Last Monday the grass was green where snow had melted, and the streets looked clear, except for the cloud of fog that hugged the East Side. I figured I should bike to Trader Joe’s while the snow and ice were water. As I put on my helmet, I had to admit I was afraid, of ice patches, of drivers on cell phones, of predicted thunder storms, of being too old to bike.

I pedaled along Maryland Avenue, avoided a friend who stepped off the curb without looking, too busy listening to his iPod, he said. Despite my loud pink jacket, I felt invisible, mists never more than a few feet away. The fog wasn’t pea soup, wrong color, more like vichyssoise without the leeks. I started to think of new blogs, wished I had a little tape recorder. Passers-by would think I’m on my cell phone. I smiled, relaxed, soon was coasting down Hampton, and I knew why I was biking. It’s more than a matter of getting to Trader Joe’s; it’s being out in the world, not enclosed, cruising through outdoor air.

I walked down the aisle, skipped the bulky produce, zeroed in on cereal, tofu, polenta, thinking that’s what’s cheap at Trader Joe’s, most health food I get at Outpost, better to shop there, shop  local, calculating what would fit on my bike. Then a voice said, “Suzanne! How did you get here?”
“Oh, Ruth, hi! I biked.” “You certainly can’t carry everything on your bike. You’ll have to let me drive it back for you.”

I mention this not because Ruth drove my groceries home for me, though she did, but because she told me about her recent mammogram at Bayshore. She had asked her technician about the incidence of breast cancer in the area. The technician replied that it’s unusually high on the North Shore. I’ve heard that several times recently, haven’t read it anywhere.

The following day at the Fitness Center a friend told me that some of the young women who live near her have breast cancer, and one died, leaving behind two young children. Then she added, “So many of my neighbors use pesticides, I’m thinking of moving out of Shorewood.”

I guess some people are dying to have no dandelions.
 

Gil W and I were the two. We’ve gone on the Ride For the Arts for the past fifteen years. I suspect Gil was hoping for rain. I, however, didn’t even question whether or not I actually wanted to go, until my alarm buzzed at 5 AM. Too late to cancel, so instead of questioning, I set up a quest: to find someone besides me riding a single-speed coaster-brake bike in the event.

It was a 5-mile pedal to reach the sea of white-shirted bikers.
“Nothing very appealing or interesting about those shirts,” I commented. “Most people never wear them again once the ride is over.”
“I use them for undershirts in winter,” said Gil.
“Think of how great it would look if the shirts were all different colors, a rainbow coalition for the arts.”
“It’s funny,” he said. “This is a ride for the arts, and it has nothing to do with art.”
“Good point. Say, I have an idea. Each shirt should have a large square in which the bikers can do their own paintings or drawings or poems.”

That at least is the gist of our chatter as we joined the crowds, Gil on his 3-speed, I on my single speed. None of the riders visible to us, and we saw a lot of them as they floated past, rode single or three speed bikes, just ten, or twelve, or however high they go.

And we didn’t run into people we knew. That seemed strange. “Maybe because they’re all younger than we are,” I observed. “Do you see anyone who looks our age?” So we had a new challenge: to find antiquated riders. Not too many of them, either, unless they were lagging behind us.

And the ear-splitting music at the post-ride party was also geared towards a younger crowd with gears, not towards those still using coaster brakes. In a world desperately in need of simplification, even the bikes get more complex. That would be fine, if Detroit started to make bicycle cars with gears and hand brakes so we could become energy independent.