Bike Crazy

Write, he said.

About a form of transportation that inspires us, moves and shakes us to the very core of our being. This would be for my Adhouse class, and he would my instructor, Nat Whitten, a very cool dude and inspiring teacher in the ways of creative thinking thus far.

So he says "Pick the mode of transport that inpires you, or you love, and write about for thirty minutes each day."

Right, I said. Easy. A no brainer.

I like cars. Actually, I obsess about them. I've always loved driving - someday, I will have a muscle a car of my own. And 1973 Datsun 240Z. And, in the realm of the here and now, I love my Volkswagon GTI with unbounded love. It's sleek leather interior, the sunroof that opens all the way, and just pops for circulation, the five speed manual transmission, it's speedy 180 horsepower, the way it takes off like a shot from the toll, it's fat racing tires. The way it looks just sitting by the curb, expectantly.

But I love - beyond reason - bicycles. Mountain bikes, racing bikes, freestyle bikes, cyclocross bikes. At one point or another, I have had at least one of each of them (except the for a cyclocross bike, but just you wait) - usually several at a time. I slow down and check out bikes locked to meters. I salivate when I bike (or occasionally - oh the shame! walk) past Velo Bikes on 2nd avenue, with their sublime Bianchi's and solid Kona's. Scoff at the losers with their downhill jobs that cruise central park - yeah, you really need over ten inches of travel to negotiate the horse path. Wankers. And most of all, I look for those great early 90's hand built steel frames from Gary Fisher and Specialized, the one's that are immaculately maintained and totally personalized by bike dorks like myself. Guys who love to be in the saddle more than (almost) anything in the world. And unlike sex, there's no limit. You can just keep going and going. And you don't need anybody else's permission. Nobody else's feelings matter. It's just you and the bike and the wind and the pavement. You are as close to free as you can get in this world.

No matter how shitty a day it has been, it all starts looking a lot better as soon as I get on to my Trek. (I used to ride my beast of mountain bike, but lately I've switched over to this Frankenstein, free wheeling single geared Trek I bought for 150 bucks from some guy in Cliffside Park, NJ. Gotta love Craigslist).

So the trek is light. So light, maybe 17 pounds, if that. And as soon as I put one foot on the pedal and swing up into the saddle, I'm gone. My mind buoys up and away, and I can't help but smile as the pavement falls away beneath me, pedestrians glancing with jealously as I leave their mortal trudging behind. Working to an even pace, the bike is cruising now, my hands gently resting on the front grips, my hips shifting easily from side to side. On the avenues and wide streets, I am even with the flow of traffic. As things get snarled, or a redlight looms, I slip from side to side, looking for an opening - if I run a light, I slow and cross to the far side of the street, allowing me to see as much of the oncoming traffic as possible, judging speed, distance, stopping times, light changes. Pedestrians are a good measure - watch them jaywalk, follow their line of sight if you can't yet see down the side street. Saves time and energy - no need to waste precious inertia. Life is. I am. Alive.

Sure, you can go faster in a car, or ripping it up on a motorcycle. And a cab will get you there without the sweat. But this is why I live in manhattan. A little sweat reminds me that I am here to compete, to play the game, to press my luck, to beat the odds. I don't gamble - but I love to bike. It reminds me of what I am here for.