 Bicycle
Liberation
It was 1970. Chicago (or the congested suburb of Evanston to be
precise). Summer after college graduation. I was jobless and
enthralled with a married man, whose family I
happened to be living with. My friend Trish, who also loved the hippie
Don Juan, lived with me in the attic . A long hot summer. Trapped, with no money.
While I was unemployed, I lived on about $50 a month -- $25
from my grandmother and $25 from a middle-aged dork I taught Spanish
to on Sunday mornings. Twenty bucks got forked over to my
fantasy-lover’s
wife for food. Finally, in late summer I got a job with Rotary International.
It was a crappy job, doing clerical tasks in Portuguese for Brazilian
Rotary Clubs, but for a while I was on top of the world. My first paycheck
bought a bike – an English 3-speed, a
racer just like the one I had as a kid.
Suddenly I was free. When my living circumstances got
claustrophobic, I had a place to go: away. Never went very far. Maybe
over to the beach to watch the sailboats and long for adventure. Once,
as I threaded my way through Evanston traffic, I tipped over and fell in
front of a car, which luckily stopped before it ran me down. The massive
bruises on my hips and thighs were my testament to being “out there”
and accepting the perils of the world.
In the fall, Trish and I moved to an apartment on the north
side of Chicago. She was still in school and I still worked for Rotary.
I rode the bike to work every day, through the most godawful traffic.
For long stretches I simply had to concentrate on the road and hope that
an inattentive driver wouldn’t run me down. I’d get to work pumped
with adrenaline, hurry to change into my dress, and assume my dweebish
position behind the Brazilian correspondent’s desk. At five, I’d change again,
then rush out into the cold air and freedom. In the
twilight of late fall I flew along my familiar path, taking the broad
curve around Lake Shore Drive, oblivious to the lake that had enticed me
all summer, aware only of the lights, the horns, the big tires too close
to my wheels, legs pumping me toward the safety and warmth of our
apartment. Danger, yes, but until the chunky ice of merciless
winter took hold, it was my own brave adventure.
It stays with me now, that rush. Every time I get on my
bike… I’m off! Got my balance, got my legs, got my freedom… go!
July 24, 2000 |