My Dirty Little Secret
Sometimes, I hate riding a bike. I do it every day, most days of the year, and I hate the cold, I hate the routine, I hate how I look when I get off the bike. It's my dirty little secret.
I hate that my shoulders are rounded from years of hanging over a handlebar and I hate that my nose is always runny. I hate drivers who don't see me, I hate dogs off leash, and I hate parents who jaywalk with their school kids without looking both ways.
Most of all I hate the smokers. Not the sociable ones puffing on cigarettes in building doorways, but the car-driving ones who idle at red lights. While they sip on fair-trade coffee and listen to public radio, their tail pipes blow carbon monoxide into my face - every single car, every single red light.
By the time I get to work, I feel grumpy, smelly and unfeminine. My bike's heavy with rain gear, water, clothes, and a U-lock and I have to haul it all up slippery stairs to the back room of my workplace.
Every day, I peel off a micro-fibre shirt, spandex tights, thick socks, and heavy shoes and hang it on hooks behind the door. And every day I must style my hair around helmet cowlicks, glide on lip gloss to hide dry lips, and pull on wrinkled clothes.
Sometimes, I wish I could be like the "normal" women - the ones who wear shoes that won't rest on pedals, skirts that won't stretch over a top tube, and mascara that won't run when they're coasting downhill at 8am. They wear outfits that coordinate with car seats and office chairs. They look groomed. They look grown-up.
They look their age, come to think of it. When I walk pass them on my lunch hour I look into their faces and see cheeks blushed by make-up. Some of them carry duffle bags because they need to get exercise, lose weight, strengthen muscles. Some of them look hungry.
Come afternoon, my office warms with sun and my lungs crave fresh air. I stuff my work clothes into a pannier, pull on stretchy bike clothes and guide my bike down the stairs. I look both ways, throw my leg over the saddle and glide down the back alley, no brakes.
I squeeze the levers when the main road approaches and nod hello to the Italian gardener on the corner. He's been digging at the black earth of his yard for weeks already. Ravens follow his movements from a nearby fig tree, then flap up to a phone pole.
I ride in the same direction and it gets quiet again. A helmeted mum chats with her daughter riding in a trailer behind her. Speed bumps near the school force a car's brake lights, while cyclists behind it continue rolling without a pause.
I scan the next block for a yellow jacket, then see him: the happy mailman. Months ago he caught my eye because - well, he has fabulous legs - but also because he always looks happy. We started off just nodding to each other. I guess he recognized me by my equally bright orange jacket. His happy look made me smile, and he saw my goofy grin and returned it with a wave. A few more weeks, and I waved back, also smiling. Lately, he looks delighted when we pass. I laugh and wave, and he bellows "Have a great weekend!"
Sometimes, I grin for kilometres after that and shake my head at the thrill of it. Sometimes, I feel like I'm in love - not with him, but with the part of the day that he's a part of. I love that the trees on that block are white with blossoms and I love that I can smell them. I love that I can feel air in my throat and I love that my legs are strong with blood and oxygen.
I love that I can pass long lines of cars stopped for a red light that I can ride right up to. I love nodding hi to the squeegee kids who grin and shrug at my bike.
I love that when I get home there's a room especially for the household's bikes, and I love that I can eat cheesecake. I love that my home, my body, and my life are all about riding a bike, and I love that I do it every day, most days of the year. ----------
