BICYCLES

By Taylor Walters

            Mobility has maintained an essential role in the American national character since the early days of westward expansion and manifest destiny. The automobile empowered the American individual as well as the American economy, and the car itself has become a token of entrance into adult society, accompanied with the responsibility and freedom entailed by car ownership. The car reflects how one’s mode of transportation can become entrenched within a certain lifestyle. Maintenance, dependence upon gas, and parking become constant and crucial to the lives of drivers. In direct opposition to the vehicular kind of lifestyle is that of the urban cyclist. The cyclist rejects dependency, favoring self-sufficiency, simplicity, and control. The bicycle to him is a token of abstinence and rejection of comfort in favor of an active mode of transportation and way of life, unburdened by the responsibilities of a car.

            In many parts of America, the bicycle is considered to be more of an leisure activity or a source of exercise rather than as a primary means of transportation due to either distances of commutes or terrain that makes the activity too rigorous. Growing up in Cincinnati, Ohio, bicycles were a rare sight on the road. Those who braved the constant changes in elevation weren't casual commuters, they were committed athletes covered in spandex. As a kid, my first bicycle symbolized a passage into a tolerated level of independence in adolescence, a precursor to learning how to drive as well as a mastery of bodily co-ordination, a step up from learning how to catch a football. The relaxing around-the-block trips of my childhood in Cincinnati left me vastly unprepared for what it meant to be a cyclist in the city of Chicago.

            The remarkable flatness of the city of Chicago allows for the bicycle to become a practical replacement for a car. The result is that the roads have become a battleground, the site of a turf war between drivers and the urban cowboys mounted on bicycles. Cyclists narrowly squeeze through traffic jams, cutting to the front of the line as they avoid opening car doors. The cyclist is granted the privileges of the pedestrian, earning the resentment of drivers as they coast through crosswalks and run stop signs without braking. While the driver faces constant regulation and surveillance, obtaining licenses, avoiding tickets, and struggling for appropriate parking, the cyclist is an outlaw off of the grid. There are no license plates on the back of a bicycle for any red light camera to ensnare. The cyclist takes to to the road at his own risk, without the validation of a license.

            This urban cowboy is best exemplified by the bike messenger, a cyclist who has made a profession out of making deliveries throughout the city. In order to make as many deliveries as possible, messengers are encouraged to run red lights and generally take any means necessary to make it to their destination expediently. In the downtime between deliveries, many messengers wait together in messenger clubs, playing pool surrounded by others of the same lifestyle.  Messengers can be spotted year-long in spite of the weather- the resilience and stoicism in the face of extremes are key attitudes of the lifestyle.

            I learned the hard way from a messenger friend that there are bikes, and then there are bikes.  It seemed that I had naively purchased the former for myself. Mountain bikes, 22-speeds, and anything that can be sold at Target is excluded from the authentic category. The only real option is the fixed-gear road bike, equipped with thin tires, pedal grips, and a simple gear system that allows the cyclist to coast without pedaling and even ride backwards. The handlebars are curved and lowered in the front, forcing the cyclist to hunch over in a back-breaking position that evidently takes time to get used to. Discomfort is embraced- a ride on the street is not meant to be a walk in the park.

            Cyclists maintain a vastly different relationship to their vehicle than drivers. To the driver, the car is a mysterious machine. Its nuts and bolts lie hidden within its complex structure, and a mystical shaman known as a mechanic must be called upon to bring it back to life when something inevitably fails deep within it. In fact, an oddly limited level of expertise is expected at all from the average car owner (disregarding its association with masculinity), with the abilities to pump gas and possibly change a tire seemingly being the only prerequisites. Aside from knowledge of the grip of the steering wheel and the smell of the interior, the owner and his car are practically strangers. The driver exists in a fragile state of helpless dependence upon hoping for the best, taking it for granted that the car won’t break down to interrupt life as he knows it.

            The cyclist is not so naive. He refuses to count on anything but his own two legs and needs no such intermediary shaman. The bicycle has nothing to hide.  Its frame, gears, chain, handlebars, and tires are honest and in the open. One need not make a career out of understanding its basic maintenance, either, as a cyclist can handle its repair himself in most circumstances. The cyclist shuns complexity, valuing simplicity to the point of what seems almost absurd to the observer. Among the cycling community it is considered noble to forgo even a braking mechanism, with the idea being that brakes add unnecessary weight and complicate the ability to maneuver one’s handlebars fully. Brake-less bicycles have attained a cult-like status among true believers, indicating the cyclist’s unshakeable faith in his own ability to control himself, one who balks at the notion of something so extraneous as a mechanism for stopping.

            The cyclist exists in the open air, engaging with the world. The driver has the privilege of creating his own private bubble, separated from the world through the walls of his car. Road rage is expressed through honking and private shouting. The cyclist, on the other hand, feels the road on his feet at every stop. Cyclists don’t honk.  They can reach out and kick offending taxi cabs, yell in the faces of drivers, and escape when they need to.

            I’ve had three bikes stolen in Chicago. The first two I can own up to as a result of my negligence. However, the final theft was too much. I locked my bike to a dummy rack- when I returned to pick it up, the rack was gone, along with the other bikes, while a slew of locks remained behind. Chicago meant to tell me that I lacked the savvy-ness, the street smarts that were required of the cyclist. Unable to commit to such a lifestyle, I retired from my cycling days, content on public transportation as an awe-struck observer of the urban cowboys.