WHY JOHN F. KENNEDY JR. IS NOT A BICYCLE BOY

"Riding a bike is not necessarily a power move," said Mr. Eccles. "It's best done by power people like George Plimpton. Otherwise, you have to hide your bike around the corner and surreptitiously take your trousers out of your socks." Bicycle Boys don't ride their bikes for sport, like those silly guys you see riding around and around the park. They ride partly for transportation and, more important, to preserve a literary boyhood. Think of twilight at Oxford, riding over the cobblestones while a woman waits down by the Cherwell River, wearing a flowing dress, clasping a volume of Yeats. That's how Bicycle Boys think of themselves as they pedal Manhattan, dodging cabbies and potholes. While John F. Kennedy Jr. is certainly New York 's most famous and sought-after bike-riding bachelor, his rippled athleticism disqualifies him for Bicycle Boydom. Because a Bicycle Boy would rather bike through midtown in a seersucker suit than in shorts and a chest-hugging tee. And Bicycle Boys spurn those skintight bike pants that have cushy foam padding sewn into the butt. Bicycle Boys are not averse to the chastising pain of a hard bike seat—it helps the literature. "I don't own any spandex pants," said Mr. New Yorker, who added that he wears long Johns in the winter to keep warm.

Which may be one reason Bicycle Boys, more than their athletic cousins, tend to get physically attacked. The other reason is that they ride at any hour (the later the better— more romantic), in any physical condition, anywhere.

"Drunks roar out of their windows at night to send you into a

tailspin," said Mr. Eccles. And worse.

One Halloween, Mr. New Yorker was wearing a British bobby's cape when he rode into a group of twelve year olds who yanked him off his bike. "I said, 'I can't fight all of you at once. I'll fight one of you. They all stepped back, except for the biggest one. I suddenly realized I didn't want to fight him, either." The whole gang jumped on Mr. New Yorker and began pounding him, until some innocent bystanders started screaming and the gang ran away. "I was lucky," said Mr. New Yorker. "They didn't take my bike, but they did take some records I had in my basket." (Note that Mr. New Yorker was carrying "records," as in vinyl albums, not CDs— another sign of a true Bicycle Boy.)

Mr. Eccles recalled a similar story. "Two days ago, I was riding through Central Park at ten at night, when I was surrounded by a 'wilding' gang on rollerblades. "They were almost children. They tried to capture me in a flank maneuver, but I was able to bicycle away even faster."

But an even bigger danger is sex, as a reporter we'll call Chester found out. Chester doesn't ride his bike as much as he used to because, about a year ago, he had a bad cycling accident after a romantic interlude. He was writing a story on topless dancers when he struck up a friendship with Lola. Maybe Lola fancied herself a Marilyn Monroe to his Arthur Miller. Who knows. All Chester knows is that one evening she called him up and said she was lying around in her bed at Trump Palace, and could he come over. He hopped on his bike and was there in fifteen minutes. They went at it for three hours. Then she said he had to leave because she lived with someone and the guy was coming home. Any minute.

Chester ran out of the building and jumped on his bike, but there was a problem. His legs were so shaky from having sex they started cramping up just as he was going down Murray Hill, and he crashed over the curb and slid across the pavement. "It really hurt," he said. "When your skin is scraped off like that, it's like a first-degree burn." Luckily, his nipple did eventually grow back.