At noon, the day after a sold-out show at New York's Roseland Ballroom, Sting sits on a bench in Central Park overlooking an empty baseball field. Dressed in blue sweatpants and a white T-shirt, he stretches his legs in preparation for his daily bike ride from his Central Park West apartment up through Harlem. "I'll sing on my bike while no one is listening," he says. "I'll just vocalize, make up melodies and sometimes think of a song. I like forward momentum. Perhaps its anxiety, perhaps its fear, but it becomes an addiction after a while. As I get older, I think I'm going to have to settle down at some point..."
