Bike Mom

I’ve never been the kind of person who calls strangers “honey,” or the kind of person who calls anyone honey, for that matter (I may have been born in the South, but I didn’t stay long enough for it to take).  Still, these last few weeks, every time I bike near someone riding without a helmet, I feel a strange, strong impulse to lean over, put a hand on their handlebars, and say, “Oh, honey, please wear a helmet.”

This morning, as I was pedaling over the Broadway Bridge, I ended up behind a young woman who triggered these protective instincts.  She was wearing a helmet, and she even had a red rear bike light, but the light was mounted on her seat post, and was almost entirely obscured by her bike rack.  It wasn’t increasing her visibility in the early morning hours at all.  I stayed behind her all the way to Burnside, where we both got caught at the stoplight, at which point I pulled up alongside her and said, “I’m sorry, it’s really none of my business, but I just wanted to let you know that your bike rack is blocking your bike light.  You can’t really see it much from behind.”

I was immediately embarrassed that I’d said anything– I’ve definitely done my share of biking in less-than-safe equipment situations (for instance, riding around in the dark without any red rear light for the last three weeks), so I’m not one to talk.  She just smiled, though, and said, “Thanks.  That’s actually really good to know.”

I smiled back and said, “Sorry.  With all those people getting hit lately, I’m starting to feel like a Bike Mom.”

My lesson for the day: it’s a good thing to talk to each other.  It’s a good thing to look out for each other.

If This Were Art Redux

This morning, as I pedaled past the Women Making History in Portland mural and the graffiti that I mentioned in yesterday’s post (the blank wall sprayed with the words “if this were art, you’d be in a gallery right now”), I had a sudden stroke of brilliance. Given Portland’s status as America’s bicycle capital, shouldn’t we have a mural commemorating the city’s bike history, and some of the key figures who have made biking such a part of the region’s culture? I know that the Community Cycling Center has a beautiful mural celebrating bike transit, but it would be great to see something in North Portland highlighting the political will that has invested in, and continues to improve, the city’s bike infrastructure.

Of course, as Ben can attest after juicy, unrecognizable mess I made out of the pumpkin I tried to carve last night, my ability to execute an artistic vision is well below average. So this is really a project (like so many of the projects I come up with) for someone else. Still, the Albina/Mississippi MAX stop area could be a gallery, and what better to showcase with public art than bicycles, a mode of transit that crosses class and cultural lines all across the Portland? We could call it “Going Platinum.”

P.S. Willie, stop fucking with my search terms. “Liederhosen,” indeed.

If This Was Art

I somehow managed to break the memory card in the digital camera, so I’m going to go ahead and report on something I’ve been seeing on my commute, even though I’d been hoping to post pictures. Last week, as I was riding home along the Yellow MAX line near the Albina/Mississippi stop, I saw that someone had spray-painted a message along the blank white wall of a warehouse on Interstate. It said:

if this was art,

you’d be in a gallery right now.

And whoever wrote it was right: that white wall would be much more interesting if it was covered with, for instance, a mural, like the one a few blocks down the street.

I’ve been watching the progress on the “Women Making History in Portland” mural ever since school started again. It’s sponsored by In Other Words, an awesome non-profit feminist bookseller that I’ve had very positive dealings with in the past. The mural is on the wall of a building on the west side of Interstate, and I see it every day as I come around the bend in the road just south of the I-405 overpass.

In September, the mural was just some barely-visible sketches over white paint; in the last six weeks, it has become a vibrant, colorful collection of portraits of a very diverse group of women. I don’t recognize most of the names, but I’ll stop one morning when I’m not running late and jot them down, find out what they’ve done in this city.

The older I get, and the more I encounter the kind of masculine disregard, condescension, and sexual harrassment that I used to think was a thing of the past, the more I connect with the idea of feminist solidarity. When I was younger, I experienced other women as the enforcers of a gender norm with which I didn’t identify, so I blamed women for their own problems, and figured that because I had rejected “girly-ness,” sexism didn’t apply to me. Wrong! It turns out we don’t get to opt out of the structures of oppression. There are definitely times (more and more, as I step into positions of authority) when I want to grab some men (and women) by the neck and demand that they take me seriously.

Equality would be great. Failing that, I’ll take a mural.

Come to think of it, there is one small act that routinely gives me a sense of feminist satisfaction: tooling men (preferably men in spandex) on Mock’s Crest.

Interstate and Greeley Memorial Update

Fortunately, I accidentally left a few books I needed on campus on Thursday, so on Saturday, I had to bike downtown and back under the glorious fall sky.  Traffic is so much more mellow on the weekend– I used to make that trip at 9 am every Saturday morning last year, when I was teaching downtown, and in some ways I’ve really missed it.  This time, the PSU area was a little hectic because of the farmers’ market, but the buildings themselves were almost empty.  When I got to my mailbox, I was delighted to find my Chinook Book, a collection of coupons for organic patchouli and nitrate-free hippie spit that many Portland-area nonprofits sell to raise funds (my co-worker has a kid at Trillium Charter School). This year’s Chinook Book has a 20%-off coupon for the Bike Gallery, which is five or six blocks from PSU (and also the workplace of the cyclist who was killed on Interstate and Greeley last week), so I headed over there to buy a new red light for my bike, and some lights for Ben, who’s taken to riding home in the dark after watching the (2007 World Series Champion) Red Sox on Kyle’s enormous HDTV (I decided I don’t want him to die during football season).

The mood at Bike Gallery was subdued.  As I was paying, I said, “It’s been a rough week around here, huh?”

“Yeah,” the cashier said, looking down.  “Yeah, it has.”

“I’m sorry for you guys,” I mumbled, which wasn’t the right thing, but I never know the right thing.  Maybe there isn’t one.

On the ride home, I passed the growing memorial at Interstate and Greeley.  The Ghost Bike is so covered in flowers, photos, candles, and other offerings that you can’t even see the frame or wheels from across the street anymore.  The scrap-metal statue is still there, and on Saturday, there was a new addition: a life-size, extraordinarily detailed stencil portrait of a bike racer, spray-painted onto the ramp pylon at the intersection.  It’s a startling work of art; although it’s only black paint and the gaps in between, the piece has depth and perspective, almost like a photo exposure on concrete.  My digital camera is broken, but here’s a picture I pirated from the internets:

One of the many great things about Portland is the way that it responds to pain and fear with art (rather than, for example, riots– although riots have their uses, too).  This is also a city of compulsive photographers: over the last week, I’ve passed this corner five times, and all but one of those times, there have been people taking pictures or film footage of the scene of the accident and the evolving memorial.  In the Digital Age, I guess, we mourn through documentation.

Dangerous Intersections

As part of the community conversation ignited by the city’s recent fatal bike collisions, the Portland Mercury is compiling a list of reader-reported dangerous intersections. I’ll be chiming in on the hairiest parts of my commute, and thought I’d post those thoughts here, as well. These are the Intersections Where I’m Most Likely to Die, listed from least to greatest potential for carnage:

The Place Where the Swan Island Ramp Pipes Traffic Onto N Greeley.

The southbound bike lane runs downhill, along the shoulder of N Greeley. About halfway down the hill, a ramp leads up from Swan Island, a busy industrial park with, amongst other large commercial trucks, huge fleets from FedEx and UPS. The bike lane ends abruptly at the ramp, and you have to come to complete stop in the middle of a descent, and look for traffic coming from almost directly behind you, since the ramp traffic is merging from the north. The vehicles come flying up the ramp, picking up speed to go 45 mph on Greeley, and because of the curve of the ramp, you can’t see them until they are about 5 seconds from barreling across your path.

 

Crossing the Ramp from N Greeley onto I-5.

Continuing down Greeley towards Interstate Avenue (where the cyclist was killed earlier this week), there is a heavily-used ramp on the right that takes traffic onto I-5 and I-405. Because the southbound bike lane runs along the shoulder, you have to cross the ramp to stay on Greeley. The traffic here is building up highway speed as it approaches the ramp. Worse, many drivers shift from the inside lane, which stays on Greeley, to the outside lane, which turns into the ramp, at the very last minute, usually signalling late or not at all. This makes predicting whether it is safe to cross over to the spot where the bike lane picks up again very difficult. I’ve had some very scary moments with commercial trucks here.

N Greeley and N Willamette

N Willamette Blvd is easily the most pleasurable part of my bike ride home, especially the stretch that is local traffic only. The problem is that, particularly at rush hour, getting on to Willamette from Greeley is hideously dangerous. Making the left turn from the bike lane involves crossing the northbound lane of traffic, which is often backed up from the light at Greeley and Killingsworth (one block north of Willamette) down the hill past the Adidas campus. Sometimes I have to wait here for several minutes; usually, some kind motorist waiting in traffic will wave me across. However, because of all of the northbound traffic (often trucks, vans, and SUV’s) and the bend in the road, I can’t see whether any smaller vehicles are coming from the opposite direction until I’m halfway across the intersection. I’ve had a few close calls here, and some angry hand gestures from drivers: the irony is that I’m trying to get to a low traffic street, out of the way of the cars.

There’s a lot of discussion going on in the city right now (for instance, here and here) about bike infrastructure at dangerous intersections, including talk of bike boxes, widened and/or painted bike lanes in conflict areas, and loop-activated warning lights when bikes are present. I’m glad that the city (most visibly, Traffic Commissioner Sam Adams) is moving to invest in these safety measures while the (non-biking) public has the tragedy-induced will to act/spend.

A parting thought: one major way that Portland could address all three of these shitty intersections on my commute to and from St Johns would be to fund the North Portland Greenway project– the only thing safer than Sharing the Road is not needing to.

Kegged, Amongst Other Things

Broadway is always a pain in the ass, but at least I got a laugh out of the obstacles blocking my path yesterday: a beer truck had unloaded three kegs onto the middle of the bike lane in front of Mary’s. I guess this bike brakes for beer, whether she likes it or not.

While Monday and Tuesday of this week were stolen days of summer, yesterday was clear, brilliant and chilly. I guess the rules of winter riding in Portland are coming into effect: your choices are warm and wet, or clear and cold. As long as I have my trigger mittens (perfect for operating bike brakes on frigid mornings), I’ll always take clear and cold, even with the brisk north wind that usually comes with it. Yesterday, it was so clear that I could see the peak of Mt. Hood from Mock’s Crest– we hardly ever glimpse the mountains from North Portland.

Although I wrote yesterday’s distressed post about the recent cyclist fatalities just before leaving the house, it only took five minutes of pedaling in that sharp fall air before I felt exhilarated again. The trees line Willamette like blazing torches, and everyone’s out on their bikes on these dry days; we smile at each other, and nod.

Biking is like (or as) a metaphor for life (those of you who know me well are aware that lots of things are metaphors for life): there’s always a certain amount of danger involved in doing the right thing, but the reward is a more meaningful existence. I have never felt as alive on the most epic road trip as I feel on my daily commute by bike. That’s well worth the risk, and worth fighting for today at City Hall.

Another Bike Death

I’ve been fuming all week over Monday’s fatal bike accident: an experienced cyclist was killed in a collision with a garbage truck turning right across the bike lane at Interstate and Greeley, an intersection I ride through twice a day, four or five days a week. Jonathon Maus at BikePortland.org has done great work covering the accident and its aftermath: the cyclist was a competitive racer and Bike Gallery employee; apparently, the driver of the truck has a distressingly long and varied record of traffic violations and other illegal activities. That’s the second person killed by a large truck while riding in a bike lane in the last three weeks.

I first heard about this accident while in the computer lab, fine-tuning my thesis proposal. Procrastinating, I decided to check my blog stats, and in the recent search terms, I saw that someone had found my site by searching “biker killed on interstate and greeley” (I write about those streets a lot, since they are part of my regular commute). I immediately ran the Google search myself, and sure enough, BikePortland had posted a breaking news story an hour earlier.

There have been a lot of accidents lately, which I chalked up to the return of the rain: decreased visibility, slick conditions, fewer daylight hours, drivers who have forgotten to watch for bikes beyond the range of the windshield wipers, and new cyclists who don’t have a lot of winter riding experience all add up to an increase in collisions. However, Monday was a beautiful, clear day, and this accident happened at 12:30 in the afternoon.

Biking home in the dark on Monday evening, the intersection of Interstate and Greeley was desolate and quiet. I pedaled past warily, half-afraid there would still be blood stains or pieces of bicycle on the road. I stopped at the crosswalk a few dozen feet from the corner where it happened and pushed the activation button once, then several times fast, eager to get over onto Greeley and away. Suddenly, the overhead street light winked out, plunging the intersection into darkness. As I stood there blinking, a whistle from the nearly trainyard began to howl, close. Finally, the walk sign lit up, and I rode over the MAX tracks, spooked out and doubly anxious about not having a red light on the back of my bike.

Over the last few days, I’ve watched the monument evolving on that corner. Within 24 hours there was a Ghost Bike on the scene, to which people have been adding flowers and other mementos. Last night, there was lit candle and a red bike light flickering on the sidewalk beneath the Ghost Bike, a lonely vigil in the dark. On Tuesday a statue of a cyclist made out of scrap metal, the kind you see on the roof of the River City bike shop on MLK, appeared on the corner as well, I hope permanently.

The titanium lining to all of this is that City Hall is convening emergency meetings to address some of the issues (such as failure-to-yield violations across bike lanes) raised by the accidents. Still, I wish bicycle safety didn’t require martyrs to get attention.

Please wear your helmets, and ride defensively.

Mac Store

I’m updating from the Mac Store at Pioneer Place Mall, while I wait for the gentlemen at the Genius Bar to look at my laptop.  This place is very weird: it is very well designed to make me want top-of-the-line Apple Everything.  It’s all part of the iExperience.

Generally, I try not to carry my iBook on my bike.  I have a nifty little corduroy sleeve to put it int, but I’ve heard horrible stories of writers getting into bike accidents and losing both their novels-in-progress and the use of their legs.  Nonetheless, baby needs to see the doctor, so I loaded it up.

I have a lot to say about the poor guy who got killed on Interstate and Greeley yesterday.  More later, if this power cord issue is easily resolved (although, as Andrew put it, my computer might be having “female troubles”– it’s the power socket that seems to be the source of the problem, not the penetrating component that plugs in the cord). 

Bike Trailer Bounty

Today I took two hours out from Richard II to bike with Ben and the Burley to Sauvie Island to get a pumpkin. Yesterday it was pouring, but today it was just a little cloudy, not too chilly, with gold and red leaves suddenly visible again in the indirect sunlight. We went over the St Johns Bridge, up 30, and over the (endlessly under construction) Sauvie Island Bridge. The empty bike trailer slowed me down a little, but not much: if anything, I felt like it gave me greater visibility and wider berth from the fast, heavy traffic through Linnton. Once we crossed onto the island, Kruger’s Farm was just another mile and a quarter up Sauvie Island Road.

At the farm, we locked the bikes and the Burley together on the lawn, and wandered around the busy market. Kids were running around everywhere, begging for pony rides, climbing on hay bales, and loading onto tractor-drawn platforms bound for the pumpkin patch. We’d come for one large pumpkin, but settled for two smaller pumpkins (one orange and round, one green and curvy) and a cabbage the size and weight of a medicine ball (for Andrew to carve). We also ran into our former neighbor, Mike, working his grill, and he gave us some vegetarian lasagna.

Getting onto the island was easy. Getting off of it again, with all that produce, was another story. The cabbage alone weighed 16 pounds (I’m telling you, it’s an enormous cabbage). We had to strap the two pumpkins into the Burley like babies:

I couldn’t bike the damn thing up the steep hill from Kruger’s to the main road, so I had to get off and push.

Once I was on pavement again, it wasn’t so bad, although the two bridges were the only time I’ve ever used the smallest front gear on my “new” bike. It was just a matter of chugging. The Burley is a weird kind of weight, all tugging from behind rather than pushing down on the frame. I think that keeps the bike more efficient, because the tires aren’t so compressed; it definitely saves wear and tear on my ass not to have that weight on my back. Climbing was almost like being on a stationary bike, pedaling and pedaling without too much resistance, but not getting very far very fast. Fortunately, the weather held, and traffic on the St Johns Bridge was light on a Sunday, so no one gave me a hard time for taking the lane.

An idyllic fall afternoon: now back to Dick 2.

Taking License Plate Numbers

Yesterday, I was talking with my co-worker, the one who got hit on his bike last week, about bicycles, traffic laws, assholes on cell phones making right turns across the bike lane without looking, etc. He showed me a booklet of traffic statutes related to bikes that he had picked up at PSU’s legal office; after some trawling around on the internets, I found an online version here.

While we were chatting, I found myself fantasizing about bike vigilantism. Maybe I could start carrying a camera around every day, and whenever I see a motorist cut a cyclist off, block the bike lane while waiting for pedestrians to finish crossing the street before making a right turn, open the door of a parked car into a bike lane without looking, or honk for no reason in close proximity to a cyclist (my life flashes before my eyes every time this happens to me), I’ll take a picture, get a license plate number, and report it to the police. Hell, maybe I can even put traffic violators under citizen’s arrest.

Maybe I’ll make a T-shirt that says “Vigilante Cyclist” (vigilante: Spanish for “watchful”), and, with a little publicity, no driver will ever fuck with me again. If it caught on, there could be hundreds, thousands of cyclists out on the streets of Portland, wearing the T-shirts of vigilant justice, taking prisoners. With a critical mass (ha!) of Vigilante Cyclists, motorists would be too afraid of being reported to blow off the traffic laws that protect our bikes, bodies, and lives from their four-wheeled death machines.

Not that all people in cars are bad. Some of my best friends are drivers. And, as you’ll note in my post from yesterday, there are also a lot of tools on bikes in this city. Here’s the difference, though, as far as I’m concerned: if a cyclist fucks up, that cyclist gets hurt or dies. If a driver fucks up, it’s still the cyclist who gets hurt or dies. It’s like the difference between a smoker and coal-burning power plant.