I've started riding my bike to work again. For those of you who didn't hear, I was hit by a car while riding my bike last November. The accident left me horribly bruised and sore and left my bike unrideable for a week or so. It also put an early end to my riding season as the weather soon turned too cold to ride. What follows is the 3rd portion of the walk, drive, bike essay that I've posted in parts. This original draft was written and turned in for class before that accident. I will post the final draft another time, in which the accident is mentioned.
My first bike sans training wheels was a used pink Huffy that my parents either bought or got from a family living down the street from us. I was somewhere between the ages of four and eight based on the fact that we were living in Illinois then. I don’t remember much about my bike except a wicker basket that was attached to the front of the handles. I don’t know that I every actually put anything into this basket, but I loved the fact that it was there. I would ride my pink bike up and down the street we lived on – Lincolnshire – with my friend Autumn.
Several weeks ago, I bought my first grown-up bike – a metallic blue and black Giant-brand hybrid comfort bike (though the considerable soreness of my ass would suggest that the comfort part of that description is debatable). My goal was to ride my bike in lieu of taking the CTA whenever possible, and hopefully get in better shape in the process. I am happy to report that I have ridden my bike every day since purchasing it, having now saved at least $40 in CTA fares to and from work and other engagements. Only $258 more until I break even.
When I bought my bike, I was worried about several things. I was concerned about how hot and sweaty I would be upon arriving at my destination after riding there (June through August only, of course). I was embarrassed to admit that I wouldn’t be able to propel the thing very quickly – at least, not at first, I told myself. And I was a little reticent about driving in traffic. Cars are big, and they are scary. As a pedestrian, I always had my own safe place where I could hide from the cars. I only interacted with them when I crossed the street, and since I only did so when the street signs said I could, I crossed with the confidence and self-righteousness of one who knew she had the right-of-way.
I am happy to report after several weeks of riding that the former two concerns were much more legitimate than the latter. I have indeed arrived to various destinations hot and bothered, usually the consequence of the fact that I cannot, in fact, ride very hard without approaching a small myocardial infarction (though I’m getting better, or at least that’s what I tell myself). Chicago drivers, it seems, are used to driving with and around bike riders[1] and are generally sympathetic to their cause. A bike is, after all, like the Flinstone’s car – a self-propelled form of transportation that (without legs like Fred and Barney) goes slower and leaves the rider exposed to the elements.
Riding a bike in Chicago is, thus, much more like driving than walking. Drivers generally get annoyed with everyone on the road – the bike rider slowing traffic because no one can pass, the pedestrian who darts into traffic and then gets stuck midway in the cross-section of cars whizzing by, and the driver who is either too or not enough aggressive in making unprotected left-hand turns. As a bike rider, I get annoyed with everyone, too – the car that zooms by me , the pedestrian who steps out against the light, causing me to either swerve (thanks to the relative narrowness of a bike) or break hard (a real danger on a bike, as the rider may end up head over heels, and not in a romantic way), and the bike rider who is disobeying traffic rules – passing me to ride through a red light or turn on a corner with a large black-and-white “No turn on red” sign.
Riding a bike as a form of transportation around an American (read: many large cars) metropolis (read: expensive cars) has a variety of challenges, elemental, physical and sociological. The elements of Chicago that pose the great threat to a bike rider are undoubtedly wind and cold. Riding in any wind causes my eyes to water copiously at the onset of my journey, even when wearing glasses. Riding into the wind is a whole different story. Several days ago, on my way to work, I was riding north on Dearborn. Nearing the turn-off to North Avenue at the base of Lincoln Park, I realized that I was pumping vigorously but barely moving. Winter is approaching in Chicago, and the windy city will soon no longer be home to the “friendly confines” of summer. Likewise, as the weather turns colder, no amount of layering will protect the chill that starts in the fingers and eventually overtakes the ears. The only things that hurts more than the wind and cold against the ears, of course, is the thawing out of the ears in the aftermath. Beyond the elements, Chicago, fortunately, is about as flat a terrain as any bike rider could hope for – unlike, say, San Francisco. Hence, the physicality of bike riding in Chicago is subdued to a level at which someone like me can do it. The sheer act of propelling oneself, however, has its terrifying moments. Consider a common occurrence on my daily ride to work: riding north on Lincoln Avenue, I encounter several intersections where at least three streets meet – for example, Lincoln, Halsted, Fullerton, and Sedgewick. The layout of the intersection is such that the distance from one side of a light to other is more considerable than the standard two road intersection. Hence, if I cross the starting line just prior to the light changing, it becomes – green light – oh no, yellow – pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal – oh, please don’t honk at me – the light was still green when I left – until I reach the safety of the finish line on the other side. For a cyclist (see footnote), this might not be a problem, but for a 5’2” (mostly torso and head) recreational exerciser, it can be.
The sociological implications of being a bike rider have to do with perspective. As a pedestrian, I know sidewalks and parks with paths. As a bike rider, I know streets and how many lanes they have, which have a bike lane, and which are one-way. I know which streets have mainly stop signs and which have traffic lights. I know where it’s easy to make a left-hand turn, places where there are actually protected arrows, and where it’s tough and requires a combination of walking the bike across a crosswalk and then rejoining traffic. Being a bike rider has also changed my perspective on entitlement – what’s my right as a bike rider. I probably will never become a person who writes or signs anything in support of additional bike lanes in the city. I will, however, bitch at length about the people who double-park in the bike lanes around the city, causing me to pull hesitantly into traffic and veer around the car – only after checking my rear view for a car that might take offense and try to go around me, thus pushing me into the parked car –because that space is mine. But, even as a bike rider with growing confidence (and ability, let’s not forget), I will never forget that cars are bigger than me, and that it’s my job to look around because I don’t know who won’t see me. It’s why I wear a helmet, and why I follow the rules.
[1] Throughout this essay, I will refer to myself as a “bike rider” because I feel that “cyclist” refers to someone with far greater skill and interest in biking than me. Note that there do exist any number of “cyclists” in the city of Chicago, not to be confused with, though possibly grouped with “bike messengers” who are as scary to a “bike rider” as cars themselves. The term “biker” is reserved for that questionable group of people who ride what is commonly referred to in Chicago as a “donorcycle.”
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