I belong.
In preparation for my formal entrance in the world of part-time bicycle commuters, I took a "halfway to work and back" ride last weekend, to get a better sense of the blind commitment I'd made. I never wear skirts in real life but it seemed very Portlandish in that moment, the better to straddle the U-frame of my neo-post-retro-modern commuter bike (atop totally inappropriate footwear, of course). I reduced the route to four short lines on a paper scrap, filled an Aquafina bottle with tap water and grabbed my keys.
Seeing my helmeted & backpacked self in the mirror, the picture of a visible & responsible eco-commuter, I felt confident. Reflecting on all of the cyclists I know who've been hit by cars or know people who've been hit by cars, though, I got nervous. It was noon on a Saturday--I was completely visible in broad daylight, right? But people in cars do stupid things every hour of the day. Gabbing on their phone or to a passenger, distracted. Had that one-more-can't-hurt mimosa at brunch that makes every right turn a race against themselves. I gripped my keys too tightly, my imminent death expressed as merely a minor statistical uptick in next week's paper. Helmet on, off, on, off... In the end, though, the memory of my signed credit slip won out. I slipped the scribbled route into my left bra cup and locked the door behind me. To win or to lose, I was in it.
69th to Davis to Everett to 41st is a beautiful route, explicitly flagged for cyclists and full of shady trees. For the first 20 blocks I passed more cyclists than cars and I abandoned my fear to the rhythm of slippered feet pushing us (my bike and I) over blocks that in nine years of loving this neighborhood I'd never once driven. The slight downhill grade protected my armpits as it propelled us (me and my confidence) out of Mt. Tabor and into Laurelhurst and over Burnside, through that new bike crossing that I suddenly understood as more than just an occasional inconvenience to motorists on their way home from a long day at work.
Laurelhurst Park looks greener from a bicycle. Passing by at weekend speed, it's hard not to tuck into the moody, old-growth trees and sprawl out on the lawn with a book and a beer. Having neither and heeding the call of my mission, I borrowed an inch of new serenity and carried on, dodging a convertible whose driver was clearly as nature-drunk as I. And then I hit the hill.
4th gear. 3rd. 2nd. 1st, just as I was reaching the top and trying to act all cool and fit for a trio of older folks in a Benz who likely didn't care either way. But I cared. This was my debutante ball, my quincenera, and I was going to make it if it killed me (or barfed, whichever came first). I huffed it the last few blocks to 32nd, popped the kickstand under a massive shade tree and downed half of my water. A few other bikers sped by as I stood, heaving, sweating into the waistband of my cute little skirt, proud.
The ride home was damp and uneventful, save the few rest stops I made in welcoming shady spots when the slight but persistent uphill climb got the better of me. Peeling off my backpack, I admired the soggy blotches its straps had left on both shirt sleeves, short-lived battle scars of my first attempt at bike-commuterism. I smiled and took a shower.
The actual ride to Old Town and back still lies ahead, but I've been halfway there.
In preparation for my formal entrance in the world of part-time bicycle commuters, I took a "halfway to work and back" ride last weekend, to get a better sense of the blind commitment I'd made. I never wear skirts in real life but it seemed very Portlandish in that moment, the better to straddle the U-frame of my neo-post-retro-modern commuter bike (atop totally inappropriate footwear, of course). I reduced the route to four short lines on a paper scrap, filled an Aquafina bottle with tap water and grabbed my keys.
Seeing my helmeted & backpacked self in the mirror, the picture of a visible & responsible eco-commuter, I felt confident. Reflecting on all of the cyclists I know who've been hit by cars or know people who've been hit by cars, though, I got nervous. It was noon on a Saturday--I was completely visible in broad daylight, right? But people in cars do stupid things every hour of the day. Gabbing on their phone or to a passenger, distracted. Had that one-more-can't-hurt mimosa at brunch that makes every right turn a race against themselves. I gripped my keys too tightly, my imminent death expressed as merely a minor statistical uptick in next week's paper. Helmet on, off, on, off... In the end, though, the memory of my signed credit slip won out. I slipped the scribbled route into my left bra cup and locked the door behind me. To win or to lose, I was in it.
69th to Davis to Everett to 41st is a beautiful route, explicitly flagged for cyclists and full of shady trees. For the first 20 blocks I passed more cyclists than cars and I abandoned my fear to the rhythm of slippered feet pushing us (my bike and I) over blocks that in nine years of loving this neighborhood I'd never once driven. The slight downhill grade protected my armpits as it propelled us (me and my confidence) out of Mt. Tabor and into Laurelhurst and over Burnside, through that new bike crossing that I suddenly understood as more than just an occasional inconvenience to motorists on their way home from a long day at work.
Laurelhurst Park looks greener from a bicycle. Passing by at weekend speed, it's hard not to tuck into the moody, old-growth trees and sprawl out on the lawn with a book and a beer. Having neither and heeding the call of my mission, I borrowed an inch of new serenity and carried on, dodging a convertible whose driver was clearly as nature-drunk as I. And then I hit the hill.
4th gear. 3rd. 2nd. 1st, just as I was reaching the top and trying to act all cool and fit for a trio of older folks in a Benz who likely didn't care either way. But I cared. This was my debutante ball, my quincenera, and I was going to make it if it killed me (or barfed, whichever came first). I huffed it the last few blocks to 32nd, popped the kickstand under a massive shade tree and downed half of my water. A few other bikers sped by as I stood, heaving, sweating into the waistband of my cute little skirt, proud.
The ride home was damp and uneventful, save the few rest stops I made in welcoming shady spots when the slight but persistent uphill climb got the better of me. Peeling off my backpack, I admired the soggy blotches its straps had left on both shirt sleeves, short-lived battle scars of my first attempt at bike-commuterism. I smiled and took a shower.
The actual ride to Old Town and back still lies ahead, but I've been halfway there.
1 Comments:
you go girl! I know, such a prolific statement.
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