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I'm supposed to ride on the street – just like a motorist. But not too far out onto the street, because that's where the cars drive. And not on the sidewalk, because that's for pedestrians.
So I cling to the farthest nether-reaches of the road, as close to the sidewalk as I dare without hitting a pedal on the curb, watching out for speed bumps, potholes, garbage, glass, and these days ice and snow, plus other detritus that gets shoved over to the margins. The cars seem to like this show of respect for their superiority, giving me a wide berth when they pass. Unless I dare to venture too far into their territory – say, when I swerve around a parked car, allowing plenty of room on my right side so I don't win the "door prize" – and receive an earful of righteous anger.
Sometimes, however, on particularly busy streets, I get nervous and move onto the sidewalk – just like a pedestrian. I feel safer on the sidewalk, but the going is slow, my fingers twitching at the ready on the brake levers, moving over or even walking my bike to allow pedestrians the full extent of their territory. I even put up with the occasional evil look, or worse, verbal abuse from said pedestrians for daring to trespass.
I know what you're thinking – what about all those bike lanes that you, as a motorist, find so annoying to navigate around, another hazard standing between you and your on-time arrival at work? Yes, occasionally, there is a happy intersection, so to speak, of bike lanes and my destination – and you will see me, smile on face, pedalling contentedly in the knowledge that I have found my rightful place, with my fellow bikers.
Ah, fellow bikers. At one with the biker gang. Road warrior. Member of the tribe. The words alone instill a warm satisfaction, an additional motivation to my morning bike ride, the juice that pushes me to even greater pedal speeds. But sometimes I have doubts: am I a full-fledged member of the tribe? Where do I sit in the pecking order? In the summer, I'm often wearing a skirt and sandals, helmet firmly clamped over my precious brain that seems to forget so much more than it remembers these days that God forbid I do it any damage to make things worse. But I can still pass the occasional slacker. I really don't mean to be this competitive, but I am late for my meeting, and it's so easy to knock off these older overweight Sunday riders, ambling along with knees jutting out at a 45-degree angle from the (too small) bike frame. Easy prey. Hah! Left you in the dust, as I try to look nonchalant and wipe that smug grin off my face.
But the younger, athletic male bikers are another matter. Sporting six-pack abs lightly dancing back and forth under the T-shirt rippling in the breeze, long dark curls flowing about unfettered by a helmet, well-defined calf muscles pumping up and down rhythmically … but, I digress. I'm not complaining about riding behind those fine human specimens, if only briefly, while I watch them sail across the intersection's green light which has turned red by the time I arrive. The best I can then do is jostle for position in the lineup, nonchalantly sneak to the front to inch ahead of the other bikers when the light turns green and we take off like a peloton in the Tour de France, elbows out, heads down, pedalling furiously to the next traffic light, where the drama again unfolds. Is it my imagination or do I hear dark muttering behind me when I swing out to the far left of the bike lane, edging out my fellow biker?
Speaking of red lights, of course, I stop at every one. Honest. But what about the stop-sign intersection? I'm supposed to stop – like a motorist. I'd rather use the "Idaho stop," which is a slow-down-look-both-ways-check-if-there's-anything-coming kind of stop for cyclists – more like a pedestrian. It must be legitimate; it even has a name. But when I implemented a bold execution of the Idaho stop one day at a particularly sleepy downtown intersection, in the dead of winter, I was confronted by a bicycle police officer, who leaped in front of my bike, palm firmly outstretched, and said in a commanding voice, "Stop sign violation, Ma'am." Okay, maybe I'm just imagining the "Ma'am" bit. But it was a little difficult to take seriously: no cars or pedestrians or cyclists in sight in any direction, just me and three bicycle cops lurking in the shadows. I meant to say, " Awww, fellow biker, can you please let me off this time? After all, I'm braving the winter weather to take one more car off the road." But, shockingly, instead it came out sounding more like, "Sometimes I ride on the sidewalk!" The officer was about to start writing the ticket, but looked up at me in disbelief, incredulous with this confession. I considered a get-away escape attempt, picturing a ludicrous Keystone Kops-style scenario: one female biker of a certain age, chased by three young, athletic bicycle cops. The officer continued to stare at me, no doubt now pondering my sanity, shook his head, and waved me on with a flick of his wrist. I got to the meeting on time.
Whether pedestrian or motorist, accepted as part of the biker gang tribe or not, I'm still riding my bike to meetings, still passing and being passed in bike lanes, still on the receiving end of abuse by motorists and pedestrians, still using the Idaho stop. And it's still the best way to get around in the big city.
Debra Scoffield lives in Toronto.