RIDING TO WORK is not for the timid. How does one begin? Perhaps by seeing your co-worker fly by while you’re waiting for the goddamn bus to come, day after day, then finally asking if you can ride with her.
That’s what happened with ace Seattle Weekly staff photographer Robin Laananen—distinctly an anti-jock but now my unofficial Bike Buddy. She was encouraged by my ancient women’s Peugeot 10-speed, my jumbo-sized front basket, and my bright-orange ’70s helmet that looks like a half-pumpkin stuck on top of my head. For me, bicycling isn’t about suffering. Sometimes I get off and walk. Real bike people think I look dumb and that my “equipment” sucks; well, I am a real bike person, and right back at you, spandex jackass.
Not to sound hostile, but volunteers for King County Metro’s official Bike Buddy program to promote two-wheeled commuting are the bike-geekingest bike geeks ever. This became all too apparent when I attended a recent mentor training meeting.
First, there’s free pizza (all vegetarian). Then, introductions: One guy’s here to help others bike commute, but also, he says tensely, because of a sense of rage— he’s tired of being pushed to the side of the road. Another gentleman relates how his mother rode her bicycle to the hospital to give birth to him (by C-section, but still, damn!). They’re all decked out in special tights and shoes and packs. The crazy thing is that I drove here. The other crazy thing is, apparently, that I’m a girl; our leader is a female, but the mentors-to-be are overwhelmingly male—and, per our leader, those seeking mentoring are almost always female. Aha! ‘Tis spring, and, mayhaps, the thoughts of youngish bike geeks turn, with the appropriate hand signal, to love?
I CANDIDLY REVEAL that I’m not a five-day-a-week, all-season bicycle commuter. This is met by a silence. I’m here because my friend from work wants to ride with me, I say. “Does she ride?” someone asks. It dawns on me that, according to these people, I don’t ride. I bridle. “Well, she knows how to ride a bicycle, so yes, I’d say so.” I now feel quite the pariah and am subsequently lost in a 90-minute orgy of bike geek-speak (eight- panel chamois shorts! Panniers! Etc.!).
After this, I should feel inadequate, but the morn of Robin’s inaugural ride is auspicious: The sun is shining, the goddamn birds are chirping. We’ll start at the gas station on Broadway and Pine to air up her tires before pedaling to the SW office downtown.
My instructions are brief but authoritative: Roll up your pants leg. (Robin is wearing sparkly socks—now that’s equipment!) Wear your helmet. Watch out for opening car doors and turning cars. Act like you’re driving. Wave at the nice crazy man in front of Pacific Place yelling unintelligibly about the Seattle police being communist. Robin wants to know if it’s OK that she’s already smoked a cigarette. (Hey—smoke while you ride; it’s not against the law.) And we’re off.
We roll down Pine at a gentle pace; it’s 10 a.m., and there’s no traffic. I keep glancing back, and there she is—my cute bike prot駩e. She’s calm as we turn onto Second; at the corner of Pike we shout jokes about scoring some crack. (Those poor souls look terrible in the morning sun.) A few more blocks and we’re there, unscathed. Robin agrees that it’s not so bad: “Wakes you up!” she says—indeed.
Granted, her bike has now sat dormant at the office for several days; it remains to get her back up Capitol Hill. I’m thinking she may be lured with the promise of stopping midway at Linda’s and getting a beer or three on the back deck—now that’s how you ride, Buddy!
Bike Buddy information: Bicycle Alliance, 224-9252, www.bicyclealliance.org.
