Shifting gears
Not that I needed one more reason to feel morally superior to, well, everyone, but I started using my bike as transportation last summer. I bring this up now, in the midst of all this holiday falderal, because my bike just went down into the basement for the winter with this first snow of the season.
And I already miss it.
It all started as something of a lark. John and I had rented bikes while visiting friends on the Cape last summer and decided we should ride bikes at home, too. This, despite the fact that I tipped over – no, I didn’t fall; I tipped over – while waiting to cross the road. (I neglected to take my feet out of the toe clips.)
For those of you who don’t know, Cape Cod is crisscrossed with miles and miles of bike paths. It’s also crawling with loads and loads of tourists, who flout bicycle etiquette as freely as they do the rules of the road. With only minutes of riding under my belt, I became a self-appointed trail deputy, barking commands – “Single file!” “No stopping on the bridge!” – as I rode. My bike was equipped with a Rollo-shaped bell that sang out with a loud ping each time I hit the hammer, which was frequently. Ping! “Passing on your left.” Ping! “I like the flowers in your basket.” Ping! Ping! Ping! “Look, Ma, no hands! I’m riding a –”
Thunk. (One of the things I quickly learned is to not combine other pastimes – such as birding – with bike-riding.)
Nonetheless, we were hooked.
When we got home, John set about researching and shopping for a bike, eventually settling on a hybrid road model. I brought mine – a mountain bike I purchased 10 years ago and never rode – up from the basement. John started riding after work. I would’ve joined him, but that would’ve cut into my porch-beer time. However, on weekend mornings, we’d ride into town for Coffee Date.
Getting used to being on a bike was one thing (need I spell out the details of bike-butt here?), but navigating Portland’s city streets was something else entirely. I couldn’t quite remember the hand signals, which was fine if John was leading, since he knew them. (If I couldn’t mimic him, I’d just waggle my arm and hope for the best.) I also couldn’t remember to downshift when coming to a stoplight, which meant I needed to use Herculean strength to get my keister moving in the middle of traffic once the light changed. Plus, while there are plenty of bike lanes in Portland, some of them just mysteriously end, like the one coming from Baxter Boulevard, around Preble Street Extension, and past the Back Cove Hannaford. There’s a nice turning lane coming off the boulevard, but once you’re approaching the intersection at Marginal Way, the lane just ends with nothing more than a “Good luck to ya.” I now navigate that turn onto Marginal like a pro, but it was a little dicey for a novice who only recently had the sense to put her feet on the ground when stopping.
At first, riding made me feel all peace-n-lovey – “Hi, everyone. Look at me. I’m reducing my miniscule carbon footprint even further.” I started riding my bike to the gym (duh), to the store, and even to the Deering Oaks farmers market on Saturdays, after which John and I headed down to Commercial Street to have our coffee, pick up a baguette at Standard, and shop at Miccuci’s. We had become the kind of couple I loved to hate, precious and twee, with just a smidge of smugness; the kind of couple I ordinarily would’ve wanted to push in the duck pond. I’m not even going to tell you about the sunflowers sticking out of the day pack on my back. “Oh, yoo-hoo, J. Crew photographer. Over here!”
But it didn’t take long for my joy-to-the-world to fade and morph into the same attitude I had on the trails of Cape Cod. Because you know what riding a bike teaches you? That people are really, really stupid. Like the stupid broad in the giant SUV who abruptly stops and parks in the bike lane on Baxter Boulevard because she sees a yard sale. Or the people with baby-joggers running two and three astride across Tukeys Bridge who are so busy gabbing they don’t hear “In front of you!” until you are upon them. Or the dolt with the dog who darts out into your path from between parked cars. Or the drivers who swing open their doors, back out, turn, stop or start without looking. John mounted a bell on my bike for me, but I was too busy flipping people off to use it.
We spent the summer and fall exploring routes all over town (up Danforth from St. John is a particularly unexpected killer; make sure you hold your breath when riding past the poop factory on the East End trail). Still, my favorite destination was the gym – call it a double shot of smug. While everyone else was jostling to get their gas guzzlers as close to the door as they possibly could, I’d glide up on my bike in a swirl of carbon credits. “Hello, polluters!” I wanted to shout, but then that would go against my “cone of silence” gym rule: Talk to no one, and no one talks to you. In any case, I was more of a bike girl than a gym girl now.
That’s because being on a bike affects you. One of the most profound realizations I had was the discovery of a sort of bike-world secret club on the streets of Portland. I’m not talking about the hardcore riders who travel in annoying pods down Commercial Street or around Back Cove blocking traffic. I’m talking about regular riders who give each other knowing looks and waves in passing.
For example, John and I had been going to Portland Coffee Roasters every weekend for years (don’t worry, Mary Allen, it’s still Coffee By Design on weekdays), and none of the other regulars – many of whom arrive on bikes – ever seemed to even see us. Then, one morning, we were sitting out front with one of the PCR-denizen star riders, and I decided to break the ice. A friend had recently made fun of me at a party because he’d seen me cycling around Back Cove wearing a helmet, so I wanted a pro’s opinion. Our soon-to-be-new bike friend told me he always wore one. In fact, he said he’d just recently wiped out and smashed his helmet instead of his skull. We three had a nice chat, and then rode off on our separate ways. The next time we were there, another bike guy struck up a conversation with us. And the following weekend, another one. John would get knowing nods on his after-work rides. I got the one-finger wave from a fella I passed almost at the same spot on Reed Street every morning. We had crossed some sort of threshold. We had been taken into the fold.
And now that fold is folded up for the season. Our now-old bike friend, Jim, tells us he rides all winter. I’m sure some of these other guys do, too. To tell you the truth, I never paid much attention. But I will now.
These are my people, and I really want you to stay out of our way.
If you see Elizabeth Peavey cross-country skiing to Gritty’s this winter, please push her into a snow bank. What’s next? Kayaking?
