DownerMan Revival
On Two Wheels
by Alek Grabinski - e-mail me
I ride my bike to work. I do this for four reasons.
The first is that the body needs exercise. My genes and culinary
lifestyle accentuate the fact that I am always on the verge of incipient
doughiness - some might say that I crossed over that line many moons
ago. I detest gyms and the artificiality of the calorie-burning
there; not to say that those calories generate any less heat, but the
concept of a stationary bicycle is too oxymoronic for my tastes. My knees
are too whacked to be able to play soccer anymore, and I don't
particularly like swimming. So I hop on two wheels and make my commute my
workout.
The second reason I ride is because my automotive commute has gotten to
the point where it actually takes longer to drive ten miles than it does
to cycle the same distance on the same route. It's not uncommon for me to
pass the same car riding down Park Avenue or Monroe Street three or four
times. I'm lucky enough to have all the factors fall into place to make a
cycle commute possible: I'm close enough to make a 30-minute ride possible
daily, the route is mostly on streets with bike lanes, the weather
cooperates most of the time, and there are showers at work.
Another reason is that it's the Right Thing to Do. On two wheels I've
taken my '87 Subaru off the road. I'm exhausting water vapor and CO2, not
hydrocarbons and smog. I don't participate in the destructive cycle of
fossil fuels (mining, refining, transporting, and burning). I don't put
wear and tear on the roadways. While I may occasionally get crowded into
the gutter by a too-wide-for-the-road Ford Extinction or Mitsubishi
Narcissus, I know it's part of the package deal; I'm satisfied and yes,
even a little smug that my footprints on this planet were light and with
little lasting effect.
But the best reason of all to ride is that it instills within me a
sense of aliveness. Every ride is different and every one affords me the
opportunity to celebrate being alive. Last week I was stopped at the
intersection of Monroe and Scott, waiting for the light to turn. An older
man stood there too. A name tag above his silver seven-pointed Crossing
Guard star identified him as Neil Henry. His attention was fixed on a
demolition crew across the street; they were tearing down the King Super
market. I watched too as another wall came down. I said, "It's about
time; that market never did very well." "Oh no," the retiree said,
"Thirty years ago it was the jewel of the neighborhood. It was a real
showplace." I was moved in that moment by a man in his sixties, wearing
an orange vest and neat navy uniform, who had watched his home place
change from orchards to suburbs to the sprawl that is now Silicon
Valley. They're going to put high-density housing in place of the King
Super and its weedy, crumbling asphalt parking lot, which I guess is
appropriate considering the proximity of the high-tech campuses across the
railroad tracks... but there was once a day when there wasn't a need for
rowhouses in the valley, and Mr Neil Henry let me discover that for myself
one morning at a stoplight.
The best thing about riding in the open air is the wondrous experience
that the nose has. At twenty miles an hour, an odor lasts only one or two
breaths, but, Oh! What joy! The sense of smell is the oldest, most
reptilian, most hard-wired into our brains. An odor can trigger memories
that have long been dormant, sometimes jarring us into a vivid
recollection of an event, other times only hinting at what once was. My
ride takes me through residential neighborhoods, where kitchen exhaust
fans share with the immediate surroundings what's for dinner; I have been
transported back to my own childhood many times by that familiar, visceral
smell of fried rice, or roasting pork, or sesame oil. A whiff of perfume
is often carried on the wind - I have sensed my own mother from many years
ago. A passing car may leak the overpowering aroma of a middle-aged woman
off to her office manager job. Rolling past a bus stop I smell the
teenage girls who were there a moment ago, their hyperactively fruity body
washes hastening me back to high school. Sometimes the odors are
downright stinky - the intersections of San Carlos and Lincoln, or Park
and Hedding, are always redolent with the stench of the sewer mains that
lurk below. But even these odors are to be rejoiced in; the reward for
enduring two or three breaths is the reminder of the wonders of societal
living, of indoor plumbing, of clean water and the mystery of the toilet
bowl. Where does it go when I flush? Under my wheels, that's where.
On winter mornings the air is too cold to carry much odor. Instead it
lays there, blanketing the streets with an invisible cover which keeps the
frost on the lawns and the exhaust from automobile tailpipes visible. The
cold air stings my face and causes my eyes to tear, but I feel this as
aliveness. As the sun rises and begins to warm the day, its rays heat the
shingled roofs of the houses, causing them to steam and darken as the ice
changes to water. Puffs of wind carry the water vapor up and away; these
molecules have rested overnight and are now back to the business of water
molecules. I ride past the cemetery and see the tombstones warming up,
though their charges won't. I arrive at work steaming; I take my helmet
off and watch the steam coming off my head.
The toenail that I mentioned in last
month's column fell off a couple of weeks ago, and with it gone, I am
able to ride again. I had not realized how much I missed being on two
wheels until then - but now that I can go whenever I want to, I see that
it's more than exercise. The ride gives me energy for the day; I am more
alert, more alive. I see the world in greater detail, with greater
clarity.
DM
DownerMan plies the streets of San Jose and Santa
Clara most mornings and evenings; on behalf of his fellow cyclists, he
asks that you keep an eye out for him, and that you share the
road.
