Getting on your bike isn't easy, but it's worth it, writes commuting cyclist James Russell
KEY POINTS:
As most men will instinctively know, asking your better half for permission to spend thousands of dollars on sporting equipment is best preceded by some serious creative thought.
My tiny brain came up with this: "Missus, do you want to hear something crazy? With the money that I spend every year on catching the bus - I've worked it out to be $1440 - I could spend that on a decent bike and ride to work. I'll have it paid off in a year. What do you think?"
There was little resistance, for she is a wonderful wife, but a week later, as I peered out at the freezing rain, my shiny new bike in the shed, visualising the warm, dry bus, I was reacquainted with her evil side. "On your bike, then," she said. She tried to hide it, but I could tell she was grinning as she turned away.
So began my routine of riding to work: 7am. Up. Iron work clothes, fold and place carefully in bag (notice wife, who sometimes does this for me, in corner of eye checking to make sure I don't stuff them in). Shave. Teeth. Kiss wife, baby. Off. 30-minute bike commute. Shower at work. Sit down to desk. 8.30am.
The first few weeks were murder. I never realised just how hilly Auckland is - well, I realised, but I never thought about how hard it would be to crank up to the top of Queen Street with a howling southerly in my face. The exhaustion was cumulative over the course of the week, and affected both body and mind. Every last cigarette of my youth came back to haunt. Three days in, and my concentration levels were flagging. Anxious to keen a vigilant eye on the manic Auckland traffic, yet unable keep my head from hanging in fatigue, I would take to lifting my eyes from the road to look for danger every few seconds and then lapsing back into as close to the foetal position as you can achieve on a moving bike. I was like a meercat with a case of depression. On a bike. Sometimes, I would look up to see children waiting to cross the road, watching me with a kind of morbid fascination as I passed.
The other, unexpected danger came from the way my mind persisted in wandering. I just couldn't seem keep it on the job. In those early days half a minute's worth of thought processes could well go something like this: Aaarrggh God, I can't keep this up. I wonder what's for dinner? Who invented the bike? Oh cripes, the traffic. Seems OK. Mind the bus. Oh sweet Lord, the pain in my legs etc etc. In brief moments of clarity I realised that I was a danger to myself, but it would quickly be forgotten as my tortured psyche skittered off on another random tangent.
But then, something marvellous happened. Topping a challenging hill that a week before would have had me stooped over the handlebars and wheezing like a heavy smoker climbing Everest without oxygen, instead I found myself able to keep pedalling along the flat and down the other side, gasping only moderately heavily. True, the next rise along the road almost destroyed the very essence of my body and soul, but the memory of that climb remained. Either my fitness was returning or my pain tolerance was on the increase.
As soon as I became vaguely aware of what was going on around me on Auckland roads, I went through two months of fairly irrational road rage. I like to think my friends would probably describe me as a reasonable man, but may well have reconsidered had they seen me racing a bus down Queen Street shouting at the driver to use his F$@#%!n indicators.
My road rage phase included much yelling and shaking of fists and, curiously, recognising of workmates and friends when I was at the height of my rage-induced orations. Once I tore strips off a bus driver through the window only to realise it was the bus I used to take to work and all of my old fellow commuters were watching me through the window with a mixture of fear and fascination.
But the road rage came to an end one shamful morning when, after being horribly cut off by a woman driving a SUV, I furiously gave chase down a long hill. Drawing up alongside at what must have been 50 or 60km/h, I banged on the glass, yelling in frustration and anger. In the passenger seat the woman's daughter, who must have been all of five years old, looked at me in abject terror, her mouth agape.
Of course we believe our right to driver courtesy is greater by virtue of our vulnerability - we are easily squished underwheel. In the same way you patiently wait for an old lady to board the bus, we believe so should motorists treat cyclists. But no, instead they try to kill us. I have come to accept it, and I just do my best to avoid them.
Although car drivers regularly bitch about us in the letters to the editor, in reality much of our transgressions are in the name of avoiding the traffic at all costs. Rules be damned, when I'm crawling up Pitt Street at rush hour in the rain with two lanes of traffic racing each other to get home, I'll ride on the footpath.
After a while, I realised I was a reasonably fit man. A fit man! It's been years since I have been able to refer to myself as such. My chest inflated. I pranced about. I wanted to get a t-shirt printed with an arrow pointing down toward my bum and the words 'CARBON-FREE EMISSIONS' emblazoned above it.
'This is the best part of my day,' is the phrase I've heard plenty of times as fellow cyclists swing their legs over the crossbar to start their journey home after a day's work. Instantly the focus changes from your dictatorial boss to who is trying to run you over. It is, believe or not, the perfect way to relax. By the time you get home, sweaty, the fight gone out of you, there is no frustration left. Makes for a great evening with your family.
One day - hopefully - New Zealand cycling infrastructure will be like it is in Holland, with two-way cycle lanes and even mini cycle traffic lights. Polite people will ring their bells to get by slower riders and we'll all get to work/school/home safely.
More people want to ride to work, but are just too scared to give it a try. For all the dangers, punctures, dust, fumes and bad drivers, it is all worth it. Good on Auckland City Council for getting on with the cycles lanes and ignoring those whinging about the cost. Oh, and those clip-on thingies on the Harbour Bridge for cyclists. Bring them on too.
