When I lived in Philly, Cottman Avenue was my most frequently driven-on road. My apartment building was attached to it, all the major amenities were about 3 minutes down South, and I took it to New Second Street in order to go to school. Never a day went by that I didn't drive on Cottman.
During this road more traveled, I would often pass by Five Points, where Rising Sun, Oxford, rt. 232, Cottman Avenue, and another insignificant byway would intersect. And I'd swivel my way through hordes of confused motorists and asshole truck drivers who would intentionally turn to cut you off. I'd tiptoe my Ford Taurus through three consecutive stoplights which did not properly synchronize (A Feat in Itself) and finally burst through the melee, smoothly coasting down a few more blocks until the next light. A bat out of hell, a baby out of the womb, a butterfly out of its cocoon, I would be.
Then I'd see him. The same poor bastard I see at least once every two weeks. A lard of a man, nearly 300 pounds, easy, sweaty and unsure of himself as he teetered on the crack-ridden sidewalk on an old bicycle, you know the ones with really thin tires and a suspicious frame with brakes on the handlebars. Oh, they're all like that? Shit. Anyway...ok, rusted! Bike aficionados can slay me later.
The gelatinous fat that spilled out of his shirt over his pant waist jiggled as he rumbled slowly down the pavement. It was a sad sight to see. I wouldn't be able to tell if he was doing it for fun of to get some exercise. My hunch was always on the former because he never pedaled. He would just coast from block to block because Cottman going North was a downhill until the Ryers train station. It was a cumbersome, uncomfortable sight. I'd sit in awe for 1.5 seconds as I passed him in my car, looking at the shame and the absurdity of it all. A 300 pound man with a messy, lumberjack beard, balding, and trying to steer himself to freedom. From what, I don't know.
Looking back on it, it must have taken a shitload of courage to do what he did. He may have not been consciously aware of how stupid he looked, but he did it because he wanted to do it. It probably wasn't easy for him to drag the bike out of the garage, manage to seat himself on top, checking the air in the tires to make sure he doesn't fall "flat", both in the tires and on his face. I wondered about how he felt at the end of his ride, perhaps when the sun was setting, that feeling he had when he put the bike back in the shed, and locked the door, hoping he would make it one more week so he could go for his ride.
I don't have moments like that anymore. Moments where I do not care, throw caution to the wind, and get out there and do stuff that people may look at me weirdly for. I've done a few things like it in the past, and it was liberating. Now, I'm in a laboratory maze. Convoluted enough that I feel challenged, but ultimately, something that goes nowhere. I cannot yet tell whether it's the circumstances or my own shortsightedness that I feel this way. But, I do. I wonder when I'll once again, hop on my bike, ignore my pedals, and concentrate on going for that gentle, but risky ride.
