The Arrival
New Year’s Day 2026 arrived on Fire Island with the kind of weather that separates casual riders from the committed. The sky was pale, the wind relentless, and the temperature firmly reminded everyone that winter still ruled the calendar. Yet as the sun climbed slowly over the Atlantic, a group of fat bike riders rolled their wide tires onto the sand, ready to welcome the new year the only way that felt right—by riding it.
The route was ambitious and familiar to those who know Fire Island well: ten miles east along the beach to the heliport, six miles back through the island’s quiet towns to Ocean Beach, a stop at CJ’s Restaurant and Bar, and then a final four-mile push back to the parking lot. Twenty miles total, half of it completely exposed to the elements, with no shelter from the wind and no shortcut home. (Actually, there are plenty of points along the way where you can head inland and ride back to Ocean Beach. This allows everyone to ride what is comfortable and safe for them individually).
Outward Bound
From the start, the cold made itself known. Faces were wrapped in buffs, goggles fogged with breath, and hands disappeared into thick gloves and bar mitts, gripping handlebars already stiff from the chill. The wind blew hard out of the northwest, cutting across the beach, slightly at our back and turning every pedal stroke into a small test of resolve. Fat bikes, built for conditions like this, floated over the sand, their wide tires humming as they tracked steadily along the shoreline.
The first ten miles out to the heliport felt shorter than the number suggested, thanks to a little help from the wind. Waves crashed nearby, sending salt spray into the air, while gulls hovered low, seemingly unimpressed by the human effort unfolding below them. Conversation were all around, the camaraderie on a ride like this is overwhelming, as you may not have seen the rider next to you for months. Around mile 6, I fixed my eyes toward the ocean, kept silent, and fell into a trance as the waves rhythmically crashed along my left. Taking a quick brake around mile 8, I looked back and saw only 1 rider (visibility was lower than normal due to the blowing sand). I front of me was the lead group. I thought to myself, that was odd. I figured everyone else dropped off and headed for CJ’s. I saddled up and pressed on the next couple of miles.
The Helipad
Reaching the heliport brought a sense of accomplishment and relief. It marked the destination, the symbolic halfway moment when riders would gather and toast the New Year with spirits and food. Then I had a weird sensation, there was no one there. I was confused, a few tracks in the sand but no other riders.
I was all alone, but not to be discouraged, I huddled along side the helipad, using it as a wind break. Sitting on the sand and enjoying the sunshine, I toasted the new year all by myself. Ten minutes or so passed and as I started cleaning up, suddenly, here they came. Slowly, one by one, reaching the destination. (I would later find out that the lead group did a few extra miles and passed the heliport.)
Out came the food, the conversations resumed, the spirits were poured and the toasting commenced. We didn’t stay as long as we usually do, as the cold weather can take its toll. We mounted back up, and began navigating through the beach communities that make Fire Island famous.
The return route cut inland through the local towns, where the island felt completely different. Empty boardwalks stretched between dunes, houses stood shuttered and silent, and the streets were deserted. Winter strips Fire Island down to its essentials, and riding through the towns on New Year’s Day felt like moving through a place paused in time.
Rolling into Ocean Beach marked another transition point. CJ’s Restaurant and Bar stood out as a warm, familiar landmark, a beacon for tired riders. Bikes were leaned against railings, helmets came off, and stiff fingers slowly came back to life. Inside, the warmth and noise provided a sharp contrast to the cold wind outside. Ahhhh. Hot food felt good as it warmed the body. More conversation, more toasts, lots of laughter and darts flying through the air. A perfect way for fat bike riders to usher in the New Year. This was the 10th year this group had done a New Years Day ride, for me, it was my 5th. A cherished tradition indeed.
The final four miles back to the parking lot tested whatever energy remained. Legs were heavy now, and the cold seemed sharper than it had in the morning. Yet there was something easier about this stretch. The hardest miles were behind us, and every turn of the pedals brought the finish closer. The wind, blowing in our face, not quite as hostile.
As the ride came to an end, bikes were loaded, layers were shed, and tired smiles appeared. The New Year’s Day fat bike ride wasn’t about speed or competition. It was about starting the year with intention, grit, and a willingness to face discomfort head-on. Fire Island, in its winter form, provided the perfect backdrop—beautiful, unforgiving, and honest.
For those who rode it, January 1, 2026 wasn’t just another cold day on the calendar. It was a reminder that the year ahead, like the ride itself, would include headwinds, long miles, and moments when quitting might seem easier. But it would also include camaraderie, natural beauty, and the deep satisfaction that comes from seeing something through, one mile at a time.
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