After an idyllic year of taking a clean, reliable, spacious, free shuttle to and from work every day, I switched jobs and rudely awoke to the reality of rush-hour city commuting. The morning uphill dash, long evening wait , unreliable delays and sardine-style squeeze of the N-Judah lasted just long enough for me to scope out bike parking at work, oil my chain, and set off on my new, two-wheeled adventure. The first ride in was great – easy bike routes, flying downhill, nothing but me, my bike, and the road. The reverse route was less fun (SF hills + SF wind combine to make an inexperienced biker’s life miserable) but I survived. I expected my commutes to continue calmly: my time to disconnect from emails, phone calls, instant messages, and that really irritating guy at the gym who always tries to talk to me. How could I so underestimate San Franciscans?
Day Two of biking began calmly enough – flying down the same hill, open jacket whipping in the wind. Alas, I was ambitiously early and hit Market St. rush-hour full-on. In a flash, it was me, my bike, the road…and a MUNI bus, enormous delivery truck, SUV (not so green now, are you SF?) and pedestrians running everywhere. Navigating between the various obstacles, stress sky-rocketing, I let slip a terrified curse. “You got it, girl…” I heard a voice behind me sing. At the next light, he whizzed up next to me with an exhilarated “Whoo-ooooo,” before pulling ahead , chain clinking around his waist, tattoos gleaming in the sun.
Still a bit bemused my morning interaction, I set off back home in the evening, slowing a bit against the resistance of wind + hill. About five of us bikers clumped at a light, starting together, slowly. I pulled ahead a bit, as shouts echoed from a car next to me…I think the guy was shirtless, and his heckling was something to the effect of “Pedal! You’re almost there! Come on mama! Yeah girl!” Six months in Argentina taught me well, and I placidly pedaled on in my own world until the driver apparently got bored and sped ahead. “That has to be the stupidest man I have ever seen,” said my gray-bearded biking neighbor, pulling up next to me. “I’ve seen worse,” I replied, amused.
A week later I followed the bike in front of me through a stop sign. Not totally legal, I know, but stopping and starting on a hill is just not fun, and I was tired. The driver I’d made wait an extra 15 seconds rolled down his window, shouting “THAT WAS A STOP SIGN!” Really? Thanks, I totally owe you for pointing that out. 15 blocks later I was deep in the fog on a busy street, so I pulled up onto the triple-wide, empty sidewalk, in the name of my safety, and slowly pedaled along. As two men walked in the opposite direction, I slowed just enough to navigate around, when one of them opened his mouth to shout. I sheepishly glanced his way for a moment, expecting another admonition. But instead “Hey, you’re really sexy!” His voice trailed off as I sped up. “You should come back and drink these beers with us!” Shoulders shaking with laughter, I pedaled home.
