JUST LIKE IN the movies, my memory plays back those few
seconds of action in slow motion. The car turns slowly toward
me, the wide hood with its luxury ornament moving steadily forward,
past the point where it should have stopped. I have time to tell
my legs to pedal faster, but they don't have time to respond.
The car hits me just below the knee. There's no pain connected
with the moment of impact, and I'm completely conscious as I somersault
through the air. I even have time to congratulate myself for wearing
a helmet before my head hits the curb.
I roll to a sitting stop, still feeling nothing. Looking up,
I wonder if I've died and gone to "Life in Hell"--a
dozen befezzed Akhbars and Jeffs have gathered around me, heads
bent, tassels dangling. but now the pain in my leg tells me I've
still very much alive. I realize I'm sitting in the bike lane
at the mouth of the Shriner Hall driveway, blocking the way to
one of their dress-up functions. I suspect my leg is broken.
That's how one of my life's favorite chapters ended--the chapter
I might call "Pedal-Pushing 40." The year and a half
that I went carless, using my bicycle to get me where I needed
to go, a time in my life when I seemed to have more time, miraculously,
having given up the faster of my two vehicles.
I had toyed with the idea of kicking the air-fouling, money-sucking,
smelly, risky auto habit for years. For a long time it was a nice
but impossible dream. Every time I drove somewhere I found myself
asking, Could I have done this without a car? The answer
was usually no. I knew I couldn't possibly have hauled those groceries
on a bike. I couldn't possibly have taken care of that dental
appointment on my lunch hour, picked up my daughter, or carried
that lumber home without my car.
So why was I thinking about getting rid of my steel-belted radial
wheels?
I like to think the idea had its roots in my budding social conscience.
We think idealism belongs to the young, but I suspect that more
often than not, awareness of where we fit into the world and what
we're doing with it--or to it--is a part of truly growing
up. Some people never get there. In my case, conscience seemed
to be creeping up on me slowly, like weight gain and wrinkles.
It was becoming increasingly hard to ignore the vast amount of
information out there about the serious side effects of our driving
habit. The death toll from accidents or the brown haze that's
come between us and our once-beautiful mountain views are immediate
and undeniably real. Other side effects, like the depletion of
fossil fuels or the alteration of normal weather patterns, aren't
quite so much in our face, and are easier not to think about.
Still others are not usually talked about except in conjunction
with other problems, such as overflowing landfills where giant
piles of used tires now give us a whole new kind of "mountain"
view.
But I wasn't motivated by some kind of neurotic "global
guilt." I knew I hadn't caused this mess, and I had no illusions
that my automotive abstinence was going to make a significant
dent in Tucson's traffic problems or the state of the earth. I
did want to find out what I could do, however. I wanted
to see just how completely I could free myself from dependence
on what I saw as a failing urban system: mobility based on the
auto.
That sense of freedom and independence was important. It appealed
to the you-can't-make-me attitude I probably picked up as a 2-year-old.
Who said I had to spend this huge chunk of my money on car payments,
gas, license fees, insurance, repairs, oil changes, security systems,
seat covers, car washes and parking?
The idea offered that thrill of getting something (transportation)
for nothing (well, almost nothing; I still needed a helmet and
lights). And I had the genes of my great-grandmother, do-it-yourselfer
Johanna Okerson Nelson, the woman who wove a wall-to-wall carpet
out of swamp reeds so she wouldn't have to live with a dirt floor
like the other peasants in her village. The woman who stood outside
a rich man's walled orchard until a bird with a pear in its mouth
flew overhead, so she could yell "Drop that!" and catch
the fruit as it fell from the sky. Would such a woman have shelled
out big bucks to ride around in a metal box that heated up its
inner atmosphere to 80 degrees higher than the already sweltering
desert air? I didn't think so.
Still, time is money. What would it cost me time-wise to trade
in my car for a slower-moving vehicle?
Right off, you have to ask whether the bicycle actually is
slower. I'd been noticing those bicyclists who would pull up on
my right at the stoplights, fall behind after the green signal,
then catch up with me again at the next light. They got to do
things I couldn't, like scoot up on the sidewalk or make right-hand
turns into a bike lane without having to wait for the line of
cars to pass.
A couple trial runs told me that during rush hour my five-mile
trip to the office actually did take me about 20 minutes longer
by bike. But I planned to combine my daily exercise time with
my commute time. The drive to the health club, along with the
hour of exercise, was costing me more than an hour and a half
each day, so I stood to gain almost an hour right there.
The idea of driving somewhere to get on a stationary
bicycle--or treadmill or stair machine--had always seemed silly
to me. We've developed all kinds of labor-saving devices, only
to realize our bodies actually need physical exertion. So we've
developed labor-creating devices. And we use them both,
paying double: car expenses and health club dues, driving
time and exercise time.
I've heard that Humboldt State University's Center for Appropriate
Technology in Arcata, California, is coming up with more energy-sensible
ideas, such as a bicycle-powered washing machine. I like to think
about what a bicycle-powered TV could do for this country--if
we all had and used them. We'd watch less, get fit, and collectively
save millions on our electrical bills. Without waiting for these
devices to hit the market, though, I could at least put the principle
of useful exercise into practice by using my bicycle to get around
town.
AS IT TURNED out the decision to renounce my car wasn't
scary, dramatic, or logically thought out. It wasn't even a decision--the
thing renounced me first. Surely the name for this car, Ford Escort,
was chosen because of its need for a more reliable companion vehicle
to accompany it at all times. One day I faced a $400 repair, and
I decided to put it off as long as possible.
Three months later, my "escort" was still sitting in
my driveway, accumulating bird turds. I realized I didn't need
it any more. By that time, I had worked out most of the logistical
problems.
The first was transporting my daughter, Anna. At 10, she was
too old for a bike seat, but not quite old enough to ride long
distances safely and speedily on her own bike, even if I rode
with her. I'd checked out tandems and found them too pricey. But
one day we discovered a swell old classic Columbia tandem in mint
condition at a secondhand shop on Fourth Avenue. The shop owner
was asking only $225 for it, and would throw in a three-month,
$200-back guarantee if it didn't suit our purposes.
"Our" turned out to be a key word. It took all I had
in my bag of parenting tricks to convince Anna that if she wanted
to go anywhere, she would ride this bike. With her mom.
As much as she hated getting on that bike, those rides contributed
to our relationship in a unique way. We became part of the same
organism, with me yelling commands ("Brakes!" "Signal
right!") and Anna following through like one of my own limbs.
I could feel the pumping of her legs like a heartbeat behind me,
and her occasional bursts of intense energy gave me direct physical
relief. Though I had twinges of guilt about forcing her into it,
I know it was okay, because every once in a while she'll get that
nostalgic look on her now-teenage face and say, "Mom, remember
when we used to, like, ride the tandem around town? Wasn't that
just so fun?"
It was fun, not just the rides with Anna but my rides to work,
too. On my bike I was a couple thousand pounds lighter and a lot
quieter--literally, of course, but also in spirit. Ah, endorphins!
The morning ride woke me up and gave me energy for work, and the
return trip burned off any residues of stress I had accumulated
from the job. I no longer needed time to unwind once I got home.
There were times when facing the weather was not fun. Hot days
were OK: I could jump on a breeze machine instead of crawling
into a solar oven on wheels. But cold days were tough. I couldn't
wear warm clothes because I'd only need to peel them off as soon
as I got going. And sometimes the thought of leaving my warm bed
to face the chill in my shirtsleeves was enough to make me hit
the snooze button more than once. But the actual misery lasted
only a couple minutes; after riding a few blocks I was warmed
up and feeling virtuous.
That's "virtuous" as in "environmentally correct,"
I suppose, but also as in strong and tough--words
I would never have used to describe myself before.
I once read a quote from an Indian tribal leader who had just
welcomed a handful of young men home after they finished studying
at the white man's college. The men were ruined, he said, no longer
able to withstand cold temperatures or sleep on the ground. That's
me, I thought then, pale and soft like Wonder Bread, always
the kid who liked to sit right next to the heater and read.
That sense of myself changed. I wasn't a wimp anymore.
Co-workers offered me rides if it was raining at quitting time,
but it was usually more trouble trying to load my bike into their
car than to just take off in the rain. There was always that initial
shock--like diving into a swimming pool, but after that the exuberant
2-year-old puddle splasher in me took over. Once I really did
take a dive--the curb was so far under water that I didn't know
it was there until I found myself lying next to it. I didn't get
hurt (just very wet) but it was a near-tragedy nonetheless--for
reasons that didn't become clear until Anna met me at our front
door, phone in hand. "Mom!" she whispered, "This
lady says she found your purse bobbing up and down on Speedway."
One logistical problem remained: carrying things. I could have
installed baskets on my bike (those rattling metal things that
separate the commuter nerd from the recreational cyclist, if the
clothes haven't given it away already) or, like my friend Brad,
rigged up a cart to haul the really big stuff. But what I already
had on hand proved to be sufficient--a backpack, cardboard boxes,
a rear-wheel clamp, and a bungee cord or two. Except for the purse
I almost lost, I was managing pretty well, carrying up to $80
worth of groceries at a time. I transported gallons of paint and
8-foot pieces of molding from the hardware store, and more than
once made trips to the vet with my cat, which meowed pathetically,
earning me disapproving stares.
I'm sure I looked like an odd sort of bag lady at times. So?
I was keeping in shape, saving money, and helping to save the
world. When it comes to using bikes to carry things, though, the
world may have the last laugh on us here in the U.S. In many other
countries, bicycles are used widely as beasts of burden to great
ecological, economic and even military advantage. During the Vietnam
War, for example, the Viet Cong used bicycles to move supplies
efficiently along narrow jungle paths.
There were a few things for which I absolutely had to
have a car--though I can't remember now what they were. My friends
were there for me at those times, along with their cars. I borrowed
a car once or twice a month, planning my route carefully, starting
my errand list days in advance. The bike trips as well as the
car trips were best thought through ahead of time. Real commuter
bikers don't go home from work, have dinner, and then decide to
go to the drugstore. They stop at the drugstore on the way
home. I found that, conveniently, there was one of almost
everything on the way home from my office. Once again, since I
was forced to manage my time better, I didn't seem to have any
less of it in the long run.
Cars, on the other hand, tolerate forgetfulness and waste; it's
relatively easy to zip back home for that item we forgot, or out
to the store for that one thing we're craving. Gas is still cheap
and our daily costs are minimal in terms of both time and money.
But these costs are deceptively low, part of a pleasant dream
we'll eventually have to wake up from. Already, surrealistically
long waits at red lights and incidents of road rage are causing
us to turn uneasily in our sleep. Our children and grandchildren,
if they survive the future we're handing them, will have to pay
off our environmental debt and suffer the consequences--which
we are only beginning to fathom--of our wastefulness.
AND NOW I have to include myself once again in that sorry
picture. Though it already looks like I'll have increasing knee
pain as I get older, my run-in with the poor-sighted Shriner did
not disable me, nor did it paralyze me with a fear of bicycling.
But after the accident, with many months in a full-leg cast ahead
of me, either I had to get a car or depend on others for my mobility.
I bought the car.
And I'm still driving it. Like everyone else, I have good reasons.
My job requires me to work nights, and to make the trip home during
the wee hours through a questionable part of town. And I now have
a teenager who, like all teenagers, is desperate to be "normal,"
to have a mom who can pick her up after a party.
We're caught in a car-based culture which gives us many reasons
to drive each day. What if we were given more reasons not
to drive? A complete network of lush, enticing bike paths away
from the toxic stink of exhaust. Safe ways for bikes to cross
arterials on residential through-streets, not just at stop lights
(wide median "islands" or grade-separated intersections).
Physical barriers, ideally "green" ones, wherever bikes
have to share the road with cars. Bike racks in the choicest spots,
like handicapped parking spaces.
Anyone who's going against the mainstream in matters of transportation--whether
by bike, bus, on foot, or on a skateboard, for that matter--deserves
to be encouraged in all possible ways, certainly not penalized.
Currently, most auto insurance policies consider commuter cyclists
"uninsured drivers," so that those who choose to return
to driving find themselves paying doubled premiums for the first
year back. And at the unemployment office, benefits can be terminated
if the recipient turns down a job because it's too far--up to
20 miles--from home.
In my wildest moments I imagine a whole lane from each of our
major thoroughfares designated for alternate modes only. The squeeze
might just make that alternate lane the fast lane, and entice
able-bodied commuters to cross the line.
In reality, of course, we have the opposite. Bond initiatives
to build more roads seem always to get the green light. Without
fail, I see these new or widened roadways fill to capacity like
the others before them. I wonder where it stops.
ANNA IS NOW 16, and dying to have her own car. What do
I say to her? What do I do? This much I know: She'll form her
own values and opinions, in her own time. I hope I've influenced
her, but I won't stand in the way of that process.
Neither will I buy her a car.
If she's determined to buy one with her own money, she may find
that mine is suddenly for sale. We'd still be a one-car family.
And I think if I reached way back in my memory I could remember
how to ask, "Could I please have the car tonight?
PLEASE?"
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