Biking Frees My Soul
Biking frees my soul.
Learning to ride a bike as a kid was wildly exciting and lit up my courage. I built a mighty sweat from a quiet commitment. In college, I was the first woman to cross the finish line at my very first bike race, where I gave my all through the mile-long ride, super-sprinting for the final 100 yards. Is this my talent, I wondered? Could this joy make me fly? When I first moved to New York City in my 20’s, I was the only woman out there commuting with the bike messengers. Biking brought out the best in me every single day, no matter what age appropriate miseries filled my post-adolescent world of seeking happiness in all the wrong places.
Urban cycling’s dabblers have joined the devotees, pouring onto the streets in the past few years, exploding onto the scene with the enchantment of easy rentals for all. Docking stations are springing up everywhere but I prefer the ultra-convenience of saddling up my very own steed and hitching it to the street sign nearest my destination. Newbies rent but owners rule. Still, it’s nice to finally have some company out there. The proliferation of new bike lanes adds a red carpet VIP vibe, as I zip through the city on those glorious green painted pathways, strewn with pigeons feasting on last night’s restaurant remains and shattered glass, flanked by a row of parked cars that shelter us from the high-speed city traffic.
Commuting by bike is a lifestyle — like being vegetarian or a surfer. It’s part of an ecological mindset that helps reduce my size 10, carbon footprint. Public transportation provides me a solid back-up but it’s a distant second choice. Of course when I’m tired or I get a flat tire, I give myself total permission to grab a cab for an occasional gas-guzzling indulgence. But mostly I bike everywhere and do my part to green-ify this wacky ward as a good citizen of the planet.
Quick, cheap and reliable, biking is by far the best way to get around the city. I can accurately estimate door-to-door travel time. At a reasonably safe speed it takes about 30 seconds for each street block, one minute for each avenue block, five minutes for each elevator and less than a minute to lock up the bike. My work trip is about 30 minutes — forty blocks and 2 elevators. If I push through the lights, I can shave off 10 minutes.
Once you buy the bike and some high-end locks, the only costs are replacing inner tubes, tires, brake pads and cables, which runs between $50 and $150 a year. Bells and fenders generally disappear within a week or two so I’ve finally stopped replacing them. I once had some mischievous misanthropes steal my brake pads and cut my cables, which I only discovered on my way home from work, at the first red light. I do wish them peace, but only after they lose control at their own intersection when their brakes fail, they get some serious road rash and a passing truck crushes their favorite bikes, as they narrowly escape with brains intact.
The whole purpose of riding a bike in the city is to be healthy. But just last night, I saw a restaurant delivery guy on his electric bike, living the high life, lazy-ing through the streets letting the motor do the work. He’s not getting even the tiniest bit of exercise. That’s exactly how people get heart attacks. When we were stopped at the light together, I tried encouraging him to get a regular bike, wear a helmet and put out that cigarette he artfully dangled between his teeth. But he just smiled at me — like I’M the crazy one.
So except for the bloodsucking vandals, ridiculous reality-rejecting delivery guys, road-raging drivers and leash-less dogs dashing across my path, biking offers amazing health benefits and satisfies my animal cravings for sunlight, fresh air and moderate daily exercise.
It’s not a fancy way of travel. I don’t feel like a princess. But I have, at times…imagined myself gliding through a European countryside, receiving respectful Italian catcalls from local farmers offering the fruits of their labor with a raised glass of mountain-aerated Chianti Classico, tilted as I pass. Sometimes it’s Merlot, en France. Or Rioja, en España.
And then I wake up from my well-deserved, micro-psychotic mini stay-cation to screaming pedestrians and pulsing car horns.
I’m constantly snapping to attention with near misses, as my life passes before my eyes. Dangers dart out at every corner. Be present or die. Avoid the dreaded brain bleed. I’m just a distracted blink away from a decapitating disaster. Cycling in New York City is perilous business and if you want to stay alive, you need to keep calm, clear-headed and alert to everything and everyone around you, anticipating any stupid move someone else could make. It’s on you to make sure the drivers see you, day and night. Use that outdoor voice, “Hey!!!” or “On your left!” I do try to startle people just a little but not sound angry, which could ruin someone’s day. I know everyone’s in their own world and it’s jarring to have to consider others when you’d rather space out. Try to always wear flashing lights, reflective stickers and bright colored clothing. Because if others don’t see you and they accidentally hit you, you’re dead. You might have had the right of way but you’re still dead. Life demands total vigilance.
My dear fellow road warriors in training: beware sudden-opening car doors. It’s not that these door-openers are bad people — just pathetically self-absorbed, spiritually bankrupt citizens lost in their own worlds. Killers. Frackers.
Fair weather riding intoxicates me when the sun shines warm on my skin. Rain and snow that is less than three inches invigorate me and strengthen my gusto to remain undeterred in my discipline.
By the way, try to heed blizzard warnings as a wake-up call to leave the bike home. Because even if the day starts off lovely, the ride home may end up being completely thwarted by snowy white mounds of mayhem or slushy ice dunes and the bus drivers won’t always let your bike aboard even if you beg.
And while we’re on the subject, winter biking may not be an Olympic sport, but it’s amazing, if you’re dressed right. I’ve got this lightweight backpack poncho that keeps my stuff dry-ish and a waterproof rain jacket that goes over the backpack for extra coverage, although it looks like I have a huge humpback. It’s not beautiful, I know, but still I can’t help but get a little insulted when instead of dreamy Italian catcalls, smiling pedestrians catch my eye to sing me the Wizard of Oz Wicked-Witch-of-the-West theme song. They laugh like we’re fast friends sharing a joke or a secret love for a great film. Sometimes people should just keep their musical free associations to themselves.
But that’s ok because biking brings back my bliss. I just pull on my waterproof rain pants or my knee length flair skirt with elastic waistband to protect my office attire. Hats, scarves, gloves, and a helmet, with lights on the top, front and back and I’m set. I’m glowing like a firefly, working like a honeybee and dressed up like a ladybug. I’m a force of nature.
My back-burner dream is to design a line of functional yet fabulous clothing for stylish bike commuters and exercise-minded environmental activists-on-wheels, like me. I’ve developed a few ensembles just in my head that could some day turn into my retirement business. And then I’ll be rich and take all the taxis I want, preferably hydrogen-cell or solar-fueled, with water as the only emission.
Until then, I swallow my pride and look however I look. Do you think anybody cared if Mother Teresa’s upper arms were toned as she held the babies in the leper colonies? So forget how you look, do kind things and whenever you can, bike!
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If you enjoyed this, please let me know with a heart. You can also read some of my other pieces at Medium: Falling in Love — Part 1: The Meeting; “Now…”, “Learning Spanish”, “Coffee and Change”, “The Door Won’t Shut”, “Sweet Goodbyes”, “To Cook or Not To Cook: That is the Question”,“Ignorance. Incompetence. Arrogance.” and “No Feelings. No Reaction. Just Breathe.”
