I read a few "ladyblogs," primarily xoJane and Jezebel. If I click on a post, I usually read the comments, too. When the topic of bikes comes up, there's always a mini-war in the comments between people who despise "bike hipsters" (read: entitled, privileged jerks who think they own the road) and people who actually ride bikes. Commenters trot out their most extreme stories of negative interactions they've had with people on bikes, sometimes concluding with things like "FUCK BIKING HIPSTERS I HOPE A BUS HITS YOU."
These are the same websites that promote things like fat acceptance and anti-bullying campaigns. Why are bicyclists portrayed as inhuman creatures unworthy of sympathy, dismissing an incredibly diverse world of practice (bicycling) because of the stupid behavior of a few jerks? And, this is the thing that really confuses me, why do people find jerk bicyclists so harmful to society when they constantly interact with motorists who run red lights and stop signs, use infrastructure like traffic circles in dangerous ways, talk and text in the car, drive without looking from side to side when entering intersections, and engage in other dangerous behaviors that kill people every day?
I asked a few of my friends, one a bicyclist and one less inclined to the bicycling arts, what they thought about this phenomenon. Both responded that it's because you can see a bicyclist's face, whereas it's easier to think of a motorist as a car. The interactions with bicyclists stick out in people's minds, and maybe they feel more personally insulted by the face-to-face flouting of laws. I think it's also because we've trained ourselves to think of driving as passing through an obstacle course rather than moving through a social space. Cars that do dumb stuff are a nuisance, but they do not interrupt the illusion until there's an actual crash. Bodies that do dumb stuff are a threat to the idea that driving is a no harm, no foul activity. You might actually hurt someone!
Getting sensitized to this fact has made driving a lot more harrowing for me than it was when I was an Orange County teenager. I spent a lot of time in my car, especially when I was home from college in the summer of 2002, since I didn't have much space at my mom's house and I was working as a pizza delivery girl. I thought of the interior space of my car as a private world where I could listen to music and the exterior of my car as an identity statement, putting on bumper stickers and gluing astroturf racing stripes to the roof. The car was a mobile place. I didn't think much about the people outside my car, except for always locking my doors. Now when I drive, I think of myself as operating a dangerous and unwieldy mass of metal.
So, when I hear people who regularly operate dangerous and unwieldy masses of metal characterize people outside of those masses of metal as objects of hate, I can see that there's some car culture discipline going on. People who act like jerks behind the shelter of a windshield may also be despised, but they don't seem to come up as much. Driving is the norm, and doing something different gets policed as deviant. But what about when the people complaining are pedestrians who feel harassed by bicyclists? I wonder if they feel as harassed by motorists, and, if not, if maybe it's because they know what it's like to drive but they don't know what it's like to bike. Maybe they have sympathy for drivers, but not for bicyclists.
All this has made me think about the impact that our everyday interactions have on our worldviews. There just ain't no denying that driving is a deadly mode of transport, and yet the statistics seem to influence people's perceptions of safety less than their individual experiences of bike jerks. I'd say that bike jerks should stop being such jerks, but a) being a self-righteous turd is clearly part of the fun for some people on bikes, and b) what makes a "bike jerk" is totally subjective in a country where many motorists have no clue that bicyclists can use streets just like they do. And, as this piece on xoJane points out, trying to ride a bike, even in a bikey city, might reinforce negative views of bicycling. So the real point to me is that people who don't know what it's like to ride a bike should try talking to some people who do ride bikes, and maybe going for a ride with them to see what it's all about. Hopefully positive engagement with bicyclists can have as much of an impact as negative engagement does.
Showing posts with label Street Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Street Life. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Overwhelmed by the Sound of Protest in Seattle
Protest marches bring people together and create mobile places that
subvert many people's quotidian uses of streets. I ride a bike, so I'm
in the street quite often, but is that the case for most people at a
protest? And even if we're accustomed to being in the street, we're not
usually in a dense crowd of bodies, which feels a lot more exciting than
being in a dense crowd of vehicles. So often, though, this placemaking
feature gets overlooked because protests primarily aim to make political
statements that don't hinge upon the experience of the protest space. Protests carry a shadow, referencing earlier spectacles from other movements and times.
On Tuesday, I marched in a Seattle May Day demonstration organized by El Comité Pro-Reforma Migratoria y Justicia Social, an immigrant advocacy and labor rights group that has been facilitating this march for 13 years. It had been an odd day; the local Occupy movement had held its own march downtown, which had devolved into some petty vandalism that the media gorged upon like hungry houseflies.
Around town for the last month, I'd seen signs connecting Occupy Seattle's plans with the legacy of the 1999 WTO protests in Seattle. I remember reading about those protests as a teenager, sitting in front of a computer in Southern California. In those days, my head was filled with Rage Against the Machine and the EZLN, and the WTO uprising gave me a restless feeling I didn't understand until later when I actually started participating in marches. It was the feeling of wanting to join a crowd, join a chant, get overwhelmed by the adrenaline that gushes into your bloodstream when you add your voice to a chorus of "el pueblo unido, jamás será vencido."
But instead of acting out my teenage fantasy, there I was sitting in a coffee shop in Capitol Hill, reading Twitter updates about the "riot" developing downtown and thinking about the march I planned to attend in a few hours. Was Twentysomething Adonia going to let Teenage Adonia down by foregoing the potential excitement of the downtown march for the family-oriented calm of the more established march?
I have grown skeptical of the nostalgia that seems to fuel some participation in protests at the same time that I have become attentive to the visceral feeling of being part of a temporary something that moves and fills the street with feet, banners, strollers, megaphones. I didn't break any glass on Tuesday, but I did get that adrenaline rush as I marched down Jackson Street in a crowd of thousands.
Many, many police waited around as a rally finished in Judkins Park and people lined up for the march to begin. As we started to move, I wished I had a noisemaker. Chants were starting up at various places in the sea of people, and I joined in when people around me got going. It wasn't until we passed under I-5 on Jackson, though, that I started to feel it happening.
This is what we looked like:
This is the space we filled:
View Larger Map
And this is what it sounded like:
I don't really know how to explain the feeling that comes over me when I am in a protest space. It is like a pressure on my eyes that makes them water, I draw ragged breaths and look down so nobody can see the tears. I think it is a feeling of connection with something larger, or at least of being overwhelmed by the sounds, ideas, realities people create when they come together.
On Tuesday, I marched in a Seattle May Day demonstration organized by El Comité Pro-Reforma Migratoria y Justicia Social, an immigrant advocacy and labor rights group that has been facilitating this march for 13 years. It had been an odd day; the local Occupy movement had held its own march downtown, which had devolved into some petty vandalism that the media gorged upon like hungry houseflies.
Around town for the last month, I'd seen signs connecting Occupy Seattle's plans with the legacy of the 1999 WTO protests in Seattle. I remember reading about those protests as a teenager, sitting in front of a computer in Southern California. In those days, my head was filled with Rage Against the Machine and the EZLN, and the WTO uprising gave me a restless feeling I didn't understand until later when I actually started participating in marches. It was the feeling of wanting to join a crowd, join a chant, get overwhelmed by the adrenaline that gushes into your bloodstream when you add your voice to a chorus of "el pueblo unido, jamás será vencido."
But instead of acting out my teenage fantasy, there I was sitting in a coffee shop in Capitol Hill, reading Twitter updates about the "riot" developing downtown and thinking about the march I planned to attend in a few hours. Was Twentysomething Adonia going to let Teenage Adonia down by foregoing the potential excitement of the downtown march for the family-oriented calm of the more established march?
I have grown skeptical of the nostalgia that seems to fuel some participation in protests at the same time that I have become attentive to the visceral feeling of being part of a temporary something that moves and fills the street with feet, banners, strollers, megaphones. I didn't break any glass on Tuesday, but I did get that adrenaline rush as I marched down Jackson Street in a crowd of thousands.
Many, many police waited around as a rally finished in Judkins Park and people lined up for the march to begin. As we started to move, I wished I had a noisemaker. Chants were starting up at various places in the sea of people, and I joined in when people around me got going. It wasn't until we passed under I-5 on Jackson, though, that I started to feel it happening.
This is what we looked like:
This is the space we filled:
View Larger Map
And this is what it sounded like:
I don't really know how to explain the feeling that comes over me when I am in a protest space. It is like a pressure on my eyes that makes them water, I draw ragged breaths and look down so nobody can see the tears. I think it is a feeling of connection with something larger, or at least of being overwhelmed by the sounds, ideas, realities people create when they come together.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Style Wars, Brought to You by the Internet
It's not often that I see a movie so good I feel disoriented. But ever since seeing Style Wars, a documentary about the early 80s hip hop scene in New York, I'm having a hard time concentrating. I want to learn more and more about that moment in time, when just about the most disenfranchised young people made the city their own by covering subway cars in graffiti art, not to mention inventing breaking and rap.
The film gives a glimpse of New York when it still had tumbling down or burned out buildings, not a lot of people around, greenery taking over empty lots, kind of like Detroit today. People of different races share accents cause they grew up in the same neighborhoods. It's exciting to watch the young dancers and bombers talk about their craft, even though they were filmed before I was born. A successful ethnographic documentary communicates the feeling of some social scene, and this thing is driving me crazy wondering what it must have felt like to be part of that moment in time.
I can sit at home in Seattle during an ice storm and learn about New York in 1982 because of the information infrastructure called the internet that people have used to post details about figures like Iz the Wiz, Rammellzee, Lee Quinones, Crazy Legs, and on and on. People who believe in the value of the film have launched a fundraising campaign to restore Style Wars. What have they done to get the word out? Posted the film on Youtube. Letting copyright issues get in the way of sharing cultural history would be about as stupid as the city of New York washing graffiti off subway cars. It didn't make it go away, it just damaged some pretty impressive works of art.
The film gives a glimpse of New York when it still had tumbling down or burned out buildings, not a lot of people around, greenery taking over empty lots, kind of like Detroit today. People of different races share accents cause they grew up in the same neighborhoods. It's exciting to watch the young dancers and bombers talk about their craft, even though they were filmed before I was born. A successful ethnographic documentary communicates the feeling of some social scene, and this thing is driving me crazy wondering what it must have felt like to be part of that moment in time.
I can sit at home in Seattle during an ice storm and learn about New York in 1982 because of the information infrastructure called the internet that people have used to post details about figures like Iz the Wiz, Rammellzee, Lee Quinones, Crazy Legs, and on and on. People who believe in the value of the film have launched a fundraising campaign to restore Style Wars. What have they done to get the word out? Posted the film on Youtube. Letting copyright issues get in the way of sharing cultural history would be about as stupid as the city of New York washing graffiti off subway cars. It didn't make it go away, it just damaged some pretty impressive works of art.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Occupy Urban Space
Seattle's really socking it to me right now, season-wise. Fall has always been my favorite season, even though growing up in Southern California it was less about colorful leaves and more about HELLSTORMS and UNCONTAINED BLAZES, aka fire season. A dry pile of leaves? Dangerous fire hazard, not a crunchy trampoline or, in Calvin's case, a talking monster. I'm so down to be living in a city where it's crisp and cold out, and even at the moment clear and dry! Whoop.
I finally made it down to the local OWS/99% encampment at Westlake Park today. Even though police had cleared all the tents this morning, there were lots of people sitting in the park, having conversations, and looking around. With the youthful and grungy feel to the crowd, it seemed like a European square rather than a disused plaza like we so often see in these United States.
Protests have a dual character. They put forth a perspective on some policy, but they also queer how people use urban space. Usually we flow through it instead of holding still. Often we're alone on our way to or from someplace, crossing paths with many strangers on other trajectories, instead of moving in a group with a common purpose. The power of numbers, of having a critical mass of people, doesn't just demonstrate something to observers. It creates a different kind of public space. I've written about this aspect of protest here, and in my dissertation I'm writing about the legacy of the Situationist International as it relates to creative uses of space like ciclovías.
As a sustainable-urban-living activist, I feel like protests tend to be a performance of a fantasy 1968, referencing rather than stimulating a political shift. It feels pretty energizing, but then everyone goes home, back to their lives, where they may or may not conceive of their everyday practices as relating to the things they were protesting. But occupying urban space can itself be an important statement in a country where people spend so much time alone in cars and subdivisions. I wonder if for many of the people participating in this ongoing protest, it might be as much about spending time with other humans as it is about resisting economic exploitation.
A few New York blogs have commented on Occupy Wall Street's use of privately owned public open space (here and here). I don't know what the situation is here in Seattle in terms of private or public ownership, but I do know that Seattle's public spaces sometimes feel lonely, even when there are people around. Westlake didn't feel lonely today. Walking my bike up Pike Street after leaving Westlake, I saw a large group of people on a corner. Protesting? No, waiting for the bus.
I finally made it down to the local OWS/99% encampment at Westlake Park today. Even though police had cleared all the tents this morning, there were lots of people sitting in the park, having conversations, and looking around. With the youthful and grungy feel to the crowd, it seemed like a European square rather than a disused plaza like we so often see in these United States.
Protests have a dual character. They put forth a perspective on some policy, but they also queer how people use urban space. Usually we flow through it instead of holding still. Often we're alone on our way to or from someplace, crossing paths with many strangers on other trajectories, instead of moving in a group with a common purpose. The power of numbers, of having a critical mass of people, doesn't just demonstrate something to observers. It creates a different kind of public space. I've written about this aspect of protest here, and in my dissertation I'm writing about the legacy of the Situationist International as it relates to creative uses of space like ciclovías.
As a sustainable-urban-living activist, I feel like protests tend to be a performance of a fantasy 1968, referencing rather than stimulating a political shift. It feels pretty energizing, but then everyone goes home, back to their lives, where they may or may not conceive of their everyday practices as relating to the things they were protesting. But occupying urban space can itself be an important statement in a country where people spend so much time alone in cars and subdivisions. I wonder if for many of the people participating in this ongoing protest, it might be as much about spending time with other humans as it is about resisting economic exploitation.
A few New York blogs have commented on Occupy Wall Street's use of privately owned public open space (here and here). I don't know what the situation is here in Seattle in terms of private or public ownership, but I do know that Seattle's public spaces sometimes feel lonely, even when there are people around. Westlake didn't feel lonely today. Walking my bike up Pike Street after leaving Westlake, I saw a large group of people on a corner. Protesting? No, waiting for the bus.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Post by my Mom: New Kid on the Train
My mother, Laurene, agreed to share her thoughts about commuting by bike/train from San Juan Capistrano to Santa Ana in suburban Orange County, California. My posts about biking in Orange County are here, and posts about Laurene's forays into transport cycling are here and here. I really appreciate her keen eye for social dynamics, and how badass is she for trying this thing out at age 60.
Due to circumstances beyond my control, I was involved in a car accident on September 14th on my way to work. To be more accurate: I slammed on my brakes and veered right to avoid, but ultimately crashed into, the Mazda truck that had suddenly stopped at the signal before the I-5 South off ramp. Just for the record, I was neither on my cell phone nor applying my makeup when this occurred. I had just looked down at something and then there he was. The enraged victim of my error jumped out of his truck and ran back to my collapsed Honda CRV where I sat rocking and holding my hurt knee. His expression transformed to sympathy. “Oh, you’re hurt … I’ll call this in.”
Quite promptly the heretofore pristine San Juan Capistrano morning air squealed with sirens. One would assume that a single police car and one truck with paramedics would have sufficed; instead, I found myself assailed by multiple police officers and a moving wall of fireman decked out for an inferno of cataclysmic proportions. When one rude San Juan Capistrano cop yelled at me to get off my cell phone (you are supposed to immediately submit a claim to your insurance company, right?) … I dissolved into tears. A very kind fireman rescued me and humanely guided me to the safety of a curb where I continued to sob between answers to his questions. As I sat there trembling, somebody to my left struggled to get my blood pressure (low) and to find a pulse. For a brief moment I wondered if I had died and was dreaming all this. The empathetic fireman, who happened to be my age, asked me if I had any previous aches and pains. We exchanged knowing looks before having a good laugh (in between my fits of crying). I find it extremely insulting that this accident has since been called a “fender bender.”
Now you know why I commuted to work last week by bicycle and train.
Day One: My daughter Vera's boyfriend blessedly offers to drop me and my trusty little folding commuter bike off at work in Santa Ana on his way north. (My bike’s diminutive size will be addressed later.) Awkwardly folded as it is to fit in the back of his car, he graciously carries it up to the third floor of my office building for me. We stick it in the storage room across the hall from my office. A pretty uneventful work day follows. My boss has approved me to leave at 3:45 in order to make the 4:16 train. I have previously biked the route to the Santa Ana train station once with my daughter Adonia, bicycle advocate extraordinaire, and another time I biked it alone. Piece of cake! (Think Billy Crystal in Forget Paris.) It must here be noted that neither time had I been under any real time pressure.
At 3:40 I shut down my computer and start to lock up my office. At 3:43 our accountant needs an immediate response to a question whose answer resides solely in my computer. At 3:46 I shut down my computer again. At 3:47 my boss “remembers” that I need to leave at 3:45. At 3:50 I cross the hall without the key to the storage closet. At 3:51 I cross the hall with the key to the storage closet where I realize that my bike needs to be reassembled. At 3:55 I escort my bike up the hallway, helmeted and apparently quite the novelty to every employee in the building I pass that wants to know why I am pushing a bike through the building. Finally on my way via neighborhoods, I ride past a middle school where a young man on a kid’s bike yells, “Cool bike!” Of course he thinks it’s cool – my lightweight commuter is bigger than his! He obviously likes teensy-weensy bikes.
I speed into the Santa Ana train station parking lot at 4:12, jump off my bike and look one way to see the three-deep line at the ticket machine and the other to watch the (supposed) 4:16 train stop, board, and leave. The next Metrolink train I am able to catch from the Santa Ana station only goes as far as Irvine. In Irvine I realize that if I wait for the next train that takes me all the way home to San Juan Capistrano, I will most likely be late for an (already rescheduled) appointment at 6:15. Therefore, I decide that riding my bicycle from the stop in Laguna Niguel is my best option. Piece of cake! (Earlier reference still applies.) Halfway up the gradual climb from Laguna Niguel to San Juan Capistrano, I discover that my back tire is very flat. Undeterred, I struggle home and make my appointment by the skin of my teeth. I fall into bed early and totally exhausted after prepping for tomorrow’s two-way bike/train commute. [Here's a map of bike routes in South Orange County.]
Day Two: Having meticulously prepared my backpack with necessary workday items, I pop out of bed at 5:30 am. I showered last night, so need only to stow perishable breakfast and lunch items. It is not quite daylight in San Juan Capistrano at 5:50 am. In the dark, I pedal down my hill past the library and all the way to the signal on Camino Capistrano. Sweating, I remove my light jacket while I wait for the light to change. After it changes and I pedal on towards the train station, the “thump, thump, thumping” of my back tire reminds me that it is still flat (see previous day). I hurriedly purchase my $6 day pass ($1 senior discount – I’m only 60, but that qualifies me) and position myself with the other commuters waiting for the train. I notice that most of them are farther up the tracks, but decide maybe I have a better shot at quickly getting on the train if I don’t join them. I have to run for the train. Aha! They do this every day and know where the train stops. Even after racing to find the bike symbol on a car, I am able to get my bike on and buckled in before the train doors close. Wow, this is great!! No other bikes but mine on the car!! One other cyclist gets on in Laguna Niguel.
When I arrive at the Santa Ana train station, I limp and thump my way somewhat fearfully up Broadway (a main street) to the closest gas station I can find. After pulling up to the air pump, I realize that the coin-operated machine only takes quarters. Side trip into gas station office for change (where attendant doesn’t advise me of the fact that it is illegal in CA to charge for air and they have tokens for this which I find out later from a family member) … successful pumping of air into flat … followed by early arrival at work. Uneventful work day follows. It appears that my whole life is focused on commuting successfully to work this week.
I leave the office at 3:45 on the dot and having discovered that Broadway is a more direct route than the one Adonia had shown me, I take it instead. There is more traffic on Broadway in the afternoon, so I use the sidewalk. Mistake. It is extremely stressful watching for cars coming out of driveways and turning into them; nonetheless, since I purchased a day pass in the morning I am actually early for the 4:16 train. This time when I get on the train there are other cyclists there before me. I am able to position my bike in front of the other three but receive dirty looks from the male bike owners as I try to set my teeny-tiny little bike next to their giant-sized monsters. They exchange knowing glances with each other and ignore me when I ask whose bikes they are and if anyone is getting off before San Juan Capistrano. I’m not sure, but there may be a male cyclist hierarchy on the trains. On my way to family pizza night I stop at the local bike store where I bought my little folding commuter and invest $66 in a bike pump, emergency tire patching kit, a water bottle holder and fee for replacing my back tire’s tube.
Day Three: Having learned from yesterday’s experience (bicycling is harder in a skirt and I didn't have enough time to bike to buy lunch) today my backpack contains: a change of clothes, my lunch, book, calendar, keys and heavy wallet. I realize that my ride to the station is all downhill until the signal at Camino Capistrano and so conserve my energy by coasting all the way there. As if welcoming me to my second morning of commuting, the signal gratuitously changes to green so that I smoothly coast through the intersection all the way to the depot driveway. Isn’t life wonderful?
After purchasing my day pass and positioning my bike closer to those who have been doing this longer than me, I notice my son-in-law Eric zooming to the ticket machine mere minutes before the train is due. He is riding his own BIG bike, and I now understand why. He started doing the bike/train commute to his own job in Santa Ana before me on Adonia’s folding commuter bike. He's a man, and if the hierarchy mocks my little bike, how much more humiliation must he have faced? Is this some kind of male private part size issue? Well, if so, I’ve resolved my penis envy, so I’m not getting hooked by it. Eric and I run to find a car with our coded symbol only to discover two bikes already there. We are able to bungee our bikes to them. Eric very kindly tells me that I can keep the bungee for the days ahead. The two guys from yesterday are just as mean to Eric as they were to me. Meaner. “Don’t jam your handlebars into my spokes!” gripes the one with the glasses and headphones. (Okay, so maybe I am feeling a little motivated to challenge this hierarchy, but it is definitely not penis envy. I still love my little bike.)
My days are now most assuredly geared around this new train/bike commuting paradigm. It is all I talk about, think about and plan for. I just try and get some work accomplished at the office in between. On the way home I discover that I can share Broadway with the other drivers instead of using the sidewalk. This cuts down on my time to the station also. Leaving work at 3:45 gets me there 10 minutes early with this shortcut. Yay! I saw another woman with a bike on the train home. I wonder how she is doing with the hierarchy. She and I smile at each other knowingly.
Day Four: Having learned from yesterday’s experience, I eliminate my calendar and wallet from the backpack. Needing entertainment on the train, I pack a book, but a paperback instead of hardback. Eric appears just in the nick of time again and we luckily find a car with only two other bikes on it. He decides to go check out other cars to see if every car is full of bikes after we discuss the possibility that there may be certain cars that the nasty bike commuters prefer and we can prudently avoid. Still and all, I am starting to feel camaraderie with my fellow early morning train commuters. We acknowledge each other with a nod as I walk my bike past them in the darkness. The other bicyclists continue to ignore me, though. Eric returns with information from another cyclist that it is always a crap shoot finding bike space on the train. We bid our adieus as he leaves the train in Tustin.
Riding down Washington is very peaceful all the way to Broadway. The parking lot at my office building has its usual three or four cars and is otherwise isolated. I love it. Another work day drones by as I look forward to my commute home. On the way back to the station on Broadway, I confirm to myself that sharing the road with drivers beats the sidewalks as far as safety. Overall, I believe that drivers on Santa Ana surface streets adapt better to me on a bike than pedestrians do on the sidewalks. I haven’t been honked at yet; conversely, I have experienced pedestrians purposely blocking me and I’m pretty sure that hostility exudes from them. The only negative behavior that motorists have exhibited so far is zipping around me or trying to beat me through stop signs. I sit in front of them, behind and between them at signals. So far I’ve encountered mostly consideration. Seeing multiple other cyclists on the streets leads me to believe that car drivers may be used to us.
Feeling confident about whipping my bike onto the train for my fourth ride home in a row, I am somewhat taken aback when the conductor tells me I have to find another car. “But there were only three other bikes” I assert as he escorts me quickly to the next car shaking his head. He enters through the handicapped side (bikes enter on one side of cars while the handicapped enter by the other entrance) and as I struggle to bungee my bike to the THREE others, I give him a significant look. I don’t make a nasty remark because he did hold the train for me after all. Following his “all aboard” announcement he comes back and explains to me that the new cars only hold three bikes, while the older cars can fit up to four. Now wouldn’t this have been good information to have the first day? There should be a bike-commuter trainer on board every train, methinks.
Day Five: My last day of forced bike/train commuting! I excitedly coast down my hill through the dark early morning and then past the library singing, “I did it … I did it …” under my breath. Yes, I’m bruised and scratched from hitting myself with my pedals and my muscles are sore, but I DID IT!!! Well, almost, anyway. Eric has Fridays off so I’m on my own this morning. The ride in on the train is uneventful. Although I take my now usual route up Broadway to work, I’ve decided to take the late train and take the long way through neighborhoods back to the station. My coworkers are very impressed that I have come through this experience intact and without significant incident. I sit in front of my boss’s desk and discuss the possibility of continuing this regime two or three days each week. She is agreeable.
I run into the only other bike commuter (she rides from home) in my building in the elevator. I’ve heard that she recently was hit by a car on her way to work. Although the office gossips told me about it in a “see how dangerous it is biking on city streets?” tone, she is back biking to work on a brand new bicycle. “I love it,” she proclaims to me. “I couldn’t wait to get back on a bike!” After five days in a row of biking through the same town, she is preaching to the choir. We walk away from our conversation with conspiratorial grins on our faces.
At some point during the day I get a text from my eldest daughter, Gia (Eric’s wife). “Guess whose car broke down?” I take a wild stab that it was hers. Indeed. Funny how many people around me have been affected by mechanical breakdowns of late. Eric had just resolved Vera’s car breakdown the night before my accident. Hmmm.
I work for some hours and then leisurely ride to the train station where I have time to eat a meatball sandwich [yum! sez the newly vegetarian editrix] at the café before joining my fellow commuters by the southbound track. At 5:30ish (train was due at 5:26 and is usually early) I notice small groups gathering. Around 5:35 I overhear one of the closer groups talking about our train. Apparently, it broke down at the Anaheim station and promptly began spewing some liquid from the engine. I gradually approach the closest group and begin asking questions. They include me in their conversation and larger groups form as we all start pulling together and sharing information. The only information we get is from those with Iphones … the speakers by the tracks are apparently also not working. I text Gia, “Guess whose train broke down?” She calls right back and we laugh hysterically as she shares that it has started to rain and I spot the clouds approaching from the south. When I get off the phone, I share this news with my fellow San Juanenos who have been eyeing me as I stood guffawing. We are bonding!!
Around 5:45 a southbound Metrolink stops and we all crowd around one door until someone tells us that it only goes to Irvine. Some get on, but most of us decide to wait for the next one. An Amtrak comes a little later and some of us with monthly passes get on that one. Finally, around 6:15, a southbound train boards the remainder of us (and those who usually ride the later train). The rain hits after we are safely on the train and only in Irvine. I wave goodbye to all my new acquaintances as we go our separate ways when the train arrives in San Juan Capistrano. In a funky sweetly melancholic mood I pedal up the hill home.
So, what have I gleaned from my week of going carfree? Principally, I have learned that human beings are very adaptable – much more so than one might generally assume. Most significantly, for me anyway, I have learned that riding the train and biking to and from the train stations is FUN. It is interesting to ride through neighborhoods instead of sitting in traffic on the freeway. I see and interact with people, both on my bike and on the train or waiting for it. When the train broke down we gathered together and communicated with each other. On the freeway when something similar happens people sit in their cars and bitch to themselves. I have time on the train to read or nap. By the time I get to work I have exercised and interacted with other human beings. Because I get to work early I have more time to get ready for my work day. I have discovered businesses along the way that I plan to frequent.
I have decided to continue to commute this way at least two days a week. My poor 2000 Honda CRV with over 236,000 miles on it deserves a rest and I can use it for the days I have appointments and such. I have met the challenge of being carless for a week and overcome!! Watch out male hierarchy … I’ll be back!
Due to circumstances beyond my control, I was involved in a car accident on September 14th on my way to work. To be more accurate: I slammed on my brakes and veered right to avoid, but ultimately crashed into, the Mazda truck that had suddenly stopped at the signal before the I-5 South off ramp. Just for the record, I was neither on my cell phone nor applying my makeup when this occurred. I had just looked down at something and then there he was. The enraged victim of my error jumped out of his truck and ran back to my collapsed Honda CRV where I sat rocking and holding my hurt knee. His expression transformed to sympathy. “Oh, you’re hurt … I’ll call this in.”
Quite promptly the heretofore pristine San Juan Capistrano morning air squealed with sirens. One would assume that a single police car and one truck with paramedics would have sufficed; instead, I found myself assailed by multiple police officers and a moving wall of fireman decked out for an inferno of cataclysmic proportions. When one rude San Juan Capistrano cop yelled at me to get off my cell phone (you are supposed to immediately submit a claim to your insurance company, right?) … I dissolved into tears. A very kind fireman rescued me and humanely guided me to the safety of a curb where I continued to sob between answers to his questions. As I sat there trembling, somebody to my left struggled to get my blood pressure (low) and to find a pulse. For a brief moment I wondered if I had died and was dreaming all this. The empathetic fireman, who happened to be my age, asked me if I had any previous aches and pains. We exchanged knowing looks before having a good laugh (in between my fits of crying). I find it extremely insulting that this accident has since been called a “fender bender.”
Now you know why I commuted to work last week by bicycle and train.
Day One: My daughter Vera's boyfriend blessedly offers to drop me and my trusty little folding commuter bike off at work in Santa Ana on his way north. (My bike’s diminutive size will be addressed later.) Awkwardly folded as it is to fit in the back of his car, he graciously carries it up to the third floor of my office building for me. We stick it in the storage room across the hall from my office. A pretty uneventful work day follows. My boss has approved me to leave at 3:45 in order to make the 4:16 train. I have previously biked the route to the Santa Ana train station once with my daughter Adonia, bicycle advocate extraordinaire, and another time I biked it alone. Piece of cake! (Think Billy Crystal in Forget Paris.) It must here be noted that neither time had I been under any real time pressure.
At 3:40 I shut down my computer and start to lock up my office. At 3:43 our accountant needs an immediate response to a question whose answer resides solely in my computer. At 3:46 I shut down my computer again. At 3:47 my boss “remembers” that I need to leave at 3:45. At 3:50 I cross the hall without the key to the storage closet. At 3:51 I cross the hall with the key to the storage closet where I realize that my bike needs to be reassembled. At 3:55 I escort my bike up the hallway, helmeted and apparently quite the novelty to every employee in the building I pass that wants to know why I am pushing a bike through the building. Finally on my way via neighborhoods, I ride past a middle school where a young man on a kid’s bike yells, “Cool bike!” Of course he thinks it’s cool – my lightweight commuter is bigger than his! He obviously likes teensy-weensy bikes.
I speed into the Santa Ana train station parking lot at 4:12, jump off my bike and look one way to see the three-deep line at the ticket machine and the other to watch the (supposed) 4:16 train stop, board, and leave. The next Metrolink train I am able to catch from the Santa Ana station only goes as far as Irvine. In Irvine I realize that if I wait for the next train that takes me all the way home to San Juan Capistrano, I will most likely be late for an (already rescheduled) appointment at 6:15. Therefore, I decide that riding my bicycle from the stop in Laguna Niguel is my best option. Piece of cake! (Earlier reference still applies.) Halfway up the gradual climb from Laguna Niguel to San Juan Capistrano, I discover that my back tire is very flat. Undeterred, I struggle home and make my appointment by the skin of my teeth. I fall into bed early and totally exhausted after prepping for tomorrow’s two-way bike/train commute. [Here's a map of bike routes in South Orange County.]
Day Two: Having meticulously prepared my backpack with necessary workday items, I pop out of bed at 5:30 am. I showered last night, so need only to stow perishable breakfast and lunch items. It is not quite daylight in San Juan Capistrano at 5:50 am. In the dark, I pedal down my hill past the library and all the way to the signal on Camino Capistrano. Sweating, I remove my light jacket while I wait for the light to change. After it changes and I pedal on towards the train station, the “thump, thump, thumping” of my back tire reminds me that it is still flat (see previous day). I hurriedly purchase my $6 day pass ($1 senior discount – I’m only 60, but that qualifies me) and position myself with the other commuters waiting for the train. I notice that most of them are farther up the tracks, but decide maybe I have a better shot at quickly getting on the train if I don’t join them. I have to run for the train. Aha! They do this every day and know where the train stops. Even after racing to find the bike symbol on a car, I am able to get my bike on and buckled in before the train doors close. Wow, this is great!! No other bikes but mine on the car!! One other cyclist gets on in Laguna Niguel.
When I arrive at the Santa Ana train station, I limp and thump my way somewhat fearfully up Broadway (a main street) to the closest gas station I can find. After pulling up to the air pump, I realize that the coin-operated machine only takes quarters. Side trip into gas station office for change (where attendant doesn’t advise me of the fact that it is illegal in CA to charge for air and they have tokens for this which I find out later from a family member) … successful pumping of air into flat … followed by early arrival at work. Uneventful work day follows. It appears that my whole life is focused on commuting successfully to work this week.
I leave the office at 3:45 on the dot and having discovered that Broadway is a more direct route than the one Adonia had shown me, I take it instead. There is more traffic on Broadway in the afternoon, so I use the sidewalk. Mistake. It is extremely stressful watching for cars coming out of driveways and turning into them; nonetheless, since I purchased a day pass in the morning I am actually early for the 4:16 train. This time when I get on the train there are other cyclists there before me. I am able to position my bike in front of the other three but receive dirty looks from the male bike owners as I try to set my teeny-tiny little bike next to their giant-sized monsters. They exchange knowing glances with each other and ignore me when I ask whose bikes they are and if anyone is getting off before San Juan Capistrano. I’m not sure, but there may be a male cyclist hierarchy on the trains. On my way to family pizza night I stop at the local bike store where I bought my little folding commuter and invest $66 in a bike pump, emergency tire patching kit, a water bottle holder and fee for replacing my back tire’s tube.
Day Three: Having learned from yesterday’s experience (bicycling is harder in a skirt and I didn't have enough time to bike to buy lunch) today my backpack contains: a change of clothes, my lunch, book, calendar, keys and heavy wallet. I realize that my ride to the station is all downhill until the signal at Camino Capistrano and so conserve my energy by coasting all the way there. As if welcoming me to my second morning of commuting, the signal gratuitously changes to green so that I smoothly coast through the intersection all the way to the depot driveway. Isn’t life wonderful?
After purchasing my day pass and positioning my bike closer to those who have been doing this longer than me, I notice my son-in-law Eric zooming to the ticket machine mere minutes before the train is due. He is riding his own BIG bike, and I now understand why. He started doing the bike/train commute to his own job in Santa Ana before me on Adonia’s folding commuter bike. He's a man, and if the hierarchy mocks my little bike, how much more humiliation must he have faced? Is this some kind of male private part size issue? Well, if so, I’ve resolved my penis envy, so I’m not getting hooked by it. Eric and I run to find a car with our coded symbol only to discover two bikes already there. We are able to bungee our bikes to them. Eric very kindly tells me that I can keep the bungee for the days ahead. The two guys from yesterday are just as mean to Eric as they were to me. Meaner. “Don’t jam your handlebars into my spokes!” gripes the one with the glasses and headphones. (Okay, so maybe I am feeling a little motivated to challenge this hierarchy, but it is definitely not penis envy. I still love my little bike.)
My days are now most assuredly geared around this new train/bike commuting paradigm. It is all I talk about, think about and plan for. I just try and get some work accomplished at the office in between. On the way home I discover that I can share Broadway with the other drivers instead of using the sidewalk. This cuts down on my time to the station also. Leaving work at 3:45 gets me there 10 minutes early with this shortcut. Yay! I saw another woman with a bike on the train home. I wonder how she is doing with the hierarchy. She and I smile at each other knowingly.
Day Four: Having learned from yesterday’s experience, I eliminate my calendar and wallet from the backpack. Needing entertainment on the train, I pack a book, but a paperback instead of hardback. Eric appears just in the nick of time again and we luckily find a car with only two other bikes on it. He decides to go check out other cars to see if every car is full of bikes after we discuss the possibility that there may be certain cars that the nasty bike commuters prefer and we can prudently avoid. Still and all, I am starting to feel camaraderie with my fellow early morning train commuters. We acknowledge each other with a nod as I walk my bike past them in the darkness. The other bicyclists continue to ignore me, though. Eric returns with information from another cyclist that it is always a crap shoot finding bike space on the train. We bid our adieus as he leaves the train in Tustin.
Riding down Washington is very peaceful all the way to Broadway. The parking lot at my office building has its usual three or four cars and is otherwise isolated. I love it. Another work day drones by as I look forward to my commute home. On the way back to the station on Broadway, I confirm to myself that sharing the road with drivers beats the sidewalks as far as safety. Overall, I believe that drivers on Santa Ana surface streets adapt better to me on a bike than pedestrians do on the sidewalks. I haven’t been honked at yet; conversely, I have experienced pedestrians purposely blocking me and I’m pretty sure that hostility exudes from them. The only negative behavior that motorists have exhibited so far is zipping around me or trying to beat me through stop signs. I sit in front of them, behind and between them at signals. So far I’ve encountered mostly consideration. Seeing multiple other cyclists on the streets leads me to believe that car drivers may be used to us.
Feeling confident about whipping my bike onto the train for my fourth ride home in a row, I am somewhat taken aback when the conductor tells me I have to find another car. “But there were only three other bikes” I assert as he escorts me quickly to the next car shaking his head. He enters through the handicapped side (bikes enter on one side of cars while the handicapped enter by the other entrance) and as I struggle to bungee my bike to the THREE others, I give him a significant look. I don’t make a nasty remark because he did hold the train for me after all. Following his “all aboard” announcement he comes back and explains to me that the new cars only hold three bikes, while the older cars can fit up to four. Now wouldn’t this have been good information to have the first day? There should be a bike-commuter trainer on board every train, methinks.
Day Five: My last day of forced bike/train commuting! I excitedly coast down my hill through the dark early morning and then past the library singing, “I did it … I did it …” under my breath. Yes, I’m bruised and scratched from hitting myself with my pedals and my muscles are sore, but I DID IT!!! Well, almost, anyway. Eric has Fridays off so I’m on my own this morning. The ride in on the train is uneventful. Although I take my now usual route up Broadway to work, I’ve decided to take the late train and take the long way through neighborhoods back to the station. My coworkers are very impressed that I have come through this experience intact and without significant incident. I sit in front of my boss’s desk and discuss the possibility of continuing this regime two or three days each week. She is agreeable.
I run into the only other bike commuter (she rides from home) in my building in the elevator. I’ve heard that she recently was hit by a car on her way to work. Although the office gossips told me about it in a “see how dangerous it is biking on city streets?” tone, she is back biking to work on a brand new bicycle. “I love it,” she proclaims to me. “I couldn’t wait to get back on a bike!” After five days in a row of biking through the same town, she is preaching to the choir. We walk away from our conversation with conspiratorial grins on our faces.
At some point during the day I get a text from my eldest daughter, Gia (Eric’s wife). “Guess whose car broke down?” I take a wild stab that it was hers. Indeed. Funny how many people around me have been affected by mechanical breakdowns of late. Eric had just resolved Vera’s car breakdown the night before my accident. Hmmm.
I work for some hours and then leisurely ride to the train station where I have time to eat a meatball sandwich [yum! sez the newly vegetarian editrix] at the café before joining my fellow commuters by the southbound track. At 5:30ish (train was due at 5:26 and is usually early) I notice small groups gathering. Around 5:35 I overhear one of the closer groups talking about our train. Apparently, it broke down at the Anaheim station and promptly began spewing some liquid from the engine. I gradually approach the closest group and begin asking questions. They include me in their conversation and larger groups form as we all start pulling together and sharing information. The only information we get is from those with Iphones … the speakers by the tracks are apparently also not working. I text Gia, “Guess whose train broke down?” She calls right back and we laugh hysterically as she shares that it has started to rain and I spot the clouds approaching from the south. When I get off the phone, I share this news with my fellow San Juanenos who have been eyeing me as I stood guffawing. We are bonding!!
Around 5:45 a southbound Metrolink stops and we all crowd around one door until someone tells us that it only goes to Irvine. Some get on, but most of us decide to wait for the next one. An Amtrak comes a little later and some of us with monthly passes get on that one. Finally, around 6:15, a southbound train boards the remainder of us (and those who usually ride the later train). The rain hits after we are safely on the train and only in Irvine. I wave goodbye to all my new acquaintances as we go our separate ways when the train arrives in San Juan Capistrano. In a funky sweetly melancholic mood I pedal up the hill home.
So, what have I gleaned from my week of going carfree? Principally, I have learned that human beings are very adaptable – much more so than one might generally assume. Most significantly, for me anyway, I have learned that riding the train and biking to and from the train stations is FUN. It is interesting to ride through neighborhoods instead of sitting in traffic on the freeway. I see and interact with people, both on my bike and on the train or waiting for it. When the train broke down we gathered together and communicated with each other. On the freeway when something similar happens people sit in their cars and bitch to themselves. I have time on the train to read or nap. By the time I get to work I have exercised and interacted with other human beings. Because I get to work early I have more time to get ready for my work day. I have discovered businesses along the way that I plan to frequent.
I have decided to continue to commute this way at least two days a week. My poor 2000 Honda CRV with over 236,000 miles on it deserves a rest and I can use it for the days I have appointments and such. I have met the challenge of being carless for a week and overcome!! Watch out male hierarchy … I’ll be back!
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Recent Street Fun
1. On May Day, May 1, I marched in solidarity with immigrants rights groups, labor groups, anarchists in balaclavas, etc. from Judkins Park in Seattle to the Space Needle. It was quite a long hike, but downhill, and boy did I love tromping along down the middle of the street! My favorite protest sign read "Proud Daughter of a Public Worker." That's me!
There was a heartening range of participants, from Latina mothers and their children, to union members whose friendships crossed color lines, to all kinds of young people. An old couple who I'd seen on the bus, the gentleman wearing a jacket proudly proclaiming his union membership. A bilingual little girl holding her mother's hand and chanting along with protest slogans celebrating the people. The march grew to a very satisfying size, and I'm glad I was there to add my presence to the numbers.
Being part of a protest march allows you to be part of a ciclovía, in a way. The streets are opened to people. You feel the scale of an urban center more acutely when you're walking in the middle of the street. Protests transform public space, which is a political statement in and of itself. I should learn more about the connections between Situationist ideas about public space and "happenings" and mass protests in 1968. The best part of the day came from a brass marching band that played some 60s R&B tunes. Next time I go to a protest I'm going to bring bubbles.
2. This weekend I went to the U District Street Fair, which again let me frolic among the little bumps that mark the center divider in a street. It had less of a sense of motion than the march since it was a festival, with many many vendors and people inching along looking at gourmet foods and jewelry. I enjoyed a hand-dipped corn dog, and gawked at a man who'd made himself a full body suit from mirror shards.
I also learned at the fair that there is in fact some kind of ciclovía program in Seattle, called Summer Streets. Their choice of name reminded me that I'm glad CicLAvia got named after the original event in Bogotá to point out its origins. Summer Streets calls to mind NYC. Also, it seems like Seattle's event must have been initiated by city employees rather than a grassroots group. We shall see, come summertime, how people up here like playing in the street. (My guess is that they like it a lot.)
3. Usually I find "street fashion" blogs disappointing, since they seem to be looking for people who could fit a fashion magazine's narrow standards for beauty and branding. I know The Sartorialist makes a point of showing that biking can be blonde and scantily-clad, I mean sexy, which is great, but I'm someone who values creative combinations of secondhand garments way more than sweatshop-produced and New York-policed high fashion. Enter Hel-Looks, a street fashion blog in Helsinki. They've got women of various ages and sizes and numerous mentions of the benefits of secondhand clothes. They've got gents who look like 30s sailors, and ladies who match seafoam and lilac. Be still my heart!
There was a heartening range of participants, from Latina mothers and their children, to union members whose friendships crossed color lines, to all kinds of young people. An old couple who I'd seen on the bus, the gentleman wearing a jacket proudly proclaiming his union membership. A bilingual little girl holding her mother's hand and chanting along with protest slogans celebrating the people. The march grew to a very satisfying size, and I'm glad I was there to add my presence to the numbers.
Being part of a protest march allows you to be part of a ciclovía, in a way. The streets are opened to people. You feel the scale of an urban center more acutely when you're walking in the middle of the street. Protests transform public space, which is a political statement in and of itself. I should learn more about the connections between Situationist ideas about public space and "happenings" and mass protests in 1968. The best part of the day came from a brass marching band that played some 60s R&B tunes. Next time I go to a protest I'm going to bring bubbles.
2. This weekend I went to the U District Street Fair, which again let me frolic among the little bumps that mark the center divider in a street. It had less of a sense of motion than the march since it was a festival, with many many vendors and people inching along looking at gourmet foods and jewelry. I enjoyed a hand-dipped corn dog, and gawked at a man who'd made himself a full body suit from mirror shards.
I also learned at the fair that there is in fact some kind of ciclovía program in Seattle, called Summer Streets. Their choice of name reminded me that I'm glad CicLAvia got named after the original event in Bogotá to point out its origins. Summer Streets calls to mind NYC. Also, it seems like Seattle's event must have been initiated by city employees rather than a grassroots group. We shall see, come summertime, how people up here like playing in the street. (My guess is that they like it a lot.)
3. Usually I find "street fashion" blogs disappointing, since they seem to be looking for people who could fit a fashion magazine's narrow standards for beauty and branding. I know The Sartorialist makes a point of showing that biking can be blonde and scantily-clad, I mean sexy, which is great, but I'm someone who values creative combinations of secondhand garments way more than sweatshop-produced and New York-policed high fashion. Enter Hel-Looks, a street fashion blog in Helsinki. They've got women of various ages and sizes and numerous mentions of the benefits of secondhand clothes. They've got gents who look like 30s sailors, and ladies who match seafoam and lilac. Be still my heart!
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