There’s no wrapping it up on the island. It’s not tropical. I cross over a bridge to drive here, bike here. Some days I swim here, too.

It’s Grand Island. Originally home to Seneca tribes, who called it “Ga-we-not,” meaning “great island.” Surrounded by the Niagara River. According to Google, it’s an island that was created “to make a new World Peace Capital on the international border between Southern Ontario, Canada and Western New York.”

I can see the other side of the river when I ride. There’s a parallel bike path. Wide. With the cleanest surface: no bumps on the road.

It’s not a far drive from where I live. Where I live, I can ride my bike a mile in traffic before finding Rails to Trails. It can get narrow, with lots of streets to cross, with cars and drivers who sometimes are not friendly.

I prefer to take my car here. I can put my ElliptiGO in my car. I put a rug over it, and on top of that, my tri bike.

Across the river sits Canada. It would be so easy to swim there. I see boats all the time. There are parts so close where I can even see a road, moving cars.

I park my car in its usual spot. Today, I’m due to ride five hours. I’m meeting my friend Fay. She’s already been here for two. She’s qualified again for the World Ironman Championships in Kona.

When she finds me, she asks to use my bike pump. Tune-it-up, I say. I have to use the bathroom.

It’s a port-a-potty. Not quite anyone’s salvation.

We ride, catching up with each other on the saddle. We pass families of geese, stop to let a fawn sprint, are in awe of the young pro athlete who keeps whirling by. He’s 27. I know who he is. I follow him on Strava.

He waves at us the first couple times. Later I find out he did 140 miles. Fay did just over a hundred. Little me? I haven’t quite made ninety.