One of the Anne books famously said that “a house is not a real home until it had been consecrated by a birth, a wedding and a death.” This last week has me wondering if there is a similar ritual necessary for a bike. Perhaps a bike isn’t really yours until you’ve changed each tire, had to walk it several miles while flat, and had a near death experience with it?
If so, my bike is now fully my own.
This weekend I spent bike commuting, partially because I can now, partially because bus passes are expensive, and partially because it was nice and crisp- a pleasant autumn feeling that I’m still not quite used to yet. I was a little proud of myself when I made it to the Fremont Sunday Market and locked up my bike to hang out with friends, I had made it all the way across town on my own!
But as we headed back to the bikes my friend spotted a problem. He’s a bike mechanic, so of course he spotted the problem from practically the other side of the market. Although it was obvious even to me once I got there, my back tire was flat. Really flat. And here I was without my repair kit.
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| There’s a reason these things come in bags, in case you were wondering. It’s so you can bloody CARRY THEM WITH YOU WHEN YOU RIDE. |
Well, I had places to be so there wasn’t any time to mourn my mode of transportation. I had to head out and catch the bus… and I got to the bus stop just in time to see it leave. So I walked to 23rd from Fremont and even though it’s only 2 1/2 miles it felt like more… especially every time a biker breezed by me on the Burke-Gilman, their bike tires blissfully full.
But Sunday’s walking journey was nothing compared to last night’s fun. I decided to go ahead and ride to the Junior League meeting last night (I didn’t want to look for parking and the bus would have gotten me there a little late) and didn’t have any problems at all until I headed home.
I live on Yesler which, if you aren’t from Seattle, is a really big hill. Yesler Way was actually the original “skid row” down which logs were skidded down to the mill. The hill had many names including, First Hill, Yesler Hill, and Profanity Hill. Why Profanity Hill? Well, the King County Courthouse was down on 8th and supposedly the name came from the cursing of the attorneys and litigants at having to climb so steep a grade.
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| It’s been graded, but it’s still really really steep |
Anyhow, I was coming down the other side of the hill towards my house and making good time. I was going pretty fast, about the same speed of traffic, and because there was no one on the road I decided to go ahead and bike in the middle of the lane rather than on the edge. It’s safer, after all, and there was no one behind me trying to pass.
Well, as I speed down Yesler towards my house, marveling at the freedom of going downhill and happy to be done with my obligations for the night, I approach a major, well-lit intersection. Ahead of me is a taxi cab approaching the turn lane.
Well, before I even have time to notice what’s going on the taxi decides- not to stop and wait for me to pass- but to just turn left right away. Right in front of me.
I slam on my brakes, luckily using both brakes in my haste to stop. I skid, my front brakes locking up, and slow down just enough to barely, barely, squeeze by right behind his bumper. I stop at the corner, my front tire unable to move, and watch the taxi cab speed off into the distance as if nothing had even happened.
Did he notice that I almost hit him? Did he even care?
My heart pounding, I walk my bike the block to my house and sit down on my steps. I fix my tire and then, as the adrenaline burns off find myself, unexpectedly, bawling.
I got back on the bike this morning, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to let go of the brakes as I hit the downhill.