"How can you ride a bike on Central Expressway?" a coworker asked several years ago. "It's so dangerous!" The stretch of pavement that connects Palo Alto, Mountain View, Sunnyvale, and Santa Clara was a route I used most every day, but this was a hard question to answer. How you define danger, what makes you feel vulnerable, what makes you feel safe? The best answer would cut through the emotional layers and illuminate the cycling experience for a non-cyclist. "What drivers don't realize is that the traffic on the expressway isn't a continuous stream, it comes in waves. There are actually long periods of quiet and calm." It was clear the reality experienced by a driver in a car was not what was experienced by a cyclist.
Fast forward 20 years to Saturday morning, 6:30am, I'm cycling across Berkeley on my way to the Oakland Airport. This is my favorite time because the streets are quiet, the air is cool, and the winds are calm. I often see deer standing in the neighborhood lawns regarding me with a placid sort of curiosity, or is it bored indifference? This time of morning, it's easy to believe that you've returned to a time when people worked a 40 hour week, slept 8 hours a night, and ate breakfast before leaving for work. Things will get more hectic in 20 minutes, when I make my way through Oakland and closer to the freeway, the road that never sleeps. But for now the stillness magnifies every sound and lets me hear the crows' alarm as I approach as well as boisterous garbage trucks worming their way through the streets. Turning onto San Pablo Avenue, life begins to accelerate.
"How can you cycle on San Pablo Avenue? It's so dangerous!" I've been asked this question recently and the answer is the same as it was 20 years ago. I slide up on the ride side of an AC Transit bus waiting at a red light. Looking inside, the patrons seem dazed, some almost asleep, eyes closed. I'm just the opposite: My heart is pumping steadily, I'm in touch with the world around me, and I'm wide awake. I'd better be because the bus driver is all business. She has seen it all and is inching forward in little jerky motions, intent on blasting straight ahead and leaving me in a cloud of diesel exhaust as soon as the light turns green. I hate to disappoint, but this is where I turn right.
Humming down Adeline Street, muscles warm, not yet fatigued, in the zone, passing auto body shops, a tofu distributor, and my favorite green coffee distributor (Sweet Maria's), the giant Port of Oakland cranes come into view. A left on 8th Street is a shortcut that trades a long, poorly timed stoplight for a couple of stop signs. Controlling the traffic debate is key for urban cycling. This is not an affluent neighborhood. Section 8 housing predominates, but it has never felt particularly dangerous. Until today.
I turn right on Filbert and an FBI van surrounded by a swarm of SWAT-style police comes into view. A couple of officers (are they CHP or FBI or OPD? Does it matter?) loping down the sidewalk in military fashion briefly lock eyes with me. I give them my best, innocent, "Hey, I'm just on my way to work" sort of expression. Apparently I'm not a threat. They continue on their "mission," I continue on mine, silently lamenting the never ending wars in which we engage: The war on drugs, the war on terror. What happened to the wars on poverty, illiteracy, and hunger? Did we lose those wars, tacitly admit defeat, and move on? Does a militarized police force make us safer or do we just feel safer? A few more blocks, I pass under the freeway, and I'm quietly spinning through the Jack London Square neighborhood. A line of semi trucks are queued up, heading to the docks. The events a few blocks earlier are out of sight and out of mind, as are the questions they raise, at least for now. I've mentally clicked on dislike, changed channels, moved on.
Third Street is a designated bike route that cuts through the heart of the Produce District, but only a non-cyclist could have decided it was good for bikes. Dozens of delivery trucks protruding into the street, forklifts zigzaging, workers in a hurry to load fresh fruits and vegetables, the street punctuated by numerous intersections and stop signs. This is a bike route in name only. I head to Embarcadero, even though train tracks run through the middle of the street and the pavement is rough. It is less trafficked, fewer stop signs, fewer intersections, more direct. It is safer, or at least it feels safer.
Embarcadero trickles out of Jack London Square and threads the thin gap between Alameda's inner harbor and interstate 880. I'm passing the freeway traffic which is crawling because of an accident of some sort. The drivers are encased in steel cages, airbags, anti-lock brakes, so they must be safe, right? To me, their faces look like the ones I saw on the bus: Dazed, disconnected, maybe disaffected. In contrast, the cyclists I encounter are alert, engaged, alive. Some look straight ahead, but others nod, wave, some ring their bike bells, some are even smiling. Just a few more miles and I'll be at the airport, refreshed and ready to start flying.
Endless wars, countless conflicts, and our obsession with security provide a never-ending supply of patriots and heroes. We've forgotten the patriots who have never wielded a gun, but who have the courage to get out of bed and face a neighborhood where gun violence is commonplace. We've lost sight of the heroes who serve and protect an aging parent or a care for a spouse with a debilitating illness. And when did we lose the courage to look into the mirror each morning, see an aging face, wrinkles not hidden or corrupted by plastic surgery? It is time to forgive, accept who we are, what we have become, and what we have made of ourselves. It's not too late to find the courage to live life, risk trusting our neighbors, face pain and loss, and know that life will go on whether or not we feel safe. Perhaps we can discover a way through the gaps left by others to find love, acceptance, and awakening through simple daily acts. Perhaps we can reach enlightenment just by riding a bicycle.
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