sins of a born-again cyclist

My bike is -- in a word -- beautiful. It's nothing fancy, just a grip-shifting 18-speed Norco hybrid, yet it runs as smooth and quiet as a night in your lover's arms. I love it, I pamper it, I polish it with nothing but my softest old t-shirts, and I even lubricate it every week. I mean, it wasn't expensive, but a boy can't be blamed for wanting it to last forever. It's the only bike I have, after all. Every new scratch it gets (and I'm still at that phase where I try to avoid new ones with every ounce of strength) causes me visible discomfort. If my bicycle could talk, it would say "ting!" with the soft, melodramatic sparkle that television tells us comes from perfect teeth because, man, my bicycle gleams. After many years, I think I finally understand how Pee Wee Herman really must have felt in his opus, Pee Wee's Big Adventure. He had a shiny, red bicycle too, you know. Ok, unlike Pee Wee, I don't quite talk to it yet, but I might as well, what with all the time we spend together. I do think I would embark on a desperate search for it across the wilds of North America if some rotten punk stole it one fine morning. Luckily, said punks seem to understand this, and consequently none have tried to incur my wrath, or break my heart, by doing something so mean.

It had been a good seven years since I was on a bicycle when I bought it, which is why I now consider myself a "born-again." I grew up in the country, where a bike was pretty much the standard for transportation if you ever wanted to span the vast expanses of dirt roads that ran between whatever interesting places to be that might exist. Unfortunately, I never got the hang of traffic, and found it tremendously intimidating. When I moved to the city, the abundance of public transportation made bicycling unnecessary, and the craziness of driving in downtown Ottawa was more than enough of a deterrent when I contemplated the possibilities of cycling around what have been my various and sundry neighborhoods. Still, it always seemed a terrible shame that I wasn't one of the carefree, fit, bronzed -- nay, godlike -- cyclists touring along the scenic canal pathways on a breezy summer day. Nope, instead I was trapped inside the hellish cauldron of a bus, dripping miserably in the stagnant pool of heat, humidity, and human sweat within its poorly ventilated bowels as we made our lurching commute across the city with the agonizing slowness of rush hour traffic. Why, just today I passed a bus packed far beyond its meager ability to seat the poor, perspiring souls inside, who mashed together obscenely close while they barely managed to stand, and I thought humbly about how I used to be just like them. It wasn't long ago, and I know I'm doomed to suffer that agonizing ride again someday, so wisely I spent every racing minute savouring what liberty I presently have. Sure, it's not that bad to take the car or the bus, but on the other hand it's not all that good.

I bought my bicycle to enjoy the freedom of a summer breeze; to hang onto my sanity during the otherwise maddening daily commute to work or school; and to finally overcome the nervousness I feel in traffic, while getting into even better shape. I'm not trying to sound uppity -- just happy. I'm nowhere near the stereotypical hardcore bike courier or eco-warrior that commonly springs to mind (especially in the minds of mundanes... oops, Freudian slip. I mean motorists) with the very mention of the word "cyclist." You know who I'm talking about -- the ferocious, self-righteous guy on a beat-up mountain bike who gives you the finger instead of a hand-signal, and can write "One less car!" on the pavement with his own burning, angry urine, simply by weaving smugly around you in traffic while peeing. With that said, I do urge you all to try it sometime, because it's just been a gorgeous experience for me. Think about it -- blue skies, godlike leg muscles, and (if you keep your mouth open) all the bugs you can eat. Sweet! I mean, for $500, you either could by a really rotten old beater of a car... or, you can buy a particularly shiny new bicycle, and all the incidental equipment you'd need to boot. Ok, it's not so fun in the winter, or the rain... or to another city... but that's, uh, what buses are for, n'est-ce pas?

I'm just trying to qualify my self-righteousness a little. Honestly, I do think it's great. You get luscious breezes, fresh air, a wonderful workout, and a relief from 90% of the stresses that accumulate if you tried to get around any other way. You can avoid the worst streets altogether, especially if your city has good bike paths (or bike lanes), and there's no need to endure the torment of standing for half an hour on an overpacked bus, or the piercing ringing of cell phones. High gas prices driving you insane? Well, who needs gasoline? My sculpted legs are my engine -- my fuel is blueberry muffins. Do you know what muffins cost these days? Pennies!
Admittedly, I'm starting to froth at the mouth here but, after all, there's a good reason I'm comparing myself to a religious convert.