It had been years since I’d sat on that saddle, but there didn’t seem to be any other option. Manhattan is mostly flat, but the bridge that takes you there — the Manhattan Bridge — is a mini mountain, sloping up toward its apex for what feels like an eternity.

My first attempt to summit was a dismal failure. I was gasping for air after only a few moments and had to dismount and walk, dragging those two wheels behind me.

Some days, as I huffed my way over that bridge, my eyes would fill with tears. Other days I would arrive at the bridge’s foot in a full-fledged panic attack, sobbing on the phone to whatever friend would answer. It was too long and high, and I was too tired and weak. That damn bridge, like my life, felt insurmountable.

When I would get to the top, I’d sometimes idly wonder about throwing myself off. It wouldn’t have been easy. A seven-foot-high fence lines both sides. But, hey, I had already reached the summit. What was another seven feet? Everything hurt. My muscles ached. My head throbbed. My heart was broken.

At home, things weren’t going much better. I had tracked down old contractors who had worked on the house during its 22-year vacancy. They told me the home was cursed and regaled me with stories of those who had tried to move in over the years, only to watch their lives implode.

I believed every word. Their warnings replayed in my head as I rode my bicycle.

There is a meditative quality to being on a bicycle. You must focus on the chaos that seems to envelop you. Drivers cut you off, swerving into the bike lane. Pedestrians insist on standing in the road while waiting for the light to change.