If riding a motorcycle on a rush-hour freeway in Seattle was my high school graduation, and doing the same on a Friday night in Chicago was my undergraduate degree, then think of New York City as the bar exam.

I wasn’t looking forward to it.

Harley and I had pulled up short of “the masts of Manahatta” (as Walt Whitman used to call the already formidable New York cityscape 150 years ago) to devise our plan of attack. Well, more than just short of New York. We were like in a different state.

Stamford, Connecticut, actually.

But that’s only 30 miles away, which to a New York commuter is like the short grass at the edge of the green, a mere chip shot away. Enter the on-ramp to I-95 south to New York City there and you immediately feel the gravitational pull of some eight million residents three townships away. Five miles farther, the highway pulses with energy and direction and purpose and there is no escaping it.

Fortunately, I already knew this.

I’d driven into Manhattan a couple times before in a car (assisted by the helpful counsel of other members of my family). So I knew about the tunnels and bridges and sudden lane changes and high-voltage on-ramps and off-ramps that at any single instant could send you flying off like a free electron to New Jersey. And did I mention the drivers?

So I studied our options. I don’t have a GPS system with the self-assured voice of some British actress telling me just when and where to turn.  That would be convenient, but on a motorcycle a talking GPS would require a wireless Bluetooth headset installed in your helmet, which is fairly spendy, and not exactly in the open-road spirit of our trip.

What I can do when I’m parked, however, is pull out my smart phone — which has non-audio GPS capabilities — and google some directions. Of course on an inner-city freeway, you can’t pull over. So I googled all the directions beforehand and wrote them down on a large envelope that I placed inside the clear plastic window of the map holder that’s attached to the top of Harley’s gas tank.

Then I proceeded to memorize all the directions. Every exit number, every highway change, every lane shift, every street name — from my hotel in Stamford to my destination on Broadway. I did so because there would be no glancing down at the fine print on a piece of paper while biking into the void at 60 mph.

But my greatest strategy was the timing of our approach.  I’d reached Stamford in the early evening Friday. Conceivably I could have just kept going — if I was a glutton for punishment. Instead I decided to get an affordable hotel in Stamford, a good night’s rest, then launch out toward town at dawn, while New York was still hung over from all its debaucheries the night before.

That was the plan, at least. But it didn’t quite go like that. I overslept a little. Then I had a nice breakfast. Then I decided to repack my gear in a more city-friendly fashion. By the time Harley and I were finally on our way, it was mid-morning and the greyhounds of commerce had already filled the freeway.

When I was a boy in Southern California, I was taught that you’re supposed to allow one car length between you and the vehicle in front of you for every 10 mph of speed you’re traveling. So. Sixty miles per hour requires a six-car-length stopping-buffer — you know, in case you don’t want to hit the car in front of you when someone brakes.

But for the drivers rushing into New York City, there is no speed that requires more than one car length of separation. And when they decide to pass you, they’re ready to pull back into your lane when they’re no more than a half-car length ahead — as if they see themselves as some kind of graceful slalom skier, and you’re just a pole or a gate they wouldn’t mind knocking over.

So it was exciting times from the very start. Then the road hazards began. Broken pavement. Sudden lane closures. A big bag of trash I had to dodge in an eye-blink. Bumpy road seams where overpasses and bridge spans had begun to pull apart, jolting Harvey’s suspension every 10 to 20 meters, tightening my hands on the grips.

Eventually, though, I spotted it: I-278 West, the first of my memorized route shifts. Then five miles later, on cue, the exit for FDR Drive. Which suddenly headed like a roller-coaster up the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge.

“Keep left!” I told myself. “There’s a fork coming up around that curve.”

And there was — and we took it. And suddenly we disappeared inside what appeared to be some dark lower level of a parking garage where cars are allowed to drive 50 mph and which seemed to go on for miles. Until finally there was daylight. And then we were out, and there it was: Exit 7 to East 23rd Street. We took it.

“But don’t take East 23rd!” I quickly reminded myself. “Turn right on East 25th — then a fast left at 2nd Avenue.”

Suddenly we came to a stop at a traffic light. And all was well. And a couple blocks farther on, after a turn or two, miracle of miracles, we found a street-side place to park just a couple blocks off Broadway. Where the autumn sun was shining handsomely on Saturday in the City.

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