buying a bike is like falling in love

Really! It’s super emotional. And you kind of take a chance, too.
Riding around the store and around the block is like a first date. Some dating folks don’t call the first date a date. They call it “the obligatory introductory drink”, or “date zero”, and all sorts of other un-date-like things. But I digress!
So, you take some bikes out for a test drive, and you probably know that none of them is likely to be perfect. But you need a bike, just one bike, cause your last one tried to kill you, and you’re going to find one that’s pretty close, and gives you what you need.
Then you try one that’s really beautiful and comfortable, and it’s the right size, and colour and you can afford it. And you buy it, but there’s so much still to find out about it. Stuff you’ll only notice as you spend a little time with it, er, on it.
T​he only difference is, with a bike, if it’s not quite right, you can make it over and it doesn’t take offence. ​And it doesn’t break up with you. In fact you have to count on customizing your bike a little bit.  Even then you can’t have everything.
Especially if you’ve ever had your bike stolen. It’s a bit like being widowed, because what bike will ever measure up to the one that got away!
For example, I was looking for something very much like my old Miele, my beautiful lovely 40’s style two-tone white-walled Miele, that made old ladies and children smile! Upright, so my hands don’t hurt from leaning over, but not all the way upright, which makes it harder to maneuver. Something with winter tires, something low maintenance, with elegant lines, wide handlebars. Then I also wanted internal gears, … And as time passes, how long till I get used to the different shape? Does everything really work right? Is the bike going to live up to its name, to its promise of durability?
OK, never mind. Buying a bike is nothing like falling in love, …except now that I’ve fixed it all up, and it’s standing in my living room, I just can’t stop looking at it.

free bike

Got waved over by a police officer the other day. He was kind of friendly looking, and I reluctantly and dutifully stopped and he said, hi there, would you like to register your bike with the Toronto police? Behind him I saw some people milling about at a table near the entrance of the station on this beautiful late summer day. Makes it easier to keep track of it in case it gets stolen, he said, just takes 5 minutes. We’ll take your name and your serial number….
I don’t have a serial number, I thought.
Last year I bought an old bike. A banged up cornflower blue 1973 Raleigh cruiser. A pretty thing, especially with the purple bell, and the yellow and violet flowers on the baskets. I tried to register it back then, because my previous bike had been stolen, but when I finally found the place where the serial number should be I noticed it had been ground off. There’s probably only one reason someone would grind off a serial number. So my little Dusty has history, I thought. Good for her. In more recent  history, since I’ve owned her, she also lost the use of one of her three gears, and one of her brakes.
But she runs. I should say she ran. That changed later that day. Well, wait, she still runs! It’s the stopping that’s the problem! Or the lack of stopping. And it’s a fluke I didn’t get seriously mangled.
Old rusty Dusty tried to kill me, you see, but timing is everything, and hasty Dusty jumped the gun and missed.
I’ve been looking at new bikes. Dusty wasn’t supposed to be a permanent solution, but what I want is very expensive. I was still contemplating putting some money into Dusty instead, but she would never be what I wanted her to be, so to be honest, I just put off the decision, frankly at the cost of my safety, and I’m a bit embarrassed about it.

I said to the officer, that was a great idea, but that I couldn’t do it right now, and he said I could also do it online, and I said, I’ll definitely do that!
Then I went to visit a friend.
On my way home I was slowing down at the end of my friend’s side street about to turn left, and down a very steep hill, but Dusty’s only working brake snapped inside the handle, and I was entirely brakeless, but coasting to a halt towards the edge of the main road.
I took a moment to consider the fate I’d just escaped. Then I made a decision that today was the first and last time Dusty and I would take the bus, and that tomorrow would be bike shopping day.

Taking the bus was fun. A couple of guys showed up at the bus stop, too. Really interesting characters carrying clear garbage bags full of old stuffed animals. One of them knew how to work the rack on the front of the bus and racked my bike for me. I knew in theory, had watched a video on YouTube, but had never done it. Getting the bike off was easy, but I forgot to flip the rack back up, and the bus driver had to come out, and reprimand me.
The next day I got a ride from a friend to the bike shop, tried out 3 bikes, and fell in love with the most expensive one. The mechanic gave it a little tune up, made sure everything was symmetrical, and tight, and buffed up the warm matte white body with a soft cloth. I said don’t make it too shiny or someone will steal it right from under me – just push me off: I want that! and ride away on my new bike.
At the cash register, the sales guy asked me if I had a good lock, then he told me my receipt had my serial number on it, and the website where I should register my bike with the Toronto police.
I hugged my “driver”, sent him home, and my new friend and I took our first, somewhat shaky, trip together. Everything works! What a treat.
I spent a lot of money, and I’m not quite done spending, but when I think about the money I’ve saved on bus fare in the last 5 years, it’s sort of like I’ve got a free bike!

so you wanna be treated like a grown-up

The other day, probably the last fine beach day this year, I was riding on a curbside bike path with my blanket in my back basket, thinking about catching the 9:30 am ferry to cityside paradise and lounging and chatting. I noticed a car creep up beside me and follow my speed. A police car, actually. The driver started talking to me. The officer, actually, started talking to me, and it took a moment to occur to me that I should probably stop.
He’d been telling me how he saw me cross the intersection back there on a red light, and how I shouldn’t do that, because then he has to give me a three hundred and fifty-five dollar ticket.
Did he say $355?, I thought!
No, I hadn’t! I crossed the first part of a two part pedestrian crossing on the pedestrian green, then hovered there waiting for the second part – and car traffic – to turn green. Of course, I didn’t say that, because I wanted to catch the ferry, and because that would have opened up a whole other discussion about why I thought it was ok not to dismount on a pedestrian crossing. $85 fine.
Oh, I said, with my most earnest and patient ferry-catching face. Sorry. OK. And since he didn’t seem inclined to write me said ticket, I quietly said, Thank you.
He reiterated once more that I can’t just do that, and I said thank you once more. And OK. And he moved on.
Whew.  $355! Did you know that? I had no idea. Last I checked the Ministry of Transportation the average fine was 85 dollars!
Today I did a little more research. Not my strong suit, but here is some information I found on the website of a group of “paralegals and former police officers” – not sure when this is dated; the fine seems to have gone up:
A red light ticket has four different penalties:

• Three demerit points
• A three hundred and twenty five ($325.00) dollar fine
• A conviction registered on your driving record for three years
• Possible insurance increases
• Determination of fault in accident cases

So you wanna take ownership of your part of the road, and be treated just like any other vehicle. I suppose it’s best to start behaving like one.  …355 dollars…..

maybe today

I’m not big on bike gear.  I’m not big on gear in general. Winter gear, coats, gloves, face cover. Or photography gear, tripods, lenses, flashes. All that is so cumbersome! That’s why I like the beach. Just me, barefoot and stuff, and the water.
So on a day to day basis I can’t stand carrying too much shit around, especially a change of clothes.  I don’t wear bike shorts and running shoes, and I don’t wear a helmet which has come up in debates many times.
So, I’m wearing my winter boots today. It’s a bit early but they’re new and cute and I wanted to give them a head start, see how they feel. They feel big. Makes me extra cautious, and a little paranoid.
Makes me think maybe today is the day for a mishap.  My foot will slip off the pedal when I stand up to push up a hill, or I’ll lose my balance going too slow on the sidewalk and fall onto a pedestrian, or get doored, or clipped from behind by a driver passing too close, forget to shoulder check before going around a pothole, choke on a song from my iPod, get into a fistfight with an arrogant driver, pedestrian, fellow cyclist, get my sleeve caught on the handle bar while reaching up to scratch my nose and accidentally veer into the path of a Mack Truck, get my miniskirt caught under my seat and fall over on the dismount. Or maybe today my front tire will suddenly come loose while I’m speeding down a hill.
These days are not about the shoes of course, or maybe the change in footware triggers a general anxiety, and that does make it harder to set out, to be honest. I get hyper aware of how vulnerable I am in the midst of people protected by metal frames, and that can be just as dangerous as not paying attention at all. I see things that aren’t there, red lights that aren’t mine, too many situations that could occur. I spend precious moments thanking the universe I wasn’t killed just now, moments that could be spent trying not to get killed.

And then it happened. I stopped on the Bloor viaduct on the way to a friend’s house for dinner and chats, to take some notes in the evening autumn sunshine. Getting back on my bike and about to merge into busy 6 pm bike lane traffic, my foot settled on the pedal at a weird angle and my right heel hit the chain guard on the way up and bent it into the way of the crank. I coasted back to the curb, got off and kicked the rusty chain guard back into place with my new winter boot.
Honestly, on an ordinary day, I think I ride slowly and comfortably enough to get along with regular clothing, but I contemplated again the proper shoes, and the skin tight jerseys. Yup, they serve a purpose.

recovery

No, I didn’t have an accident!
But isn’t life full of little accidents? What I mean is, there are parameters within which we can allow ourselves to be out of control.
For example: Last winter I wrote about how I watched a cyclist pass me on his massive easy step-through Biria slipping and sliding in a thick growing layer of fluffiness without a care, because he knew that he would slip only so far and still right himself automatically. His thick tires slid down into the unexpected grooves of the uneven ground hidden under the fresh snow, but that did not disturb my fellow rider, who rode on with certainty of his graceful recovery. He soon was out of sight, and I followed on foot in his tracks.
This made me think that we recover all the time, in fact each step we take is a miniscule ever so brief loss of balance. Between the time when we pick up one foot and the time we put it down in front of the other we trust that we will land safely on both feet again.
If I may digress and say this applies so much more broadly. It applies to art, and music, and relationships. It’s about trust, and experience, and skill.
A brush stroke comes out the way it does not because the artist controls every split second, and every angle of every individual muscle in her hand, but because she has made many brush strokes before, and experienced a pattern in their outcome.
A singer can allow a note to come out false and harsh, only to glide into key, and resolve in the most beautiful sound. It’s even more desirable and interesting than a singer who is always in control.
What would our relationships be like if we didn’t get a chance to fight and make up? How much anxiety would we experience from the constant fear of conflict?
So, how do we determine these parameters? How do we determine how far out of control is too far?
Practise and experience help us gain the skills to make graceful barely noticeable recoveries all day, and keep our lives exciting.