A View from a Bike
Any cyclist can tell you that a motorist’s perception of the road is far different from a cyclist’s. This concept is usually most pronounced when a non-cyclist, asked to explain a certain terrain to a cyclist, describes a road notably different from that which the cyclist perceives when riding it. A road that provides a nice drive for a motorist could evoke effusive cursing from an even-mannered cyclist.
For instance, “flat,” to a motorist, could very well mean flat. But it could also mean rolling gently or ascending slightly. Of course, motorists need not interpret subtlety. Propelled by a slight foot depression, their vehicles barrel onward, allowing no time to regard passing surroundings. But in doing so, drivers not only risk missing roads’ topographical details.
One who pays close attention may discover many things: litter’s inability to degrade; the variegated colorations of urine discarded in plastic bottles; animal carcasses’ insistence on clinging to asphalt (and what road kill! snakes, birds of prey, javelina, coyotes, bobcats, a fish); one man’s refusal to keep his New Balance sneaker on his right foot, leaving it instead in the desert.
The mandate to observe is the joy of touring by bicycle. Apart from those exceptional riding days, when the wind has been at my back and I have pedaled with sustained focus and fervor, out of tune with all but the spinning of my wheels, I have traveled observantly.
I have seen life to excess: Texas maple trees, fresh for autumnal leaf change, appearing to shed their leaves as scads of butterflies flitter from their branches; bulls, protected by fence, jogging alongside me as I pass; even the automobiles seem to have their own vitality, speeding with fierce energy, forceful life.
But, as my touring pace has reminded me, they also bring death.
It’s easy to forget about death’s ever-possible imminence. I can think of few better reminders than the frequent roadside crucifixes that commemorate those killed while driving.
Adopt-a-Highway signs reiterate. The next two miles commemorate the untimely death of (insert name), they say. Killed in a drunken driving accident. Died by going too fast around a curve.
The constancy of such reminders has given me little to be afraid of besides traffic death. I expected so-called bad people would be the most worrisome on the road, based on the suggestions of others. “Carry a firearm,” some would say, or mace, or a good blade. No one’s to be trusted. To date, that has not been the case. If ever I have been afraid, it has been of being sideswiped by a semi, pulverized by a pickup, creamed by a car, or battered by a bus. It has taught me to adhere strictly to my line, a tightrope as far to the right as possible. And at times, it has been good people who have saved me from the road’s treachery.
Once I drive again, I doubt I will retain my cyclist’s perspective, and I will again lose touch with the lesson of mortality etched in the road. I may be more vulnerable as a cyclist, but at least I am more aware.
For instance, “flat,” to a motorist, could very well mean flat. But it could also mean rolling gently or ascending slightly. Of course, motorists need not interpret subtlety. Propelled by a slight foot depression, their vehicles barrel onward, allowing no time to regard passing surroundings. But in doing so, drivers not only risk missing roads’ topographical details.
One who pays close attention may discover many things: litter’s inability to degrade; the variegated colorations of urine discarded in plastic bottles; animal carcasses’ insistence on clinging to asphalt (and what road kill! snakes, birds of prey, javelina, coyotes, bobcats, a fish); one man’s refusal to keep his New Balance sneaker on his right foot, leaving it instead in the desert.
The mandate to observe is the joy of touring by bicycle. Apart from those exceptional riding days, when the wind has been at my back and I have pedaled with sustained focus and fervor, out of tune with all but the spinning of my wheels, I have traveled observantly.
I have seen life to excess: Texas maple trees, fresh for autumnal leaf change, appearing to shed their leaves as scads of butterflies flitter from their branches; bulls, protected by fence, jogging alongside me as I pass; even the automobiles seem to have their own vitality, speeding with fierce energy, forceful life.
But, as my touring pace has reminded me, they also bring death.
It’s easy to forget about death’s ever-possible imminence. I can think of few better reminders than the frequent roadside crucifixes that commemorate those killed while driving.
Adopt-a-Highway signs reiterate. The next two miles commemorate the untimely death of (insert name), they say. Killed in a drunken driving accident. Died by going too fast around a curve.
The constancy of such reminders has given me little to be afraid of besides traffic death. I expected so-called bad people would be the most worrisome on the road, based on the suggestions of others. “Carry a firearm,” some would say, or mace, or a good blade. No one’s to be trusted. To date, that has not been the case. If ever I have been afraid, it has been of being sideswiped by a semi, pulverized by a pickup, creamed by a car, or battered by a bus. It has taught me to adhere strictly to my line, a tightrope as far to the right as possible. And at times, it has been good people who have saved me from the road’s treachery.
Once I drive again, I doubt I will retain my cyclist’s perspective, and I will again lose touch with the lesson of mortality etched in the road. I may be more vulnerable as a cyclist, but at least I am more aware.
posted by Patrick Bourland at 9:20 AM
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