signs with names on them. Very interesting.

Yesterday, at the end of the day, we went to take a car up to the hotel. Much to my surprise, my bike didn't fit in the trunk of the Lincoln, so Dave took the car and I rode my bike. We declared it a race, from Canal Street to East 45th. I told the driver of the car that if I won, Dave's ride was free. The driver did not laugh.

No doubt, for the first 20 blocks, the car got the better of me. After all, he had a head start, as I was putting on my shoes on the sidewalk when he left. Then the traffic became stop and go, and I just went. I flew up the bike path to 46th street, and then pulled back on the throttle for the journey cross town. By the time Dave got there, I had already checked into the hotel.

When you arrive at a hotel with no bags, on a bike, they want to see the credit card and they want to see a photo ID.

This morning's commute was just as eventful as yesterday Intra Borough Challenge. I was riding along the West Side Highway bike path, when I saw a woman on a mountain bike hit a patch of dirt ahead of me, and go down with authority. When she popped back up, it was revealed she lost a third of her front tooth, had a couple of scrapes, and a good bit of road rash, and a fat lip. She was shaken up, so after another cyclist cleaned off her cuts with a water bottle, I gave her four Advil, and set out to find a cab, as she was in no shape to ride or walk.

When you hail a cab from a bicycle in New York, no one stops. No one wants to help. The guy driving the Pedi Cab bicycle, a taxi that is really a bicycle that the driver pedals refused to help, saying, "Hey, if I get hit, nobody will help me." Even the cops didn't want to help, but I shamed them into it.

They agreed to follow me to the girl. I thought I was clipped into my pedal, but when I stepped on it, I slipped out, and cut the flesh on the back of my right leg with the big ring on the front of the bike. Ah, no good deed goes unpunished.

Fortunately, the editor has a first-rate first-aid kit. I scrubbed the holes vigorously, applied hydrogen peroxide, first-aid cream, and a bandage. I think that should do it.