Comment: Notes on bike diplomacy
as we face the winter ceasefire

Our recent spell of Indian summer notwithstanding, cycling season is just about over. It’s a bittersweet time for me. Bitter: It’ll be months before my next fine jaunt down to the Village on two wheels, wind in my face, the top-of-the-world feeling exercise can bring filling my heart. Sweet: Barring a truly freak accident in spinning class, I’ll be a lot less likely to suffer compound fractures or other blunt-force trauma for the next few months.

Metro Detroit is both heaven and hell for people who prefer to get around on two wheels instead of four. Its wide, flat boulevards are perfect for making 12 miles fly by like two. Unfortunately, you share them with clueless drivers piloting massive vehicles with sound systems louder than the Rolling Stones', backseat entertainment clamoring for the attention of overstimulated kids, who are themselves clamoring for the attention of the driver, who might be clamoring for the attention of the person he or she is talking to on the phone, and–you get the idea. A cyclist is always aware of her lack of an airbag.

Almost every adult cyclist is a driver, but not many drivers are cyclists. Which is not to say we are warring camps, just ones that could use better diplomacy. I first learned this when, at 14, I was riding on a country road, thinking the car behind me was getting awful close, just as the passenger leaned out the window and smacked me on the butt. Didn’t say a word. I wobbled, kept my balance, and decided the world of drivers owed me one. I’m still waiting to collect.

There’s a diplomatic corps among cyclists, one that urges us to stop for every stop sign and red light, signal every turn and otherwise follow every rule of the road down to the letter. This is supposed to gain us the respect of drivers, who will then, theoretically, stop trying to kill us. I don’t subscribe to this kumbaya theory of human behavior. One of the last times I rode on Lake Shore, I was given the digital salute by a motorist who evidently believed I was not close enough to the curb to suit him. (Isolated atop his excellent SUV suspension system, he was perhaps unaware of the rough pavement I was avoiding.) He was delayed a whole four, five seconds while he waited for a gap in the inside lane to safely pass. You can understand his frustration.

But then, not a week later, I had a moment of chest-clutching terror when, driving after dark, I nearly picked off a cyclist riding without lights, in dark clothing, with only one lousy reflector standing between himself and total invisibility. You are not doing our team any favors, I thought. You could say the same thing about me the last time I ran a stop sign, but stacking the sins of cyclists against those of motorists, I’m not feeling a lopsided sense of guilt. My errors in judgment can only hurt me (as long as I stay off sidewalks). Whereas the minivan-piloting mom with the phone at her ear who nearly runs the stop sign before slamming on the brakes and screeching to a stop 36 inches from my right femur–let’s just say she can do a lot of damage. Yes, that really happened. It’s yet another reason I’m glad I don’t carry weaponry other than my water bottle. (A well-aimed squirt can defeat a dog nipping at your heels.)

Things are looking up, however: When I started using my bike as my go-to vehicle a few years ago, I was mostly alone out there. The summer of $4 gas gained me some company; I stopped in at the bike shop for supplies and asked the owner if he was selling a lot to converts. He said not bikes so much, but lots of bags, baskets and other carriers, to people who were starting down the road toward more pedaling, less driving. To these newcomers, I say welcome. Our numbers are growing. We have advocates, and the warm feeling that comes from smug moral superiority–yea, my brethren, we give a hoot and don’t pollute. We pilot vehicles that run on butt fat. You’re advised to keep it in check, however, as moral superiority is not a way to win tolerance from the people in cars. Let a smile be your umbrella, don’t be too obnoxious as you make your way around, watch for pedestrians and thank whoever you will for the ceasefire of winter.

We’ll get our bike lanes yet.

Nancy Nall Derringer is an editor at GrossePointeToday.com, and blogs most days at nancynall.com. E-mail her.
 

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