The art and science of urban bicycling
This is probably a bad idea. I unlock the heavy silver bicycle and wheel it slowly towards traffic, a wave of apprehension washing over me. I know I should probably stop, turn around, and return the bike before I end up flattened by a car, or worse, embarrass myself in front of the Parisian rush hour traffic, but it’s too late now. I’ve just spent the past ten minutes figuring out how to enroll my Métro card in the city’s Velib bike program, and I’m not about to give up, not after spending so long deciphering all the French instructions on the kiosk’s screen.
I have a love-hate relationship with bikes. They always seem like such a good idea – more fun than walking, more relaxing than driving – but somehow, every time I convince myself to get onto a bike, something ends up going terribly wrong. The thing is, biking around Paris doesn’t seem like it would be so difficult. The streets are full of people cruising around on bikes as though it’s the easiest thing in the world – there are men pedalling along in impeccable business suits with their silk ties streaming out behind them, old ladies making their way home with their bike’s basket overflowing with groceries, and women racing down the street at breakneck speeds while wearing tight skirts and high heeled shoes. The concept of proper cycling attire is non-existent here. Spandex-clad, helmet-wearing bikers would find themselves receiving looks of intense disapproval; Parisians appear to be born with some kind of innate ability to ride a bike in designer clothing while never, ever appearing rumpled, windblown, or – God forbid – tired and sweaty.
Operating under the belief that since I’m in Paris, I could easily become one of the people whizzing through the city on two wheels, I push the bike onto the road and hop confidently on. And then promptly tip over and fall off. As it turns out, the tank-like Velib bikes weigh approximately as much as a massive pile of bricks, which makes them ideal for bouncing along cobblestoned streets, but also makes keeping them upright more challenging than usual.
My second attempt is slightly more successful, if you define success as swerving down the middle of the street, lurching around the corner onto a main road after nearly mowing down two innocent pedestrians, and then freaking out as a pack of tiny French cars buzz by just millimetres from where I’m now cowering at the side of the road. Promising myself I’d stick to pounding the streets with my own two feet from this point forward, I heave the bike onto the sidewalk, march it sheepishly back to the Velib station, and abandon my two-wheeled foe without so much as a backwards glance.
Just as I convince myself that I’m never touching another Velib bike again, two of my friends from Victoria arrive in the city to stay with me for a week. They have, unfortunately, heard great things about the Velib system, and are terrifyingly intent on exploring as much of the city by bike as possible. And so as luck would have it, I find myself standing next to another bicycle of death only a few days later, knowing that this time, I’ll have to make it farther than half a block before giving up.
Surprisingly, it’s better this time around. My sense of balance finally returns, and with one friend biking ahead of me and the other behind me, I find it easier to forget about the traffic streaming by only an arms-length away. The cobblestones prove to be more jarring than I expected, but manageable, and by the end of the afternoon I’m careening around corners and dodging pedestrians like an expert. In fact, everything is going a little too perfectly until we decide to ride across one of the bridges over the Seine – and suddenly find ourselves directly in the middle of four lanes of traffic rushing towards a dark, cavernous tunnel. And let it be known that nothing draws unwanted attention quite like a pack of wide-eyed, panic-stricken girls with bikes standing in the middle of a highway. At this point, exactly when I thought I couldn’t possibly be any more embarrassed, I hear a police siren. Looking behind me, I see that a police van, lights flashing, officers smirking, has blocked two entire lanes of traffic to allow my friends and I to run to safety. And then die of embarrassment.
Subsequent days of bike-based exploration involve fewer dire incidents and more enjoyment, and eventually biking around Paris becomes less of an activity in and of itself and more of a convenient way of getting from point A to point B without having to hunt down the nearest Métro station, which is probably closer to what the program’s founders intended. Still, between the narrow, one-way streets and the average Parisian driver’s penchant for flooring the accelerator through these streets, even the shortest ride has an element of adventure to it.
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