Saturday was a beautiful day.   We woke up to exceptionally pretty weather, excited to take our weekly ride to the local farmers market.  We enjoyed the perfect cup of java from the French Press and I was particularly stoked to see that the site had received a write-up from Emma over at Spanish Moss Vintage.  We met Emma awhile back after she spotted our bikes at the park and came to investigate.  Turns out that Emma started the Downtown Orlando Bike Club, is anti-ninja riding, and is active in the arts community; I was really excited to sit down and write about how, once again, biking had opened up our world and led us to some phenomenally cool people.

We couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day to ride.  It was about 11 AM on a Saturday and we were cruising the back roads enjoying some John Lennon on the new bike speaker while reflecting, as we often do, on how much we love our life.  That’s when it happened.

We were riding in the center of the lane on a 25 MPH residential road with sharrows in the middle of the lane when, almost out of nowhere, some jerk in a BMW passed within literally inches of Sofie and me on the X.  I’ve had close passes, but this was terrifyingly close and most definitely felt like a threat.  I couldn’t quite see the tag and yelled out to Jesse to see if he was able to get the numbers, at which point Jesse took off to try and catch up with the guy.  As I stood there shaking I felt, for the first time ever, like absolutely giving up.  I wanted to put my bike up on the sidewalk, walk home, and never look back.  You could not ask for a safer place to ride your bike (in Orlando, at least)–it was a family of four riding on a Saturday morning down the residential roads of one of the more bike-friendly suburbs–down a residential road with sharrows and no other cars around, no less!  We had not delayed him at all–our presence alone had been enough for this guy to essentially brandish a weapon at a mother and her five-year-old daughter.

The close-call wasn’t even the worst part.  What struck me most was the feeling of victimization–Jesse had not been able to catch up and get the tag number and I knew that even if he had, there wasn’t a single thing we could have done.  So this guy had come within inches of hitting us and we couldn’t do a damn thing.  I’m fairly certain he knew it, too.

We went on to the farmers market, but I rode with a heavy heart.  While harassment in general isn’t common (and this was certainly the most extreme), it isn’t exactly uncommon either.  It’s hard to keep hope alive for a bike-friendly culture in Orlando when you can’t even ride through a neighborhood without risking some sort of confrontation.  I often refer to myself as an advocate, but I’m no activist–is all this really worth it?

Then it hit me.  This is the cost of living.  The price you pay for being present and involved with the world is that you are exposed to the elements–both good and bad.  This really isn’t about riding, anyways.  It’s about being face-to-face with the ugly and dark.   Sure, you can try to control what you know of the world by tuning out the bad news and focusing on the positive–I know I often do.  But if you really want to be in the throes of it, get down and dirty with life, you can’t escape these moments.   Though I may have doubts about riding, I know I want to be alive–in every sense of the word. Giving up and parking my bike is no more a means of eliminating the ugly from the world than is my decision to avoid negative news.   In contrast, getting around by bike can be an act of defiance against the boundless fear that consumes us as well as a one of the simplest ways to become one with your world.  Isn’t riding just a perfectly good metaphor for a life lived fully–no barrier between you and the elements, whether good or bad?

Anyways, you won’t find me quitting just yet.  And after we left the farmers market, we went straight to a birthday party in the neighborhood–a party we were invited to, in spite of never really having met our neighbors (we’re still newish).  We arrived to excited cries of, “The bucket people!” and lots of curious little eyes.  To be welcomed so completely by a group of neighbors we don’t even know did wonders for my sense of community.  Plus, Vivi got to ride a pony; it’s hard to consider holing up inside yourself when you see that kind of unfettered joy.

I’ll keep riding because I love it and because it keeps me alive, in every sense of the word.