Bicycling: Recreation, Transportation, Meditation

 My first experiences with bicycling were limited to the alley outside of my grandparents’ house extending laterally two blocks to the parking lot of St. Michael’s Catholic Church in one direction and the lot of the Morgan Building [now burned down] in the other. I could go a slightly farther distance down the hill to Father Marinaro Park, but I seldom chose that option due to the fact that the return trip was up a steep hill. In fact, the hill was so steep, that riding down it with cheap pedal brakes was quite a harrowing experience as well. When I did venture down Brown Avenue, I would stand on the pedals, applying as much might as I could until, the bottom rapidly approaching, I’d invariably resort to a Flinstone-like foot drag complete with pedals gouging the backs of my calves at alternating intervals. I was sure that one day I would end up unable to stop and be flattened by a car in the middle of Center Avenue, or worse yet crash headlong through the plate glass window of the penny candy store that sat right at the juncture of Brown and Center.

I never even bothered taking my bike anywhere further up the hill from where we lived. Needless to say, this was a very small radius in which to enjoy riding. The ability to ride a bike was a hard-won prize, with many instances of gravel-encrusted road rash punctuating the journey to proficiency. But it was just recreation for me; something fun to do with friends to pass the time and get me out of my grandmother’s hair. It was not until I was a young adult fresh out of high school that I moved to Philadelphia and gained a whole new perspective on bicycling.

Although I was eighteen years old, I had not yet acquired my driver’s license. Once in Philly, it seemed unnecessary and actually like almost more of a hindrance to own and operate a vehicle. The people I knew who did drive had constant complaints of traffic, lack of parking, high insurance, gas and repair costs, and smashing of their windows and theft of their radios. Between the buses, trolleys, trains and subways, I figured I could access just about anywhere I wanted to go at a reasonable price. The only drawback to public transportation was that I often had to walk several blocks to get to it, possibly transfer to another line, and then walk several more blocks to my final destination. The whole process could eat up a significant amount of my day, and if not careful cause me to be chronically late. A friend suggested I use some leftover funds from my student loan to purchase a bicycle.

I bought a brand new Trek and was now able to traverse the relatively flat city in many cases more quickly than my counterparts in cars. I could leave directly from my door and arrive as close to my destination as the nearest tree, sign, parking meter, or bike rack. Luckily, since I was often headed for the Temple University campus, finding a bike rack was pretty easy. When I worked my shift as a waitress at the Down Home Diner in Reading Terminal Market, the management allowed me to bring my bike inside for safer storage. I now owned a quick and reliable mode of transportation that was also economical [initial cost was about $300 and upkeep was minimal]. On most days of the year, an observer in the daily commute could spot me looking turtle-like in my backpack stuffed to the maximum, wearing some kind of hat [never a helmet] and in colder weather trailing a long colorful scarf behind me, riding along the edge of the road, dodging the suddenly opened doors of parked cars, right turns by impatient motorists and distracted pedestrians. Aside from the risks of accidents, there were very few “downsides” to cycling; if I needed to go a great distance or the weather was too bad, I could still catch public transportation on occasion. Riding every day had the added benefit of keeping me in excellent physical condition.

Even though I rode each day on the fast-paced and traffic filled streets of Philadelphia in order to get from point “A” to point “B”, I also would ride for enjoyment. Previously, I had never ridden a bike with shifters and hand brakes and it took some getting used to, but I learned to love the way the “hyperglide” feature would smoothly move the chain from sprocket to sprocket at just the merest flick of my thumb. I began to physically tune in to my bike and could tell when it was time to shift up or down, even though I could not have translated these actions into words by naming the actual gear I was in. I rode in the rain. I rode in the snow. I rode through the Richard B Allen Housing Projects where the children would sometimes gather on the corner and throw small pebbles [and on one especially hot occasion coffee cans full of water] at me as I rode past. I biked on the streets and in Fairmount Park, on the trails along Kelly Drive and at Penn’s Landing. I traveled by bicycle from South Street to Spring Garden, from Chinatown to the Museum and everywhere in between. At some point these excursions became more than a means of travel, but were also my time for meditation and contemplation.

While riding, my senses were heightened and engaged to the fullest, I moved in harmony with the machine I sat astride, the sound of my breath, my heartbeat and the swoosh of the wind traveling past my ears was my mantra. Somehow my consciousness would shift and even though I maintained this vigilant state, I also would get impressions from deeper in my psyche. I would think of creative projects or have spiritual and philosophical insights or work on healing the deep wounds of childhood. One night, while in this trance-like state, my friend and I rode out onto the newly constructed and not yet opened Vine Street Extension. The graded pavement slid silkily past my tires and as I crested the small rise in the road, I was met by the most beautiful full moon hanging like an earring from the steel girder ear of Liberty One. I stopped a moment to gaze in awe at the sublimity of nature juxtaposed with the creative prowess of human kind and felt grateful that I was able to be present for this gift. At that moment, it occurred to me that my relationship with my bicycle shared a similar synthesis of the organic with the mechanistic and I knew that I would be a life-long lover of cycling.