*** JONNY'S BIKING PIECES ***

image
A holiday biking poem

Here's hoping in this festive season,
that the pavement beneath you be dry and the air in your lungs be clean;
that your bike remain trusty,
and your butt stay lean.

That your chain be perfectly lubed,
and your gear ratios just right;
that your nether regions remain sensitive;
and your blinky light shine bright.

That your bike rides be speedy,
and your burritos be filling;
that your beer be cold and delicious,
and your legs keep on willing.

That your high-protein energy bars,
not be too gross or chunky;
and that the insides of your water bottles,
not be too funky.

That your tires have plenty of tread left,
because you're not doing too much skidding;
and that your jeans aren't too tight -
don't think i'm kidding.

That your calves feel limber,
and your knees not be creaky;
that all of your fingers stay warm,
and that your brakes aren't squeaky.

That your coffee be potent,
and your road rash be healing;
and that your new team-issued lycra uniform,
not be too revealing.

That no cop ever sees you,
running red lights;
and that if you get caught,
you know all of your rights.

That not every car
honks as it passes,
lest you're led to believe -
all of them: asses!

That the guys in your local bike shop,
don't think they're too cool -
arrogant hipsters charging too much,
thinking everyone a fool.

That digital shifting,
not lead you astray;
nor carbon-fiber gizmos,
consume all of your pay.

That your spokes don't break,
and your wheels stay true;
and your ears don't freeze,
and you lips don't turn blue.

That your pant legs stay clean,
and your armpits stay dry;
and you always ride with a helmet,
or at least you try.

That there's always enough room,
to squeeze through traffic jams;
while avoiding cab doors,
and foreign tourists wandering aimlessly like lambs.

That you're not plagued by flat tires,
or a rattly chain;
or old rusting cables,
or a bent frame.

That your rims aren't dinged,
and your headset doesn't jiggle;
and your cleats aren't worn out,
and your axles don't wiggle.

That all winter long,
pedaling mile after mile,
you feel so alive,
that you can't help but smile.

And that one of these days,
you'll ride over here;
because, dear friend,
I miss having you near.

***

A bicycle prayer

I beseech You, Lord of the Velorution,

Give us this day our daily burrito and restore our leg muscles, such that our godly bicycle riding can continue gracefully and safely under Thy protection, Amen.

May You not allow our rears not grow numb nor sore nor weary, nor allow our joints to become weak nor misaligned nor inflamed, nor allow our muscles to become hot nor achy nor spent nor any other condition but strong and limber;

May You provide clean, fresh air to pass through our mouths and throats and lungs, such that they not burn nor parch nor become otherwise weary;

May You protect our bicycles from squeaky brakes, broken chains, loose headsets, misaligned gears, and other pestilent mechanical troubles;

May You keep our wheels true and round, and our tires inflated;

May You keep the pavement, in its durable glory, smooth and dry and free of sand and leaves and pebbles and broken glass and puddles and potholes and other such vexations of the modern world, and keep our lanes sufficiently wide and well marked;

May You protect our bikes from thieves and villains;

May You remind us of those who have fallen, and encourage us to assist fellow riders in need;

May You not let us stray from steel nor let us be tempted by fancy shamncy carbon-fiber gizmos nor let us purchase bicycles from giant, soul-less chain stores;

May You forgive those drivers who know not yet the beauty of the bike and punish those drivers who swerve, honk, ignore, threaten, or otherwise beguile us;

May You give us grace and speed and agility; and illuminate our paths for us;

May You lend us tailwinds on our passages; and provide for us vast, sweeping, stunning terrain to traverse such that only a god like You could create;

May You provide smooth, delicious ale to soothe us once we have arrived at our destinations;

May You heed all of our humble requests, and take these evil sacrificial goats as evidence of our bodily devotion to the bicycle;

Amen.

***

[published in Boneshaker: A Bicycling Almanac, 2008]


The Cost of Cycling: an Interview with Evan P. Schneider and Michael Matson, the editors of Boneshaker

BONESHAKER: On your website, you offer paraphernalia for bicyclists to buy and display, offering riders a chance to "Be righteous! Be contemptuous!" and to "Make drivers jealous with the original Zero Per Gallon (ZPG) sticker." To what extent do you think that a haughty, better-than-thou attitude is the most productive disposition cyclists should extend on roadways they share with motorists, pedestrians, and other cyclists? Cycling is, of course, harrowing at times, and we are a minority out there, but why the bombast?

---

OK, EPS and MM, here we go.

Why the self-righteous bombast? 

I've commuted by bike for eight years now, and I'd be fibbing if I claimed that I no longer feel some sort of ideological superiority over your average drive-everywhere type. (That's not to say I'm actually superior. I violate my share of traffic laws.) I think it's some sort of psychological protection mechanism. The world we inhabit is designed to accommodate automobiles, and it's just plain tough to survive any other way, especially in a culture that labels us outsiders or freaks. Our fellow citizens -- Americans! -- run us over in every capacity. Taking the moral high road makes the struggle that much easier. It's like a big fat pat on the back, from a big fat self-patting-on-the-back machine, when the world is busy honking at, swerving around, spewing mud at, scaring the bejesus out of, and otherwise threatening and annoying us just for trying to get around in a smart, simple, elegant manner. 

Of course, there are precious moments when I'm able to let go of the grudge, and enjoy the freedom and vitality that I suspect car drivers are missing. But that's not my default mode, not even here in super-bike-friendly San Francisco. And, since I like to think I'm in the business (personal investment-wise, not just financial-wise) of supporting other brave people trying to get by on bicycles, I'd be remiss not to offer a message that explicitly recognizes the condition most bicyclists find themselves in. I'm hoping that my little message, that biking costs so little -- righteous and contemptuous as it may be -- allows bikers to unplug their big fat self-patting-on-the-back machines just a little bit more. 

There's a bike shop out there in America somewhere (I forget, exactly) where the staff likes to remind customers that smiling makes you ride faster. They're totally right. Smiling is like caffeine, well, except that smiling doesn't make you poop, and if it does, that's one messed-up disorder that I sure as hell am glad I didn't inherit. But I digress. My point is: letting out a little worthy righteousness here, a smidgeon of deserved contempt there certainly makes me smile. So if by some convoluted, but not-entirely-ridiculous logic, my message helps me (and others) ride faster, I've hit the jackpot. (Again: obviously not in a financial sense.)

But your question was stealthier than my paraphrasing. You asked if such a haughty disposition is the "most productive" attitude for cyclists. Because your question reminds me of a high-school essay assignment, it seems fitting to answer in multiple-choice format. Take that, wanna-be-high-school-English-teachers!

Q: To what extent is such a haughty, better-than-thou attitude the most productive disposition for cyclists?

A) Look, man, I'm not a politician. I'm just some guy trying to ride my bike. And I now how I feel when I ride my bike in this place and this time. Sometimes I get angry. Sometimes I can't stomach the whole system. So what do I do? I let my emotions out, rather than letting them build up, because I know that pretending to be something you're not never works. 

B) Taking the high road means setting an example. It means being considerate, law-abiding, patient, and diplomatic -- a representative of the bicycling community. Only as such will we earn the respect and political/lobbying power we are striving for. Only then can the true revolution begin. 

C) David Brower always regretted that he and the Sierra Club sacrificed Hetch Hetchy in order to save Yosemite Valley. At the time, he thought it prudent to make a concession - Californians needed water, after all. Later in life, though, he regretted his decision, and claimed he shouldn't have conceded a damn thing. He realized he should have fought tooth and nail for everything he could, because that's how the opposition fought, and besides, nobody else was going to advocate for the environment. So who ought to make more concessions: cyclists or drivers? What strategy ought guide the velorution? Should we go big from the outset? Should we bide our time? Should we studiously monitor the Twitter feed of the American Automobile Association, dissect it, and formulate a plan based on that analysis? Who's in charge, anyway?

D) Technically, your phrasing is forcing me to concede a point I never claimed. At times, my attitude may be haughty, it may be arrogant, and it may even be contemptuous, but it's not better-than-thou. It's just trying-to-address-transportation/the environment/health/energy independence-more-than-thou. That's an important distinction, actually. Bikers are optimists, dreamers, believers still that they can change the way the world works. They never claim to be any better -- though they may claim to be trying a little harder. 

Please use a number 2 pencil, and fill in the ENTIRE circle.  

Next Q, please?

---

BONESHAKER: Excellent. We're onto something here. The multiple choice exam you are in effect offering the bicycle-riding world is asking exactly the sort of questions and eliciting exactly the sort of discussion that needs to be had in our country as soon as possible. Despite the spike in gas prices last summer, numbers of drivers on the road are not significantly diminishing (we have often wondered what would have happened should gas have stayed at or near $5.00/gallon or higher), even though the number of cyclists is noticeably rising. And since it takes years, if not decades, for even progressive cities to implement bicycle-friendly infrastructure, we are quite simply on course for escalated conflict as cycling and driving are not easily nor comfortably combined in the same cities on the same roads.

So, while we'll leave your exam for readers to take, we're still wondering whether the symbolic impact of "0.00 9/10" isn't in itself enough? It's an extremely powerful image, the 0.00 9/10, as you're well aware and to which its growing ubiquity attests. The message behind those numbers, seen in that format, presented in that manner, is both simplistic and yet semiotically riveting. In fact, we love it very, very much. The question, I suppose, though, is: why not just let the numbers speak for themselves? Why purposely load them with anger and contemptuousness? Yes, "taking the moral high road makes the struggle that much easier," but isn't one of the problems we face as cyclists the fact that drivers are doing the exactly same thing: taking what they think is the high road, teaching us that we should "Get a car!" if we're going to live in the 21st century? (In fact, this very phrase has been yelled at us and our brethren from car windows all across the country.)

And if it's not enough to allow the numbers to speak for themselves (in order to achieve whatever aims we have in this ongoing verbal and nonverbal conversation we're each having with motorists and others on a daily basis as cyclists), then it seems that we may be scheduled for a very real and actual civic confrontation with drivers. And if that is indeed the case, which it very well may be, how in your mind would it play out?

---

Indeed, we're getting somewhere. This is fun. 

But first: the passivity of the phrase "discussion that needs to be had in our country as soon as possible" freaks me out. It makes me feel like I'm talking to one of Nixon's henchmen or something.

Second: patience, brothas! Driving decreased last year for the first time since the invention of the friggin' wheel. These things take time. We're talking about very very VERY entrenched behaviors here - I mean, the ability to drive is almost an inherited trait by now. Besides, it's worth asking how much those numbers really mean. What if just as many people are driving, but 95% of them now hate it, like really really loathe everything about it, and are looking for some alternative? What if everyone is trying to sell his car, but can't find a buyer, because the economy is in the shitter and nobody wants cars anymore? Judge not too quickly! Similarly, gas prices will rise again -- it's the only direction they can go. 

Third: you hinted at another intriguing scenario: that cycling/motorist conflicts will only decrease once cities implement bike-friendly infrastructures. I'd beg to look at things differently. Dems will offer bikers a tax break, and Repubs will, I dunno, deregulate the bike-manufacturing industry. Will either make things easier for "Joe the biker?" Are we really all biting our nails and waiting for our local (or state or federal) governments to act on our behalf? Must the solutions come hence? I think something like 80% of the transportation challenge is perceptual -- and I'll come back to that idea. We (all of us) need to think for ourselves. 

Fourth: What's with the pessimism, bro? I think cycling and driving can exist together, in today's cities, on today's roads. Conflict is OK. Discomfort is OK. We're talking about reality here, not some "city of the future," all tricked out with flying cars and robotic navigation and Star Trek outfits. And if it were easy, we wouldn't be talking about it. 

Now, your question: is a symbol enough? No way. It's just a symbol. I mean, I can't eat the word CHEERIOS for breakfast. For god sakes, I'd much rather live in a world in which everybody rides bikes and nobody buys my stickers because they're just so damned obvious. I'd love to see the day when, riding hands-free, some girl checks her email on her iPhone, clicks on a link her grandma emailed to her, ends up on ZeroPerGallon.com, and is like, "Geez, grandma, the symbolic gesture here is so L-A-M-E," and then watches the latest Justin Timberlake Jr. video and is like, "That's what I'm talkin' about," and then puts her hands back on the bars to take some wicked tight turns on a crazy descent.

But thanks for calling it powerful, ubiquitous, and semiotically-interesting. I appreciate that. To take a Kindergartener's approach, "If you love it so much, why don't you marry it?"

But really: the numbers do speak for themselves. That's why my stickers keep selling. The loading of anger/contempt/etc. is only done by my words, on my website, and intended as sort of a comfort -- a soft welcome mat, or a clean, dry bench in a heavy rain -- for bicyclists who visit my website. "Aha," I hope they'll say. "This guy understands my situation. He feels like I do. He's just like me. Except hairier, and taller, and better looking, and more awesome." (Just kidding about that last part.)

As for the ideological head-butting with drivers who yell "Get a car," I'm not sure it's fair to give those drivers credit for having an ideology. Someone once yelled at me, "Get a horse," but that didn't make it so, even if it did make me laugh. Yelling "Get a car" is like yelling "Get a job," or "Be smarter." Bikers and drivers may be at odds, but drivers who yell "Get a car" are not actually arguing anything. They're yelling into the wind, asking that the world be simple and uniform and understandable and the-way-it-used-to-be. What's the point of that? We're not gonna get a car, no matter how loud they yell. Shit, even if the feds decide that, as part of the auto-industry's bailout package, cars will be provided to every card-carrying bicyclist, many of us STILL wouldn't take 'em. We just don't see things that way. 

This unwillingness to drink the Kool Aid is a fascinating phenomenon. The futurists of 1950's promised us that technology would make life better -- that blenders and toasters and dishwashers and bread-makers and waffle irons and cars and suburbs and malls would save us so much time and hassle that we could get on with the best parts of living. Of course, to many of us, what they've really done is make life that much more complicated and clogged-up, blurting out the good parts. I think many current trends, from fixed-gear bikes to Make magazine to urban farming, have arisen in response to that sentiment, which feeds a larger urge to simplify and get back to basics. And I think making cities more bike-able, breathable, playable, livable places is at the center of it all. 

It's like we're all singing that Limp Bizkit song: "You can take this car, and stick it up your ass! Stick it up your ass! Stick it up your ass!"

The way I see it, the driver-yelling phenomenon is just an indicator that there's a problem. Like honking. In that regard, counterintuitive as it may be, you can take comfort at every honk you hear. Every honk is someone announcing: "I'm impatient! Driving isn't all it's cracked up to be! I'm vexed!" For every honk, there's someone just as fed up with the system as you (we) are. 

So, drivers and bikers alike are annoyed. But I think bikers deserve credit for trying something different. They're taking up less space, spitting out no fumes, making far less noise, and on and on and on. I'm not sure what credit drivers are due. They've had things their way for a very long time, and it's still relatively easy for them. They just push a bunch of buttons and pedals, and sit there, while we subsidize the shit out of the system. I'm supposed to sympathize?

Nevertheless, back in March, Robert Sulluvan wrote a convincing little plea in the NY Times, asking for bicyclists to adopt more courtesy. He had four requests: that we 1) stop at major intersections; 2) ride with traffic; 3) stay off the sidewalks; 4) signal if we're gonna turn. It's a good list, and I have no beef with it. In fact, I'd add a fifth item: that we be prepared to communicate. I'm not saying we need a concerted PR effort full of talking points, but that we need to be able to express, reasonably, that we're just as frustrated as drivers are. If there's one thing Americans understand, it's frustration. 

The way I see it, If we're gonna cram ourselves into dense cities, and try to do a gajillion things at once, the need for the ability to communicate seems pretty obvious. But we've erected sound-proof walls and windows around half of us and crammed earbuds into the other half. When we do try to communicate, its pathetic. HONK! What's that supposed to mean? It's either "I hate this!" or "On your left!" or "Get out of the road!" or "Nice ass!" We're like Neanderthals out there. It's absurd. 

So we bikers, softer and fleshier and more human than automobiles, ought to take advantage of the situation, and communicate as such.

An example, if I may:

I used to (and still do) get pissed at people who throw their cigarette butts in the street, for reasons that seem all-too-obvious. Once, in Boston, some guy in red convertible threw his cigarette butt on the sidewalk, just in front of me. I was on a one-way road, and the guy -- not very big, I should add -- was stopped at a red light. I'd been waiting for this scenario to unfold for a while. I picked it up and threw it back in his car, and readied myself to run the opposite direction. 

Now, I felt a certain glee in having done that, but I didn't accomplish anything. I might as well have yelled "Get an ashtray!" at the top of my lungs, as if he could have just whipped one out of thin air. But I got something off my chest, which allowed me to approach the situation differently the next time it happened, which was in DC a few years later. I'd just rolled up to a red light, and some guy in a shiny SUV threw a butt onto the street only feet in front of me. I was about to pick it up and lob it back in the guy's window, when I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the driver had the build of a linebacker. A 300-lb, pro NFL linebacker. So I changed my tactic. I turned to him, and said, "You know, if I weren't so intimidated by your size, I'd have thrown that cigarette butt back in your car, but I decided not to because I didn't wanna get my butt kicked." The guy laughed -- a good response! Never underestimate the power of laughter! -- and said, "That was a smart move, because you would have." But now he was on defense, and he added, "It's my wife's car, and she doesn't want me to smoke in here," and raised his big NFL-sized shoulders in a gesture of sympathy. He felt bad, guilty even. 

Get it? We communicated! It was funny! I didn't suffer an ass-whupping, and he wasn't insulted by my complaint, and neither of us rode off in a fury of annoyance and pride.  

I've tried the same thing with people in public parks who don't clean up their dog's poop, to similar results. Which is all to say, you gotta give a little, even if it's just some of your ego. Nobody wants to be belittled, trodden, patronized, or yelled at. 

As for non-verbal confrontations -- like the horror stories that involve a deranged motorist intentionally running over a biker -- I think those situations are very rare. Rarer, even, than people going "postal," or pirates seizing ships, or shark attacks. We just focus on those stories, and can't forget them, because they're so unusual. I actually think it's a waste of time/energy to search for a "solution" to such situations. But that's not how things work in this country. 99.99% isn't good enough for us litigious bastards. We're just not that practical. 

And that's what I was saying about perception, earlier. We focus on the most ridiculous things. All this formal education, and we freak out about the West Nile virus like it's the friggin' plague. We really are Neanderthals. We play up the hazards to the extent that non-bikers become convinced that riding a bike to work is veritable suicide. It's a lot like rock climbing, actually. Most non-climbers think I'm some extreme freak, risking life and limb, and that, like Spiderman, I have silk coming out of my palms. Climbing is really fucking safe. More people die from coconut-related injuries. And way more people -- about 43,000 every year in the US -- die driving their cars. Most of us are just numb to it. 

American biking is young, that's all. Bikers cause some of the friction, but not nearly as much as public perception would have us believe. In most of Europe, they get it. (They also get drinking, sex, and climbing.) It's like we've got this giant thumb up our collective butt, and it's so far up there we can't see straight, let alone walk straight. 

All we know is that biking is different, and everything different has to be crazy, and everything crazy has to be wrong. So good luck changing that. 

OK, my Rant-Meter-2000 is going berserk. Apparently it's time for a break. Golly, I hope you'll ask me about critical mass, biker identity, drug enforcement, and the civil rights movement next. 

---

BONESHAKER: Your thoughts on communication are very nicely put, not to mention extremely poignant, especially considering how admittedly difficult it is to fight having a sense of entitlement while riding a bicycle. It’s so easy to think, “These drivers owe me this space, and I should be allowed to ride right here in the middle of these roads, and I should be able to run this stoplight, or move ahead to the front of this line of traffic, and that some of these rules don’t apply to me because I’m moving under my own power.” In fact, this editor thinks about it every time he rides.

I’m torn, therefore, about what exactly I should feel out there. On the one hand, I want to fight everyone all the time. I find myself yelling and cussing and wanting to pull over and explain to someone that they can’t park there, you see, because you’re right where I need to go. This happens despite myself because I don’t even want to be that guy. But sometimes it just happens and I explode verbally and/or mentally. I want to push cars out of the bike lane and want to bang on their windows when they don’t see me. I even once thought of making a sticker that read, “I don’t have kids; I ride my bike so that *your* kids will have a healthy planet to inherit, so get off my ass!” I’m perpetually ready to jump all over everyone for the littlest traffic transgression that they’re probably not even aware they are making. But what does this accomplish, I continually wonder, this antipathy and sense of entitlement? Should drivers really move just because I need to get around them or else lose my momentum? Should people really pay any more attention to me than they do people in cars? Isn’t that pretty goddamn selfish of me, and of cyclists in general? Is that why we’re labeled elitists, because we think what we’re doing is better and wiser than what other people are doing, and that we should therefore be granted certain exceptions and exemptions?

So on the other hand, if I want the same privileges cars enjoy (full use of the lane, use of all roads in a city equally), shouldn’t I have to obey exactly the same laws, down to even having to register my bike and get licensed to ride? The smiling advice you once received is very apt, then, and we would be wise to remember it, but is there a way, in your opinion, to balance the rights and needs of cyclists with those who choose different transportation methods? Because I find myself even getting angry at buses, who I know are in turn angry at me, even though we’re both alternative forms of transportation and both are working to improve the way people get around our cities. We are both working towards the same goal and yet we are doing so in the same space in different ways, which leads to resentment.

It seems, therefore, that the smile you mention that makes you ride faster isn’t so much a smile as it is a smirk, and that’s what I suppose we’re getting at here—the smirk innate to broadcasting that our form of transportation costs 0.00 9/10. Of course we can’t help but smirk once in a while as we’re riding when we see people lined up in these metal boxes with wheels, waiting and sealed off from the weather and the world, but that smirk, if we extend it too far and wide and too often, only complicates and endangers this fragile truce that seems to be upheld on the roads day in and day out.

This conversation we are having will not wrap up anytime soon. It is our hope, in fact, that it will continue in traffic and in bars and at cafes and at public forums and at transportation meetings and in legislative offices at the city, state, and national levels for years to come. As it is, though, we’ll leave you with a summative question, reductive, perhaps, but concise and reproducible in any case: if you had any one piece of advice or sentiment to share with cyclists, one statement that you as nationally-known and well-recognized bicycling advocate would like people out there on two wheels to consider, what might that be? What, in short, should we remember in all this?

---

Jeez, and I thought I'd had a lot of caffeine.

Rest assured, Evan: you're definitely not the only biker out there yelling and cussing and angry. In DC, where apparently people drive facing backwards, I used to get so fed up that on more than one occasion I yearned to throw shit -- my own feces! -- at the worst offenders. I contemplated shitting in a Zip-loc bag, and carrying it with me, like in my pocket, so that at the right moment I could lob it at some poor driver's windshield, whereupon it would explode in a big brown glob of nastiness. Again: Neanderthal, right? I mean, filling a water gun with piss wasn't good enough. I was angrier than that. I wanted justice, because it sure as hell felt like justice had thus far eluded me. That resentment, that entitlement -  it just boils up. 

Yesterday, in fact, while I was riding on a narrow, curvy road, some jerk passed me on a blind turn, oncoming traffic be damned. But instead of screaming FUCK YOU! and making a gesture that needs no translation, I belted out, "You drive like a Californian!" -- which was both fact and insult. Sneaky, huh? (It works well in Boston and New York, too.) Here's the cool part --  by taking it in stride, I made myself less mad. It didn't ruin my ride, and I certainly didn't go home and shit in a bag and then try to track that guy down. 

So here's my take on it. We'll always get angry out there. But I get angry when I have to pay my taxes, too, and that doesn't mean my anger is justified. But it does mean we're onto something...Which brings me to a little fable...

A long time ago, in a land far away, back when I was in college -- we didn't have computers then; all we had was rocks -- a bunch of us came up with our own term for complacency/laziness/settling-for-the-way-things-are. We called it kableeb, and we vowed to combat it. We wanted our lives to be full of surprises and adventures, fresh, wild, and free. I still have a mix tape (yes, we recorded audio onto magnetic tapes, and wiped our asses with our hands) called "combat kableeb." 

It seems to me now that biking is one of the surest ways to combat kableeb. And I think that our anger is proof. It's just like honking. Every mumbled curse, every sneer, every grumble, every yearning for a Zip-loc full of feces on hand, is one more wish for things to be different. 

Furthermore, if we restrain ourselves, and don't scream every epithet that comes to mind, the emotion establishes that we have a high regard for public goods. It's one thing to let food rot in your own fridge, or to park a rusty old clunker up on blocks on your own front lawn -- but it's another to misuse/disregard/hoard/lay-claim-to public space. You're right to be mad. In going from private affair to private affair (in cars 99.99% of the time) we pass through public space (at 60 mph) -- an end up treating it like something private, which is to say, we treat it like crap. We all forget that the streets are public. That's the best thing about them. If we treat 'em that way, maybe people will start to notice. 

So I don't think it's selfish to yearn for an altered transportation network. And I don't think it's elitist to await its arrival with a little impatience. 

But I think it's important not to confuse rights with privileges, or legality with morality. Here in San Francisco, I can roll down the middle of the road, on my unregistered bike, and take the whole friggin lane, and be perfectly within the law. Shit, I could probably do it naked while smoking a bong, too. But that doesn't make it civil or respectful. And that's the thing: our rights haven't been taken away (in most places, none were every given to bikers), and we're not asking for special privileges (as Benjamin Solomon so well put it, "like children or old ladies"). Sometimes we're talking about our wants, and sometimes we're talking about our needs, and the wacked-out part is figuring out how  to incorporate those fairly/safely/smartly into a giant tangled up legal system. 

In that regard the sense of entitlement you mentioned is a confusion of cause and effect. We believe we are entitled to run red lights because we are able to get away with running red lights. None of us likes rules, but I put on pants when I go outside, whether I feel like it or not. I don't know how you do business over there in Colorado. We're guilty of bending the rules we don't like, and then relying on the perhaps-lamentable fact that traffic enforcement is a lot like drug enforcement -- stopping every infraction is just untenable. Perhaps, someday, we'll automatically regulate, fine, and collect fees from traffic violators, thanks to some digital tracking system made by Diebold, but I doubt it. There's just not a metric shit-ton of impetus behind the let's-live-in-1984-agenda. We like chance, the wind blowing through our hair, believing that we're choosing our own destiny. So pinch yourself, man, before that entitlement gets to you. 

That's why I can't stand Critical Mass. It's billed as this identity-building civil-rights struggle, but it's not about "we shall overcome," and pissed-off drivers aren't gonna write their local representatives and be like, "Dear Mr. Congressman, I saw an assload of bicyclists out in the streets tonight, in a crazy drunken mob, running red lights and screaming and scaring tourists and blocking traffic, and I just wanted to let you know that it looked awesome, and I think we should do more to promote bicycling in our fair city." 

Worse, and I mentioned this earlier, our cultural nametag already says: "Hello, my name is _biker_ - I'm an outsider/freak" and we -- through Critical Mass, and other silly behaviors -- are as much to blame for this as others. Even Robert Sullivan, in that NY Times courtesy plea, pigeon-holed us as either Lance-Armstrong types or Really Cool Hipsters. Partly, these identities have arisen so at least we can pretend to choose our roles, rather than be scorned as freaks or hippies or lowlifes or failures. We play it up, wear "biker" clothes, sport-specific gear -- as peacock-like as a friggin equestrian team. We make bike-riding a club activity, as if some sort of membership dues are required. In trying to be inclusive, we've become exclusive. What the F? We gotta lighten up, you know? It's just two friggin' wheels! Are our egos made of soft French cheese?

If there's one good thing about Critical Mass, though, it's that the ride is slow and fun, as traveling ought to be. Traveling should be a thrill! Imagine riding a horse from Philadelphia to Washington, or taking a boat up the Missouri river, or riding a train across Canada. Those things tickle you a bit, don't they? Biking does that too -- unless we get sucked in and treat it like a cold, robotic process that it isn't. The joy of riding is as important as the destination -- and maybe if we thought about that before every ride we wouldn't get so angry.

Where was I? Whatever. I've got two small things, and then a big one - a Grand Finale, if you will -- and then I'll put the crack pipe down, I swear.

Small thing #1) What's with the "fragile truce," again? Have drivers there, like, declared war? Did I not get the memo? I just don't see it that way.

Small thing #2) You offhandedly mentioned that ZPG stickers "broadcast" a message to drivers. For what it's worth, the stickers are so small (4.25" x 1.38") that I doubt they broadcast a damn thing. From a car whizzing by, your mom broadcasts a message. My stickers: not so much. As I said before, they're mostly a little pat on the back to bikers. A toast. A high five. A friendly wave from out here in San Francisco. 

Grand Finale) There's a Jewish Passover song called Dayenu, which, as far as melody and rhyme go, is the most annoying thing I've ever heard, but which, as far as lyrics go, is pretty cool. It's a song about perspective, since Passover is all about remembering how great it is not to be enslaved. Gratefully, humbly, the song thanks god for all the badass stuff god did, through the incessant chorus --Dayenu -- which means  "that would have been enough." So we're like, "God, if you'd just brought us out of Egypt, that would have been enough. If you'd just watched over us, that would have been enough. If you'd just given us shomer fucking shabbas, that would have been enough. If you'd only invented the internet, that would have been enough." You get the idea. 

It seems to me that we'd not be smitten (smote?) for singing something similar to the god of biking, a deity no less glorious or worthy, and probably far sexier. It'd go like this:

-if you'd only provided us with lithe, strong legs -- that would have been enough
-if you'd only given us the wind in our hair -- that would have been enough
-if you'd only protected us from the pain of searching for a parking space -- that would have been enough
-If you'd only sculpted our asses so firmly -- that would have been enough.
-if you'd only granted us mobility withouout debt - that would have been enough.
-if you'd only fed us burritos, rather than petroleum -- that would have been enough.
-if you'd only wowed us with the technological simplicity of a bicycle, that would have been enough.
Amen.

That's sorta how I feel. Our lot aint so terrible. Sure, sometimes I smirk, but very often it's a pure smile. 

I hope this conversation goes on forever, too, because I so do like embarrassing myself with talk of projectile poop. I can't wait to bring up this interview during dinner sometime with my parents. 

As for one, solid-gold piece of advice, how bout this: Whatever you ride, wherever you go, whenever you roll: look out for goats. They're up to no good.

***

[published in Boneshaker: A Bicycling Almanac, 2011]


Wind and Prayers AKA condensed notes from my 2002 X-C bike trip

On the third day, god made land and plants, and both of those things were (and still are) good. On my third day, I made Macastrone, and it was good, too. No, wait: it was awesome.

I had just made the most significant purchase I'd make all summer, an 88-cent can-opener, so from that day on, instead of eating plain macaroni and cheese, I ate macaroni and cheese with a can of Campbell's Minestrone soup mixed in. I called it Macastrone. Like I said, it was awesome. Here's why: it's made from ingredients that are ubiquitous. It's cheap. It's easy to prepare (particularly important when all you have is a whisperlite). And it's the perfect size (~2000 calories, with plenty of salt, and it fills my 2-quart aluminum pot to the lip). 

Here's why else that third day (it was April 3rd, 2002) was awesome: around 11am, I pedaled up and over the Eastern Continental Divide, so for the next week things were all downhill. And downhill + bike = good. 

But back to the origins of Macastrone: it was born of necessity. I was biking about 90 miles a day, uphill and upwind, and my metabolism was rising rapidly. As a result, I was astounding myself with the quantities of food I was able to consume. Soon enough, I'd up the ante with veggie Macastrone, which incorporated a yellow onion and a red pepper. But not yet.  

That evening, shortly after I rolled in to Weston, West Virginia -- 263 miles from where I had started a few days before, in Washington, D.C. -- I bumped into a bunch of kids who'd never seen a guy on a bicycle like me. They crowded around as I set up camp behind the volunteer fire department, and started asking questions. I took out my map to show them where I had come from, and where I was going. I traced a line from D.C. to Colorado, more or less along US route 50, then waited. One chubby little guy didn't know where Colorado was, but knew about Kentucky.  "That's where my pa's got his rig," he said.

The next day, I had a 2500-calorie breakfast (I counted; it included two egg/cheese sandwiches, two pieces of apple pie, an ice cream cone, and a snickers bar.) After fixing the first flat tire of the trip, I rode 87 hilly miles to Kentuck, West Virginia. I set up camp behind the Baptist church, and while preparing dinner (another batch of Macastrone), met a few locals born and raised in Kentuck. One of them asked me, without much of an introduction, "Do you know the Lord?" I didn't really want to get into it, so I replied, "I know the lord - Amen!" That sufficed, apparently, and soon they left me alone, to fall asleep on a picnic table.

I'd learned pretty quickly that, when biking alone on a budget, there were four places where one could reliably get a full night's rest, safe and sound: a volunteer fire department, the woods, someone's backyard, or a church. Since I'm not much of a religious guy, I favored the first three. But sometimes, when my legs were cooked and it was getting late, I had to take what I could get.

The next day I had a box of Oreos for breakfast, and while chugging up a steep hill at 3 mph, noticed a turkey vulture up ahead in the road. It was busy picking away at something. I'd learned to expect roadkill by the smell of decomposition, which, in a car, you rarely notice. On a bike, you notice. The day before, I'd seen half of a deer, most of a cat, a flattened skunk, a few squished birds, a whole bunch of possum-type varmints, and one unidentified specimen with nothing but a ribcage and spinal cord -- and I smelled all of them first. But this carcass was so fresh that it didn't have a smell yet. By the time I got to the dead thing in the road, the turkey vulture had 4 feet of bright red intestine pulled out in a straight line on the pavement, as well as a stomach. I'm still not sure what kind of animal it was. The vulture flew away as I rolled by, then returned once I had passed. Another vulture circled far above. 

From my bike, I saw a lot of other dead things in this part of Appalachia, mostly off in the woods: couches, chairs, washing machines, old cars, and who-knows-whats. I saw so many of these unknown objects that I started calling them HRMTs (Heavy Rusty Metal Things). I was rolling through the place where things go when they die. 

Speaking of death and metal objects, I got my 2nd flat tire, thanks to a staple in the road. 

The next day, I stopped for lunch in South Portsmouth, Kentucky -- on the Ohio River. I ate a pizza, looking up just enough to notice Jesus paintings all over the walls. Afterwards, I rode over to a thrift store, where two kids interrogated me. "Are you, like, some famous dude who, like, rides his bike everywhere?" one asked. "No, I'm just like you," I said. "You could do this if it was all you did all day," I added, and meant. Despite that, the second kid, who happened to be on rollerblades, asked for my autograph (a first.) I wrote, "Rollerblade across the USA!" and signed a sloppy signature below. The manager of the thrift store, a large woman named Vonnie, must have overhead the whole thing and deduced as well that I was famous, because a minute later she ran outside and took a photo of me and my bike. Unprompted, Vonnie declared, "The only crazy thing I ever done is packed up and gone to Oklahoma - and I drove there!"

That night, I slept on a picnic table, in a pavillion next to the police station. Before going to bed, I decided that my hair was too long, so I walked across the street and knocked on a door. "Hi," I said. "I'm biking across the country, and I think I need a haircut. Could I borrow a pair of scissors for 5 minutes?" I figured that no matter how bad it turned out, I'd have a helmet on my head for the next few weeks. 

The next day, while riding along next to the Ohio River, someone threw a can of beer at me from a pickup truck. Another guy, without provocation, asked me whether I was riding for the devil or the lord. That night I bedded down in the woods on the campus of a Christian college because it was raining hard and I had nowhere else to go. 

The next day (day 8), it became apparent that my left knee was not in good shape. I'd ridden hard seven days in a row, without much in the way or preparation or training. Since I was on a schedule (I had to be in western Colorado, for a job, by May 1st) I decided to hitch a ride to Kansas, and skip the boring/flat part of the country.

Hitching proved more challenging than I had expected. One guy told me, "I can't give you a ride, son, but I can pray for you." Someone gave me a pahmplet about Jesus, and told me I should read the Old Testament. I told him I had a book list a mile long. Another woman gave me an apple and a little book of scriptures called "Help From Above." I told her I didn't need help from above. I needed it down here.  

I ended up hitching a ride with a guy named Craig, who was headed from Pennsylvania to Texas to see his family. Craig and I talked a lot. He was 29. His hair was dyed. He had been adopted. He hadn't gone to college. He once spent 90 days in jail. He'd received 15 speeding tickets. We made it to Topeka without incident.

But my arrival in Kansas was particularly ill-timed. 

First, I got pulled over by a state trooper, a huge guy who who actually turned his patrol car lights on to get my attention and pull me over . The first thing he asked me was, "Do you know where you are?" I responded, "Uh... Topeka, Kansas." He responded, "You're on private property. This highway is private property, for cars and trucks only." I explained that I had just been dropped off by a car, and was  eager to be on my way, so that I could ride my bike on a smaller, less-highway-like road en route to Colorado. (I had been walking my bike 1/4 mile from the toll booth to the rest area.) The trooper remained unmoved, and wrote me a warning, which looked like this:

-------------------------------------------------------
    KANSAS HIGHWAY PATROL
violation and/or vehicle/truck inspection
           WARNING

4/13/2002
Jonathan A. Waldman
[address, license #]

Did upon public highway number _KTA_ at milepost _182_
unlawfully operate a _____[year]     __Trek__[make]      _____[type]
and did thereupon commit the following offense(s):

-bicycle on KTA

[signed by trooper # 181]
------------------------------------------------------


At this, I apologized, and the trooper handed me a Kansas state map and pointed me in the right direction. It was late in the day, and the sun was hovering low above the great big Kansas horizon, with only a few clouds scattered about. The trooper then informed me of two more salient facts: 

* hitch-hiking is illegal within Topeka city limits
* there is no camping within Topeka city limits

I rode 10 miles north, and then turned west, and bumped into two guys at outside of the bowling lane. One guy, Lee Hamlet, said I could sleep in the field behind his auto repair shop. I took him up on the offer. He threw me a beer. I told him about the trip thus far, mentioning that it was 18 degrees out during my first night, back in Virginia. Lee's buddy looked me up and down and said, "You're a durable fucker, huh?"

In the field behind Lee's auto shop, I tied two corners of my tarp to a trailer, and stuck the other two in the ground, and bedded down beside it, the better to watch the stars. Lee told me that if the weather got bad, I could hop in his "parts car." His "parts car" was an old Honda, with no tires, sitting in a puddle, beside a huge Oak tree. I didn't think twice about the offer.

Within an hour it became much more apparent that my arrival in Kansas was particularly ill-timed. First it started raining. I collected my stuff and crawled beneath my tarp, stargazing be damned. Then the wind picked up, and my tarp began blowing around. Bolts of lightning flashed around me, followed closely by thunder. My tarp began flapping uncontrollably in the wind, and I began getting pelted by huge raindrops. And just like that, I made the decision to get into Lee Hamlet's parts car. 


With my sleeping bag and pad and tarp in arms, I hopped into the front passenger seat and pushed it back, reclining as much as possible. I tried to get some rest, but got little. I woke up scared at 3am, because the storm was still intensifying. I thought about finding real refuge -- like in someone's house -- but it was too intense to get out of the car and run for safety. I couldn't see more than a foot in front of my face, and even then, i couldn't tell which way to run.

Lightning bolts started to appear more frequently -- so frequently that i could no longer count the time delay between flashes and thunderclaps. Out the passenger window, I could see bolts striking the ground not far to the south. It was like a cheesy movie -- all violent flashes and flickers of light, with occasional glimpses of more.

The wind picked up, and went from strong to violent, and began to shake the car. I started wondering if Lee's parts car, my only refuge, was safe at all. After all, it was essentially a Heavy Rusty Metal Thing, and it had no tires, and it was sitting in a puddle, beneath a tall tree, in a large field. I wondered if, in the morning, Lee would find me a) fried from a lightning bolt or b) crushed beneath a branch from the Oak tree, or c) vanished, having blown far away in this little metallic pod. 

In an instant, the lights in town went out, and I realized that my heart was racing. I was shivering in fear. I was surrounded by ferocious darkness, but it wasn't black -- it was an eery shade of greenish-blueish-gray. It was a tornado, and i was in it. 

While the car shook and raindrops pinged off the roof, and trees blew ferociously around, I mumbled a plea to Earl and Valerie (the weather gods), something to the effect of, please let me enjoy nice blue skies and gentle breezes again. It was the closest thing to a prayer I have ever uttered. 

I woke up at 9am, having gotten two and a half hours of fitful sleep. It was overcast outside, and I was relieved. I peeked out the side window, and saw Lee working on a truck in his shop. 

I hopped out of his parts car.

Lee: "Good morning!"
me: "FUCK man, that was RIDICULOUS! I mean, that was like a tornado!"
Lee: "I think you're right."

Lee abandoned his work for a moment, and we went for a walk around town. The first thing he noticed is that his sign had blown away. Gone. Two telephone poles had snapped at the base, and were lying in the street, in a jumble of wires and transformers. Not far away, a huge Oak tree was in the road, roots and all. It appeared to have been uprooted by a giant. Some guys chopping it up said that the winds hit 80mph. I said no shit. Another woman, whose swing-set had vanished from her front yard, said she hadn't seen a storm like that since '66. Around the block, a bunch of 18-wheelers were lying on their sides. Mail trucks had flipped over. Trailers had lost their roofs. 

I've been to a lot of  rugged places, but never experienced a fury like I did that night in Topeka. After that tornado, the rest of the ride seemed like cake. In Pueblo, Colorado, riding through 35-degree rain left me with a numb left foot, but no worse. In the Arkansas River valley, between Canon City and Salida, it was so windy that tumbleweed blew into my front wheel, but that just made me laugh. (You call this wind?) And at the top of Monarch Pass -- the continental divide, and my high point for the trip -- it was so windy that I had to pedal hard to roll downhill into Gunnison -- but, hey, that's what biking's about, right?

On my second-to-last day, just west of Sapinero, Colorado, I hiked down to the Gunnison River and jumped in. It was my first shower in three weeks, if you don't count the rains in West Virginia and Kentucky or the tornado in Kansas or the frigid drizzle in eastern Colorado. 

That was all 5 years ago... my trusty purple Trek is no longer, and those panniers are now owned by someone who's putting them to more use. I haven't gotten up and gone -- solo -- like that for a long time. And I haven't prayed since then. 

***

Hit & Run: May 1, 2009

I was hit by a car at 8:20 this evening on the 3300 block of Powell St., in Emeryville. I'm OK. No, I'm not OK. I'm not hurt -- just scrapes and bruises -- but I feel like I want to simultaneously cry and scream and vomit and shit myself.

It was a white truck with a camper top, off-white, pearly perhaps, and boxier than any new model. Maybe a Toyota. We were both on Powell street, heading west. It was drizzling, and almost dark. He hit me from behind, and didn't stop, even when I screamed. I never saw the driver.

For a split second, flying through the air, I wondered how it was going to turn out.

My glasses flew off my face. My water bottle launched into the road. My bike lay sideways, the chain all jangled up in the wheel. By the time I looked up, which was pretty damn fast, the truck was 100 feet away, and I couldn't make out a license plate. I was angry before I was in pain.

Because Powell st. is a dead-end road, I knew I had a chance of catching the hit-and-runner.

I yelled HELP, hoping that I'd find a witness. Nothing. I limped to my feet, and stood in the middle of the road, and flagged down the first car to come by. The driver didn't speak English. No help.

I called 911, mildly astonished that I was able to move my arms, hands, fingers, and wrists with such fluidity. A broken wrist is the injury I dread most. Broken wrists would mean no biking, no climbing, no writing, no banjo playing, and no jerking off. I'd probably figure out a way to jerk off, but still, it terrifies me that someone could take such a simple, basic pleasure away from me. Life is that delicate.

A few minutes later, when the police officer arrived and asked if I needed an ambulance, I wasn't sure, because you still can't really assess how it turned out, even though that instant of flying through the air is long since gone. You're up on your feet, sure, but you're shivering, frantic, hyped-up, and all rubbery. You don't trust your faculties.

The officer asked me to move my bike off the road, then asked me questions and took notes. He asked for my ID and my phone number. I paced back and forth, wincing in pain. My left knee was stiff, and swelling up. My left hip bone and left elbow seared. "Any other injuries?" he asked. "My elbow. I can tell because it's wet. I can feel the blood in my sleeve." He asked me to roll up my sleeve, which I did, slowly. After that, he asked about my bike, and whether it was damaged. It seemed such an unusual question, like things were proceeding too fast. I put the chain back on, and flipped it over, to see if the wheels still spun. I felt drugged, sluggish. I was in no condition to focus on logic, mechanics, or machinery. But the bike seemed OK. I had to spell out P-I-N-A-R-E-L-L-O for the officer. "A ten speed?" he asked. "Twelve speeds, actually," I said. Why'd I correct him?

Two more officers showed up, and drove to the parking lots at the end of Powell street, looking for a white truck with a camper top. I locked up my bike on the nearest pole, then got in the officer's car, to go ID the truck that had hit me.

It was hopeless, and frustrating, and confusing. Short term memory is a bitch. There were two suspect trucks -- one far too curvy and shiny and bright white, and one with a big silver and red stripe across the back. It's a toss up, I said. "It's gotta be one hundred percent," the officer said.

I wanted to press pause. I wanted to consult a lawyer and cry and rest and breathe and drink something and come back to the scene more focused. I had the officer write down both license plates because I didn't know what else to do.

I asked for advice. He told me he'd seen cases like this where the driver had gotten off. "If he plays his cards right," the officer began. I couldn't believe it.

I jumped out of the car, and touched the hood of the second truck, hoping it'd be warm, so that I could make up my mind. Detective Waldman was frantically searching for clues.

The hood was cold, and slick with raindrops. There were no marks on the font fender. No smashed light, or bent side mirror. I gave up, deflated.

The officer reminded me that I was pretty lucky. He'd seen bikers sent to the emergency room after collisions involving windshields. He was right. I couldn't really complain. I hadn't been wearing a helmet, and I'd gotten away with cuts, scrapes, and bruises. My bike was fine. My jacket was ripped at the elbow, my sweatshirt a little bloody, and my cell phone a little scratched - but that's all. Even the groceries I'd been carrying in my bag were OK. Not one of the two dozen eggs was broken, and the loaf of bread was not squished, and the jars of tomato sauce were not broken, and the quart of milk was not punctured. Only three cans of soup were dented, which makes me wonder if they somehow saved me further injury. What if the side mirror collided with my giant grocery-laden bag, and the cans absorbed the sudden impact, so that I was launched, somewhat more softly, ass over teakettle? Is that possible?

Years ago, a good friend sustained a terrible climbing fall that would have killed him if not for the helmet he had been wearing. Another friend, taking a stroll on a dirt road, nearly died when a truck slipped out of gear, rolled down a slight incline, and trapped him beneath it. I just don't understand risk.

I know I ought to wear a helmet, and I almost always do. Sometimes, though, like when it's just a short ride on one mellow road to the grocery store, I don't bother, as if I'm relieving myself of some sort of burden. I didn't feel like it. I got complacent. So much for that privilege.

The officer dropped me off at my bike, gave me his card, told me I'd have a report in seven to ten days, and drove off. I sat down, called a friend, and tried to calm myself. It didn't work. The officer hadn't let me down, or neglected his duties in any way, but I didn't feel like I'd been helped. I felt like I'd been served, and no more. Like a transaction had taken place, something robotic, inhuman.

I unlocked my bike and walked through the parking lots. I wrote down the license plate numbers for myself. I also discovered a 3rd truck -- a white Toyota with a camper top -- that I hadn't seen before. I wrote that license plate number down, too, and called the officer to tell him. I felt a surge of determination and hope, and also of fruitlessness and despair. How had the cops missed that car -- the very thing I had described -- in their search? What must the officer think of that biker now? Awfully meddling, no?

I spent an hour sitting in the shower. The hot water stung my wounds at first, but that didn't bother me as much as my bruised knee, which refused to bend beyond 90 degrees. Afterwards, I had a hard time put my socks back on.

I thought about sticking a note on the three trucks: "A bicyclist was hit at 8:20pm on Friday, May 1 while riding westbound on the 3300 block of Powell street by a white truck like this one. Please contact the Emeryville Police Department."

Would that help? Is that legal? And what do I want? I want to find the driver, and...I don't know.

I wouldn't mind a new jacket. But that's not it. I'm not eager to capitalize on my position.

I wouldn't mind pressing charges, but what for? I'm sure the hassle isn't worth it.

I think I just want him to see me. I want him to see me cry, and scream, and vomit, and shit myself at the same time, and for him to know that's what he did to me. That's what he's done to me. I won't be the same out there for a while.