Well, there you have it. I was already hated for being a pedestrian. Drivers curse pedestrians: they’re slow, they have priority at crosswalks, and they dent cars when hit. I was also hated for being a driver: everyone hates drivers, they even hate each other. As if there weren’t enough reasons to hate me, I’ll add a damn good one to the list: I just bought a bike.
So I am, theoretically, a cyclist. But I would like to immediately add an important nuance to this subject: a cyclist, in my opinion, is someone who dresses in yellow Spandex to make people believe that he won the Tour de France, who obsesses over buying the most expensive wheels possible and who shaves his legs to do his daily 50 kilometers faster by a tenth of a second.
So I’m not really a cyclist, but just a person who owns a bike. (While waiting to have it stolen, which, statistically, should happen in the next few hours.)
I lived in Pointe-Saint-Charles for about ten years. It’s a neighbourhood in southwest Montreal known for… well, for nothing. There was the Magnan tavern, but it closed in 2014. It was while I was living there that I got rid of my bike, for three reasons:
1. I didn’t know anyone who lived close enough to me that I could visit them without arriving covered in sweat. And it was a 45-minute drive from the office, almost constantly uphill, with a long stretch on Rue de la Commune in Old Montreal, made of bumpy cobblestones. No thanks. “What’s that smelly, trembling, panting, wet thing in the corner of the room?” “Oh, don’t pay attention to it, it’s our colleague from Pointe-Saint-Charles. He doesn’t like taking the metro. It stinks, he says.”
2. Bike paths are rare. There is only one cyclist in the neighborhood, a shady bearded guy on a stolen bike that is too small, who comes back from the convenience store with a case of twelve between his thighs and a cigarette in his mouth while riding in the middle of a one-way street in reverse.
3. I almost had a flat tire because a ten-wheeler was turning into a factory entrance on my right and didn’t see that I was also waiting for the green light to move forward.
4. OK, OK, I admit it, there’s a fourth reason: wearing a helmet annoyed me because it messed up my flamboyant hairdo.
Now I live in Rosemont. Getting to the office takes 15 minutes by car and 17 by bike. My girlfriend dreams of us going as a family to the Jean-Talon market and to Milano’s by pedaling, and then having picnics in the parks, attacked by ants and Frisbee players. So I finally gave in.
But it’s crazy how much things have changed since my last bike ride.
First, the helmet no longer undoes my hair as much, which is defined less by “flamboyant” than by “balding.” Also, the Highway Code no longer seems to be anything more than a series of optional little tips.
Given the number of times my dog and I have nearly been hit by a cyclist who ignored his red light or stop sign, I understand that stopping is optional, and perhaps even forbidden? I recently saw a father who was pressuring his son, about 8 years old, both on scooters, to cross on a red light, because there were no cars. The son, reluctant and stressed, ended up following his father, apparently very proud to pass on such a manly quality: putting himself in danger for nothing!
A while ago, a cyclist stopped at a stop sign to let me pass and I’m sure she’ll never forget my astonished face. Billy was barking at her, convinced it was a trap. It was just the exception that confirms the absence of rules.
So I join the crowd of outlaws. Give this new takeaway cyclist a proper welcome!
I’m kidding. For my safety, I’ll stick to cycle paths as much as possible, which I’ll obviously share with an eclectic crowd: helmetless electric BIXI riders, hostile old men on dangerously silent scooters or large, decorated tricycles, distracted couples in love on scooters, professional joggers (those for whom the asphalt of the sidewalks doesn’t suit their high-level athlete ankles), lost pedestrians, clowns on unicycles and fit grandmothers with walking sticks.
I think I’ll mostly be riding in the green alleys, after all. Watch your tomatoes, I’m coming!