The things I’ve learned about rain & bicycles:
a.) It doesn’t matter what the radar says.
b.) Brakes don’t work well when wet.
c.) A Poncho may keep parts of you dry, but it isn’t designed to make you feel dry.
d.) Wheels spray lots of water in the most inconvenient directions, namely the crotch and the posterior. It’s wise to bring extra underwear.
e.) Road debris, when wet, sticks to everything.
f.) There are no windshield wipers for eyes.
g.) When you put Polmade in your hair before you bike in the rain, it washes out and into your eyes where it stings and blinds you at the very moment you need your eyes open the most. It’s just a stupid thing to do.
It’s not me I fear for. In my backpack I carry an assortment of expensive electronic equipment that isn’t fond of swimming; a laptop, a cellphone, an ipod. Summer storms are sudden and complete, drenching with the fury of a grandmother’s kisses and leaving the recipient bewildered and very very wet.
On the radar, pockets of green and red float across the screen immersed in a field of gray. Outside, the sky looks threatening, bellowing forth its fury from some distant flash of lightening while patches of blue tempt with security. It’s full of mixed messages.
Like every evening I ride my bike, I head to the downtown library to catch up on some writing before making the twenty five minute ride home, but tonight I sit next to a window nervously watching the low flying clouds skip across the tops of buildings as the banners that hang from light post blow in a steady wind. The radar promises a break, but when and how long, I don’t know.
On any paved surface used frequently for vehicle travel are grooves, slight indentations breaking the thoughtfully constructed arch of the road, where the weight of daily activity is impressed. I slip along the far left side of the street, too light to leave my own impression.
It’s no secret. The brain likes repetitive behavior. It wrinkles up in excitement leaving huge canyons which direct the flow of behavior. Even the motivations that lead my wife to break her commitment were the spark of childhood memories and a complete reliving of her late teens. In the last months of our marriage, as she swung in a playground swing, she was so lost in reminiscing that she was only vaguely aware of me and children, trap in an idealized past, stuck in the ruts of good memories and childhood lovers now miraged by a 31 year old department supervisor/death metal drummer.
But just as routine can be the ruin, it can also be salvation out of trying times. As I transverse the complex intersections, I catch myself lost in thought, using only lower functions of the brain to negotiate the traffic and am made slightly nervous by the realization, but the sense of satisfaction derive from the morning ride now reduced to subconscious activity is so complete, that I feel an overwhelming sense of well being, the triggers for all the insecurity of the last three months washed away by endorphins. It is a daily cleansing so satisfying that even the sharp pain emanating from my right foot, possibly broke from the strain of running on concrete bare foot at a water park, isn’t enough to keep me from the ritual.
Just as much as the grooves in the road are caused by the barrage of tires, they seem to hold those wheels on course. Such is the way with wrinkles. This is healthy behavior that transforms the ruin of my life into an optimistic future, and even though the weight of my vehicle leaves no visible impression on the concrete I travel, there is a rut there, keeping my course fixed.
Let’s talk probabilities.
My route intersects a handful of busy roads. Although they can be typed by their properties, each intersection offers it’s own set of unique variables based on geographical location, time of day, and likelihood of being run over by a heartless moron.
My first major intersection is a six lane highway crossing a four lane road with turn lanes in each direction. It is the main artery for morning traffic to the downtown area, and even though my commute starts well before morning rush hour, traffic is heavy enough to be confusing.
As I approach, I survey the terrain taking note of the light sequence. I have to cross twice, so whether I cross the four lane first or second depends on which set of lights are green. This morning it is the six lane that is go, so I start to cross the four lane looking over my shoulder first.
The real threat at any intersection is turning cars. Whether it’s a sneaky right hand turn, or someone gunning a left across traffic, either can spell death, or, at the least, a cracked skull. A women in her fifties with a convenience perm eyes at me coldly, her right hand flasher blaring an angry yellow. The way her lips sit frozen in a horizontal line signals a threatening disposition. I stop as she doesn’t hesitate coming close to the curb, her mouth salivating for a taste of my spilt blood, her beady eyes glaring at me through the passenger side window.
As the rush of semi’s, SUV’s, trucks, and the occasional economy class come rushing by, I cross, uneasy of the speeding drivers and their human emotions.
Shortly after crossing the six lane, I coast down a quiet side street for several blocks then hit a busier but wider four lane road. Light traffic dominates until I hit a series of four laners feeding the downtown business district. It is these brief crossings where the statistical probability of my being smashed goes from a soothing blue to a saturated red. The rhythmic patterning of my breathing becomes erratic as I lift my head from the immediate pavement and process all the factors of a very real time problem.
And this is how I approach my impending love life. As I adopt the bachelor title, I shrug off the suggestion of the bar culture I must become apart of by virtue of my new definition. In the gradating scale of probability, my hope of finding a meaningful relationship in a judgment impaired environment of desperation is a cold blue. Getting laid on the other hand, a steaming red.
As I survey the landscape for potential mates, I factor in the variables and assign color values to the various places I can invest my time. The library, a moderate green. A film festival in the arts district, a warm orange.
But in all the places in this city I have evaluated, there isn’t a single red. My chances of finding a girl are less than my chances of getting my skull cracked.
But it doesn’t pay to be rational in love. Riding a bike through busy downtown roads is a game of measured risk, but crashing into a relationship with a member of the opposite sex is an occurrence that once transpires must be dealt with through compromise and work. Red, green, blue, it doesn’t matter, the factors are too numerous to calculate, and many of them are well beyond anyone’s control.
And the probability of that accident happening blankets the landscape in red, whether amorous or contentious, it’s all the sum of human emotions.
