Stoplights

Stoplights are both an opportunity and an irritation when attempting to commute via bicycle. They require unclipping one’s feet from the pedals, deciding whether to advance alongside the curb along the right side of vehicles toward “the front of the line”, or to wait at the end of the pack and risk not making it through the intersection with the next green light. Stoplights break comfortable cadence, force me out of my cycling-induced subconscious ruminations, and typically mean inhaling plenty of auto exhaust. Weight- or magnet- activated stoplights don’t respond to the presence of a bicyclist, leaving me trapped waiting for a car to come along and trigger the device, or risk running the red-light when cross traffic clears.

So, what’s the opportunity? People watching. Specifically, people-in-cars watching. A parade of glass, chrome, plastic, and metal encased humanity. Men, women, and children in the four-wheeled home-away-from-home and, apparently, multipurpose kitchen, office, and bathroom. You’ve seen it…people eating, flossing, dressing, writing, reading, and applying make-up at 65 mph. And why does anyone think that picking their nose is a private affair when the car provides a 360-degree panoramic view through glass?

As I waited at the cross-section of one of Bowling Green’s busiest streets with my relatively quiet road, the view from my seat was quite interesting. For instance, it appears that the size of the vehicle is inversely proportional to the number of occupants. A Hummer® is unlikely to carry more than one or two passengers, and appears to be the vehicle of choice of young, petite, attractive females. Can you say “man magnet”? Also, the age of any given vehicle does not appear to be related to the age of the driver. What happened to sixteen year-olds being the proud owner of a beat-up old clunker? I see kids who wear Clearasil® and can’t grow a sizeable mustache piloting $40,000 SUV’s, while parents travel in a 1984 Honda Accord held together with Liquid-Nail® and prayer. Also, classic vehicles are back. By that I mean that there seem to be a healthy number of well kept 1970-era Volkswagen beetles on the road. Who doesn’t have a memory, and personal story, involving a “bug”?

As I watched, it seemed that one out every two drivers held a cell phone to their ear. Whether there were other occupants in the car appeared irrelevant to driver-chat on the cell phone. In one vehicle the driver and passenger were each talking on a phone – do you think it was to each other? I wonder if we will soon have a whole new orthopedic injury called Cell Phone Elbow? The sufferer will be unable to fully extend the affected arm due to hours of flexion holding the gadget to their ear. Surgery schedules will be packed with patients scheduled for removal of wireless earpieces that have become imbedded in the ear canal. Twelve Step programs will spring up as cell phone users realize that their lives have become unmanageable and they need a higher power to relieve them of reliance on cell communication 24-7.

Other observations: Compact cars seem to carry groups of three or four, and at least one passenger is unusually tall. Cars carrying large retrievers or labs have drivers who look like someone I’d like to know. Black cars don’t sport bumper stickers. And someone needs to do an infomercial on how to successfully trap a child in their car seat. Personally, I think extra strength Velcro applied to the child’s bottom and the car seat would be a fine start, but that’s just me.

As the light finally turned green, and I huffed and puffed to get rolling again, an old Willie Nelson tune came to mind. So…with apologies to Mr. Nelson:

Mama don't let your babies grow up to be drivers
Don't give 'em new autos and drive them old trucks
Make 'em be riders and walkers and such.

Mama don't let your babies grow up to be drivers
They'll never stay home and they're always alone
Even with someone they love.

Never Ride Alone

It wasn’t a fluke. While cycling down Veteran’s Drive recently, four – count ‘em – four drivers of pick-up trucks honked at me. Honked! As my future daughter-in-law asked that night at dinner, “Why would they honk at YOU?” Her question, however intended, doesn’t bother me. I am serene in the knowledge that guys driving pick-up trucks have either: #1) great taste in women or #2) really bad eyesight.

But, seriously, let’s talk about daily cycling. Author Jeff Galloway, in his book, “Marathon” writes that athletes have to balance the angel on one shoulder, (who urges them out of bed on early mornings and encourages them to continue running despite leg cramps, shin splints, and blisters), with the devil on the opposite shoulder, (who points out every ache and pain and says “just one day off won’t hurt”). Frankly, I don’t have an angel or a devil on either shoulder.

No. I have a pair of siblings. On my left shoulder is a 6-year-old with attention-deficit-disorder. You know, he’s full of misplaced energy, talkative, and annoying. The kind of kid who would kick the back of your airline seat all the way from Nashville to….oh…Yugoslavia. On my right shoulder is a 13 year-old with PMS and a serious attitude issue. She is armed with an iPod and a cell phone.

On a recent late afternoon ride I had barely left the neighborhood when ADD speaks up, “Are we there yet?”

“Of course we’re not there yet, stupid,” PMS answers. “She peddles so slow, we’ll never get there. Have we EVER gotten there?” PMS continues, “I don’t think she even knows where there is – we just go, go, go and eventually end up right back where we started.” I mentally tell them both to pipe down and enjoy the scenery. It’s not a full minute before I hear a whiny voice say, “I’m boooor-red. There’s nothing to see, except people and cars. I could do that at home and watch TV too.” I ignore ADD and pedal on, after all, soon we’ll be out in the peaceful countryside and there will be cows, corn, and roadkill for entertainment.

Now PMS has turned up the iPod so loud I can not only hear the music but feel the bass vibration. Mentally I say, “Turn it down, Toots.” Seconds later a modified low-slung Honda Civic passes me, the driver practically laying flat in his driving position and thumping music blaring from the car stereo. “See,” says PMS, “You always blame me for everything. I don’t know why I have to go along on these stupid rides. You are so lame. No one else’s Mom decides that menopause is the time to ride a bike. Couldn’t you just get a hybrid car for your mid-life crisis? I want to go home, RIGHT NOW.” I hear her dial the cell phone.

I can’t make out much of PMS’s phone call, although I hear the words “road hostage” and “prisoner”. The reason that I can’t hear is because ADD has decided to entertain himself by playing the alphabet game, you know: “A, my name is Adam and I have an apple.” Except ADD has decided to use body parts in his song: “’A’ my name is Adam and I have an aching ass. ‘B’ my name is Bob and I have a big butt. ‘C’ my name is Calvin and …” I try to tune them both out by counting cadence.

My ride continues. ADD has to use the restroom, needs a snack, has loose shoes, learns how to make fart noises with his hands, and asks “are we there yet” approximately once a minute. PMS pouts, picks fights, criticizes my cycling clothes, helmet, gloves, and camelback, and threatens to call Child Protection Services if we don’t “go home right now.” I feel a bit like John Nash in A Beautiful Mind, except I know these kids aren’t real, they are creations of my fat cells desperately trying to avoid eradication.

So, I never really cycle alone. I have a group ride even when I’m all by myself. Who rides with you?