Destry Rides Again

Today was Car-Free Day in the Boston area. It gave me an opportunity to reprise my Bike-To-Work Journal from May.

My co-workers tell me that the articles I wrote in May were my best writing to date; however, most of them seem to remember only the picture of me wearing my 70s-style bowl-shaped bicycle helmet. That picture had an effect on my career similar to the effect that the tank-riding helmet had on Michael Dukakis's presidential campaign. It's difficult to exhort employees to Discipline and Self-Control when you know they call you Bowlhead behind your back.

The conscientious reader will recall that nasty weather on Friday of Bike-to-Work Week thwarted my plan to ride my thirty-year-old Motobecane to work. Today began clear and cool, however, so I decided to pull the Motobecane out of the basement and see how the cycle-commuting world had changed since May.

I wore my bowl today. This summer, I bought my son and my wife new helmets, but I kept my old one, figuring that I hadn't fallen on it yet, so it hadn't earned out its purchase price. (My wife and son's helmets are pretty nice, and I am tempted to pick one up for myself. They are way futuristic: my family looks like they're from Star Trek: Deep Space Nine; I look like Plan 9 from Outer Space.) I carried my cell-phone, with 911 on the speed-dial as usual; and my Palm Pilot, in case I had to beam some instructional messages to passing motorists.

I was a little concerned because of recent indications of a revolt among the lower species. First, there was the dreaded outbreak of East Nile Virus among mosquitoes in the Jamaica Pond/Emerald Necklace park area, sending crows to the Next Life and tripling the sales of Off at the local CVS. Then this morning, the ever-vigilant Boston Herald reported that, on the Riverway, right on my commuting route, a motorist had been attacked by a squirrel, which had leapt out of a tree, through her open sunroof, and onto her head. (Throwing off journalistic restraints, the Herald ran a front-page teaser: "Psycho Squirrel: crazed critter drops in on pregnant driver.") If this attack was a harbinger of a larger Emerald-Necklace rodent uprising, how much more attractive would I be, with my large reflective head and hunched-over, fully-exposed back, traveling at the speed of easy prey? In spite of these worries, I pressed ahead. God gave Man dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air, and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth, and I wasn't going to be the guy who gave it back because of one psycho squirrel.

Automobile traffic was heavy. It looked as though most Massachusetts citizens thought it was Car Day. Though there did seem to be a few more cyclists (and I didn't check the subways), it looked like few drivers were moved to abandon their cars, even for one nice, cool, early Fall day. My advice to oil companies: jack up gasoline prices another six bits. You've got 'em. People will eat beans out of a can and put raggedy clothes on their children before they'll leave their cars at home.

I had only two hair-raising experiences, both, surprisingly, in liberal Brookline. One occurred when I turned left off Brookline Avenue to take a couple of side streets to reach the Muddy River bike path. I made my turn as the left-turn arrow changed from yellow to red, and I attempted to move to the right of the street onto which I'd turned. I'd forgotten an important Rule of Massachusetts Driving: you can go through a red light for ten seconds after it turns, provided you don't look at cross traffic and you accelerate until you exceed the speed limit for the road. So, as I pulled over, I came to sense a large, dark, hurtling presence to the right of me. The driver honked indignantly, thus invoking The Rule. I pulled back hastily.

As I rounded the next corner, I met up with a Saab traveling at great speed toward me. I was going in the proper direction on a one-way street, but the Saab was obeying another Massachusetts Driving Rule: You can go the wrong way on a one-way street if you do so in reverse. (Saabs are good for this: I believe they have more than one reverse gear.)

I was between this Saab driver and a parking space. He was, I suspect, a Nietzchean (like most Saab drivers), and he believed, as Nietzche taught us, "God is dead; so find your own parking space." Just as there are no atheists in foxholes, there are no liberals in prime parking areas. I swerved and avoided him. He parked. I hope he didn't know I was there because he drove as if he didn't.

Other than those incidents, my trip was very pleasant. I wouldn't trade Fall in New England for anywhere else in the world. The trees are beautiful, the breezes mild and pleasant, and the light is muted as the slanting sunlight filters through the leaves. As I rode along the Muddy River, I saw a family of ducks, swimming in line. The ducklings were nearly indistinguishable in size from their parents, but they followed them with the innocent devotion of childhood. I wonder if they have any idea of what's in store for them in the next month. Pedestrians and other cyclists greeted me pleasantly; there is much more time for human interaction at speeds under 40 mph.

My thirty-year-old bicycle was wonderful. It showed no signs of age. I glided along with almost no resistance; I was hardly aware of the presence of a vehicle underneath me. Keep your mountain bikes that can rappel down the sides of office buildings; I like a bike that rolls.

I didn't have much trouble with the speedy thighmaster cyclists this morning. In fact, I had one pleasant experience. A young, fit, female cyclist passed me at great speed on Carlton Street. I grumbled for a moment, but then I got a whiff of a pleasant floral scent, its heaviness cut by an undertone of citrus. This cyclist was wearing perfume! I was in love. I watched her disappear in the next block, but she left behind a beautiful but fading olfactory trail. I considered stalking her, but, quite frankly, I lacked the tone.

I was pleased to see that the City of Cambridge took my earlier complaints about their ineffectual bike lanes to heart. They have now painted these lanes Electric Blue, as if that offensive color would keep motorists from traveling there. Electric Blue! Take that, you Nietzchean Saab drivers! I think they determine the width of these lanes by parking a car and opening the driver's-side door. If you venture out of the lane, you're legal game for outraged drivers; if you stay in the lane, you're at the mercy of parked drivers opening their doors. How do you want to go today?

So, I'm at work, feeling pretty pleased with myself. I got some aerobic exercise, communed with nature, had a fleeting romance, and cheated death, and it's only 9:30. I think I'll check my email.

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