Checking out the ‘make and model’ of her bike
Monday, July 25
My post of June 20 recounts a colleague’s assertion that he checks out the bike’s “make and model” and doesn’t really notice the gender of the rider sparked a spirited discussion with the small group that follows my blog. Women seemed to share a common experience of noticing that they were routinely checked out by men.
They reported that younger men boldly inspect female riders, overtly turning their heads or twisting their necks to make sure they miss nothing. Older, more experienced men, have mastered a stealthy approach that involves minimal head and neck movement but discrete glances behind dark sunglasses. As a matter of fact, women checked out other women, a practice not limited to biking ventures.
The men seemed less inclined to acknowledge that they routinely check out the physique of other riders—men or women. We could explore why—generally speaking—men tend to be reluctant to acknowledge the obvious. Suffice it to note one friend who was particularly adamant that he wasn’t checking out the babes and that he only noticed the bike.
A few weeks after this lively discussion, I saw my friend Monday morning and told him that I had a test. It was pass-or-fail, and he had only one shot at the correct answer.
I told him what I happened to notice while I was stopped at a traffic light on Canyon and 13th Street the Friday before. He was on his bike waiting to cross Canyon. In front of him was a woman on a bike also waiting to cross. I told him that it appeared that he was observing her bike’s, ahem, make and model. Tell me, I inquired, what kind of bike was she riding?
A bit flustered, he said he wasn’t sure because when she rode up, she smiled at him, and it distracted him. Tick, tock, tick, tock; take as much time as you need. Feet shuffling, throat clearing, distracted glances out the window—he definitely remembered the woman and being stopped at the intersection but he just couldn’t remember the make and model of that bike. It might have been a cruiser, he finally said, because when she pulled out, she started slowly.
As it happened, the woman was riding a Boulder B-cycle, which is a recently launched nonprofit bike-sharing program in the city of Boulder. The bikes are bright red with the words Boulder B-cycle boldly splashed all over the down tube. The bike has a big basket on the front with advertising panels attached to the side. See: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mHR30F0cNtE
Hard to miss the make and model of that bike. Sorry, pal. You failed the test. I rest my case.
Wednesday, July 27
I love the fact that around here, we wear casual attire pretty much everywhere and seldom are we, as a community, critical of practicality and comfort. We even have the proud distinction of being dubbed by GQ as “a worst-dressed city in the country that looks best naked.”
However, wearing Spandex biking attire to an evening theatre performance in an indoor venue is crossing the line, especially when the rider has clearly worked up a sweat. There is an unspoken rule of decorum about personal hygiene when it involves sitting in close proximity to other people for hours.
While departing the theatre that evening, I saw him riding away with his front light blazing and his back light steadily blinking red. I decided to set aside my finer sensibilities and give the guy a free pass for his fashion/hygiene transgression because he was supporting the performing arts. Not only had he enthusiastically applauded the performance, but I realized that his fashion faux pas did nothing to diminish my enjoyment.
Sunday, July 31
This past week, while walking across the lawn in the dark, I stepped into a hole and rolled my ankle. I immediately got up to shake it off and keep going. Within seconds I recognized the familiar feeling of adrenaline and how the body, shocked by serious injury, can fool you into thinking you’re OK. After hobbling only a couple-hundred feet, I knew from the swelling that I needed to stop and care for myself and not push through as if it’s nothing. I broke this same foot a few years ago, and I did not to spend another summer of wearing a hot, heavy boot 24/7.
I couple of days later as I sat in the comfort of my living room with an icepack on my elevated foot, I pondered whether I should go ahead and ride, since bicycling is not a weight bearing exercise. Even when it is temporary, it can be mentally tough to be physically sidelined. I was reminded of my doctor’s instructions for my broken my foot that included counseling and literature about depression associated with recovery from an incapacitating injury.
I pooh-poohed her counsel at the time. In retrospect, I understand how we often ignore not only our bodies’ needs, but our spirits’ need for time to recover. Sometimes we push through the pain making our injuries worse. Or, once we recover, we are left with an unnamed fear that holds us back or, worse, douses the fire in the belly.
Wiser now than then, I am using this time to heal and reflect on what I need. The brain says be kind and gentle, go for a slow, ambling walk. The heart says suck it up, slather on the sunscreen and bike an easy 12 miles. I’ll decide once the polish on my toenails dry.
The Elevations Buffalo Bicycle Classic, which raises funds for scholarships, includes ride distances of 14, 35, 50, 70 and 100 miles. To learn more about the Sept. 11 event or to register, click here.
My post of June 20 recounts a colleague’s assertion that he checks out the bike’s “make and model” and doesn’t really notice the gender of the rider sparked a spirited discussion with the small group that follows my blog. Women seemed to share a common experience of noticing that they were routinely checked out by men.
They reported that younger men boldly inspect female riders, overtly turning their heads or twisting their necks to make sure they miss nothing. Older, more experienced men, have mastered a stealthy approach that involves minimal head and neck movement but discrete glances behind dark sunglasses. As a matter of fact, women checked out other women, a practice not limited to biking ventures.
The men seemed less inclined to acknowledge that they routinely check out the physique of other riders—men or women. We could explore why—generally speaking—men tend to be reluctant to acknowledge the obvious. Suffice it to note one friend who was particularly adamant that he wasn’t checking out the babes and that he only noticed the bike.
A few weeks after this lively discussion, I saw my friend Monday morning and told him that I had a test. It was pass-or-fail, and he had only one shot at the correct answer.
I told him what I happened to notice while I was stopped at a traffic light on Canyon and 13th Street the Friday before. He was on his bike waiting to cross Canyon. In front of him was a woman on a bike also waiting to cross. I told him that it appeared that he was observing her bike’s, ahem, make and model. Tell me, I inquired, what kind of bike was she riding?
A bit flustered, he said he wasn’t sure because when she rode up, she smiled at him, and it distracted him. Tick, tock, tick, tock; take as much time as you need. Feet shuffling, throat clearing, distracted glances out the window—he definitely remembered the woman and being stopped at the intersection but he just couldn’t remember the make and model of that bike. It might have been a cruiser, he finally said, because when she pulled out, she started slowly.
As it happened, the woman was riding a Boulder B-cycle, which is a recently launched nonprofit bike-sharing program in the city of Boulder. The bikes are bright red with the words Boulder B-cycle boldly splashed all over the down tube. The bike has a big basket on the front with advertising panels attached to the side. See: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mHR30F0cNtE
Hard to miss the make and model of that bike. Sorry, pal. You failed the test. I rest my case.
Wednesday, July 27
I love the fact that around here, we wear casual attire pretty much everywhere and seldom are we, as a community, critical of practicality and comfort. We even have the proud distinction of being dubbed by GQ as “a worst-dressed city in the country that looks best naked.”
However, wearing Spandex biking attire to an evening theatre performance in an indoor venue is crossing the line, especially when the rider has clearly worked up a sweat. There is an unspoken rule of decorum about personal hygiene when it involves sitting in close proximity to other people for hours.
While departing the theatre that evening, I saw him riding away with his front light blazing and his back light steadily blinking red. I decided to set aside my finer sensibilities and give the guy a free pass for his fashion/hygiene transgression because he was supporting the performing arts. Not only had he enthusiastically applauded the performance, but I realized that his fashion faux pas did nothing to diminish my enjoyment.
Sunday, July 31
This past week, while walking across the lawn in the dark, I stepped into a hole and rolled my ankle. I immediately got up to shake it off and keep going. Within seconds I recognized the familiar feeling of adrenaline and how the body, shocked by serious injury, can fool you into thinking you’re OK. After hobbling only a couple-hundred feet, I knew from the swelling that I needed to stop and care for myself and not push through as if it’s nothing. I broke this same foot a few years ago, and I did not to spend another summer of wearing a hot, heavy boot 24/7.
I couple of days later as I sat in the comfort of my living room with an icepack on my elevated foot, I pondered whether I should go ahead and ride, since bicycling is not a weight bearing exercise. Even when it is temporary, it can be mentally tough to be physically sidelined. I was reminded of my doctor’s instructions for my broken my foot that included counseling and literature about depression associated with recovery from an incapacitating injury.
I pooh-poohed her counsel at the time. In retrospect, I understand how we often ignore not only our bodies’ needs, but our spirits’ need for time to recover. Sometimes we push through the pain making our injuries worse. Or, once we recover, we are left with an unnamed fear that holds us back or, worse, douses the fire in the belly.
Wiser now than then, I am using this time to heal and reflect on what I need. The brain says be kind and gentle, go for a slow, ambling walk. The heart says suck it up, slather on the sunscreen and bike an easy 12 miles. I’ll decide once the polish on my toenails dry.
The Elevations Buffalo Bicycle Classic, which raises funds for scholarships, includes ride distances of 14, 35, 50, 70 and 100 miles. To learn more about the Sept. 11 event or to register, click here.