RACY BIKES
7/13/06 From the cafe window of Schwartz on Oakland, I can see cyclists headed towards the international bike races about to start on Oakland and go right by my house on Maryland. Vehicular traffic is prohibited along the route, to the surprise of many drivers, including my husband who was barricaded in. People are setting up chairs, bringing out ice cubes, burger buns, burgers, brats, beer, ready to chip away the minutes between 4 and 8 PM; it's a neighborhood picnic, more a social than visual event, but then I'm not big on racing of any kind. I'm not even particularly competitive. Biking, however, I love, a slow ride. I watch what I pass and what passes me.
I came to Schwartz to write about Sunday's salon discussion on nonviolence, but now realize I should go back home and spend the day at the races, sitting in my own front yard. I'll take fifteen minutes more at Schwartz to gaze at ambling passers-by, an old man limping, fat baby legs in a stroller, a purple Mohawk, families with folding chairs, half the people eating or drinking as they walk; usually half the people are talking on cell phones.
This feels like a sleepy town on a hot day, but in 8 minutes that will change. U-turns are becoming ubiquitous, otherwise the pace hasn't picked up. A woman lead by her belly, the man behind her lead by his head, a Walkman walking, my chamomile tea too strong, that's because I've stayed too long, it's after 4!
And now I'm sitting on my non-toxic lawn. Here comes a wave of bikers, and the people in the next block cheer. Joe M asked me today why I think serious bikers don't wave back when he pedals past with his flatbed bike. Another wave advances, curved backs, tight outfits wicking away the sweat, bare legs, skinny tires, absolute concentration, whoosh, and they're gone. Maybe it's that absolute concentration. They don't even notice us, the non-competitive class, pedaling past. People shuffle, push strollers, pedal, giggle, chatter along the sidewalk, pass my house, my scarlet flax, blue flax, bachelor buttons, and me. Here comes the official white car, making sure the coast is clear, followed by the whooshing wave, then a laggard, far behind the rest. Pedestrians, picnickers, "Here they come!!" says a man to his tots, and whoosh again, then two laggards, that makes it more interesting. If they're slow enough maybe they'll rejoin from the front. Recreational bikers, dog walkers, sidewalk with a life of its own, white car clearing the way on the street, whoosh again, bikers getting further and further apart, four of them definitely leading the pack. How do the bikers speed around corners without colliding? Here's a laggard, about six blocks behind, that means the cycle wave's almost here, cycle of cyclists advancing, whoosh, some drinking and driving, probably Gatorade.
7/14/06 After dinner I walked my bike a few blocks; the crowd had grown, bikers going faster, a block-long blur, brakes screeching at corners. "When the bikers go by, yell Jellybellies, go Nick," a father said to his son. Hmmm, must be a local boy midst the international crew, certainly no jelly bellied bikers though. They're sleek as their bikes.
Doug W and I coasted to the bike path and slowly pedaled, 10 miles per hour instead of 25. We chatted with gardeners at the community gardens along the path near the Urban Ecology Center, asked if they bought their seeds from the peddler who supplied Jack of beanstalk fame, then continued to Alterra on the Lake for an evening of free opera. I knew back in Shorewood the bikers were still cycling in circles.
