Charles Circle - Charles St at Cambridge St (5:32 PM)
Central Square at Mass Ave / Essex St (5:45 PM)
It's sometimes hard to believe that it was nearly five years ago when I first used Hubway - hem hem, Blue Bikes, for those who take umbrage, though back then it was Hubway. But I'd like to think outside observers aren't surprised about my past. Isn't it obvious from the way I unlock the bike, nice and smooth each time, that I've done it a thousand times? Do rookie riders casually step on the pedals as I do, like I'm testing a yard sale StairMaster, waiting for jaywalkers to scramble up to the safety of the curb? And even though sometimes I bike slow, sometimes I bike quick, demonstrating expert skills as I navigate the endless obstacles of parked cars, texting pedestrians, and splintering asphalt that have long marked my many routes across the two cities.
I've become so good at using Hubway - hem hem, Blue Bikes - that I'm almost insulted when someone offers feedback. Thus, almost insulted I was on this fine spring day, as a technician behind me demonstrated how to secure the metallic seat post on a bike I'd briefly handled, then abandoned when I spotted another choice. I know, I nodded back, my mumble muffled by the undershirt I'd deputized around my face, a CoronaShield on budget. I knew how to do it, I just wanted a different bike, and though it didn't matter, it wasn't clear. Still, I try - sometimes metal hurts, and I don't want to get cut. It wasn't why, but it wasn't a lie, either. I do not tell lies.
I unlocked my bike - nice and smooth - and glanced at the technician, who ignored me as I pedaled away. No matter, being ignored is inevitable, it's basically state policy now, a modern survival skill. Each day, I'm separated from others by two yards. I protect my allotment of space like a surly suburban neighbor, and I try to find presence in those six feet away. It's a life that does not require a bike because I only bike when it's out of the way, and I don't go out of the way these days. Every vaguely familiar movement on the bike makes me wonder - was this second nature last time? Twenty-nine days without, and I'm sensing something slipping away, and not just the seat post that has started to slip, barely enough to notice, without notice.
My trip started at the Boston end of the Longfellow Bridge, where at some point unknown to me Beantown cedes jurisdiction to Cambridge. It's often a trivial matter, an issue for cartographers and the postman, but starting tomorrow the northern neighbor will require masks in public while Boston will remain optional. This will clarify my small question about the border's exact location on this bridge, because at some point slips will not be tolerated. Is there a no-man's land? And who will hold the line? I glide through the bike lane, and its implied security tempts my wandering mind - local police, acting like border patrol, hanging out at an invisible line and enforcing a polite checkpoint between the two cities. Uncovered Bostonians are gently turned back toward Beacon Hill, asked to come back wearing masks like passports, while they walk alongside the incoming tourists from Cambridge - six feet apart! - who lower their guard, and inhale deeply, filling their lungs with the fresh air of the capital, and feeling something inside that once came so naturally.
The Red Line rumbles along on my left. Surely, some passengers headed northbound, having boarded in compliance with Boston's laws, will need to don their masks as the train crosses the bridge. Years ago, I'd been on a train myself, an Amtrak train, headed for the northern neighbor. I learned in Buffalo that those still on board at Niagara Falls would have to wait while border patrol politely canvassed coach, checking intent, making sure all the passports and papers were in order, confirming identity, like validating permission slips, before allowing the train to finish its journey over the river. Nothing personal, just national policy. I had nothing to fear but I suddenly realized I was alone. Whatever was going to happen on the train was going to happen to me. I didn't want to stick around and find out, so I picked my own terminus and hiked along the river, to Rainbow Bridge, and walked into Canada a few hours later.
The bike path curved and hooked me back to the present. An island! I slalomed past on its left, staying inside the lines, then checked quickly over my shoulder before crossing into the car lane to pass a parked mail truck. The nondescript building that I knew was the Cambridge Amazon office flashed past on my right and I felt it all coming back. I recovered quickly and refocused on the path ahead, on the pothole in my future, and called on everything I knew to maneuver past it. I pointed my bike toward Central Square because when my freezer is empty I go to H Mart.
The light turned red, and I stopped. I knew what I was doing and I felt fine. I was on an essential trip, it was my right, and I was going to be fine. I looked around and didn't see anybody. The light turned green and I didn't think, I just went. At some point in these few short years, I'd learned that you never forget how to ride a bike.
04/28/2020
Central Square at Mass Ave / Essex St (6:07 PM)
Charles Circle - Charles St at Cambridge St (6:21 PM)
It's sometimes hard to believe that it was nearly four years ago when I first wrote about biking - hem hem, blogged, for those who take umbrage, though back then it was writing. But I'd like to think my longtime readers aren't surprised about the past. Isn't it obvious from the way I go back to everything that I'd have something to say about my adventures between Boston and Cambridge? Do I explore one thing while ignoring the adjacent, or only step into waters that others have charted? My novice wanderings across two cities were never about biking, just like the books I read or the sunrises I enjoyed were never about words, never about morning. Those were obstacles because I needed to avoid them, and markers because each evasion framed the journey. But the real trip on each bike was always in my head. I realized that no matter how far I traveled, I would always bring myself with me, and have to determine the significance of each trip for myself.
I've become so good at writing - hem hem, blogging - that I'm almost insulted when someone offers feedback. Thus, almost insulted I am, every time a reader applauds my topics rather than my writing, celebrating the destination rather than the endings abandoned on the journey. I know, I'll nod, and try to thank readers for reading, but my appreciation clangs around like a postman getting used to chain mail. I know what I picked, but the why is more important, the why not even more so, and though it matters quite a bit, it's never clear. I wonder if I should elaborate - sometimes words are abrasive, and I don't want to cut. It wouldn't be a lie, but it wouldn't be why, either. I do not know why.
I unlocked my bike - same one as the last time - and tried to secure the slipping seat post. No matter, sliding will be inevitable with my heavy backpack, now filled with natto. I always leave H Mart with the fermented soybeans, my favorite Japanese food. Each trip, I isolate myself with two feet. I generously cede aisle space like an unsure house guest sitting alone on the couch, and I try to find the presence of those six feet under. It's a task that does not require eye contact because everyone here is at home, and they go out of their way to welcome me. Every spark of recognition from a familiar sight or smell makes me wonder - isn't recognition reserved for what's already lost? I find the natto in the back, same as always like it's frozen in time, and when I look through the glass I feel something stir in me, briefly. The door opens, then closes, and the essential trip is over.
My trip will end on the Boston side of the Longfellow Bridge, where at some point unknown to me Cambridge returns naming rights to the capitol. My bag is heavy, the seat slides, but my mask holds. I'm ready for tomorrow. In some countries, lockdown means citizens explaining in writing why they are leaving their homes, like permission slips that outline essential trips - food, medicine, even walking the dog. I can't imagine, I can barely explain how I pick a bike, how will I ever explain natto to Boston? Well you see, it goes on rice, and smells weird, and, uh, it's essential, by the letter of the law? But I worry, as grocery stores are one need met adequately by Beacon Hill. Maybe on my permission slip, I'll bring the Whole Foods receipt, and circle where the Japanese yams are listed as 'ORIENTAL SWT POTATO'.
I exit Kendall Square, the bike lane all around me, its destination the bridge ahead. Years ago, I'd crossed another bridge, hours after that Amtrak trip, prepared to explain myself to the Canadians at the border. I was ready for tomorrow then, too, but only because the answer would be so easy going into the USA - I'm going home. The question ahead would be much harder - why are you coming to Canada? I had my stack of answers - printouts with maps and addresses, the falls, the casinos, the hotel. My bag was heavy, filled with clothes and a plane ticket out of Buffalo the next evening. I had a job interview coming up, and carried some prep materials with me. I didn't need any of this to answer the question - it wasn't national policy, it was personal. I was alone, but I suddenly realized I had nothing to fear. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen because of me. It felt important, like an unannounced practice for answering questions, so I took a deep breath and thought about it. Why was I going to Canada?
When I'd left the train, I walked along the river toward the falls. Despite all my preparation, I'd neglected to find a map of the trails, so I trusted my gut and followed the noise. It sounded like the wind at first, and it probably was, but it grew louder and louder as I hiked until the trees opened up on the trail ahead and I saw the mist, I heard the roar. I squinted at Niagara Falls in the distance but it was blurry, I couldn't quite make it out. At first I thought it was the mist, but I felt something stir in me that I hadn't felt in a long, long time, from back before my mom had died. I felt moved, I felt something thawing out, and in a few moments I felt the tears, too.
Why was I going to Canada? I was motioned forward, so I went. Whatever I'd said was fine, though it couldn't have been true. I hadn't lied, it's just that I was going to Canada because it was an essential trip but I didn't know this at the time. A trip is always essential, when every day is the same, and you lose track of who you are, and lose sight of where you are going. When you feel your identity slowly slipping into the past, and start to wonder where you've gone, a trip is essential to put life back into context. It's because no matter where you go, no matter how far away, two countries or two cities or just two wheels, if you bring yourself with you, you can find what you've lost, and pick up where you've left off.
The bike path straightens as the bridge comes into view. There are no options but to make it to the end, it's always been that way. On the left is the Amazon office again, and once more I feel it coming back. I didn't get that job, and remained unemployed for a few more months, until it became two years. I stand on the pedals, and step, faster and faster, surging up the hill in front of me. I remember when I heard the news that I'd felt bad, and after eating natto, I still felt bad, but I felt better. I slowed down at the top and looked around, the final stretch of the trip ahead, the Charles River expanding in full view to my right, and I felt something stir in me again. I let go and headed down, picking up speed, the lines blurring around me, knowing that where I was going, the curve was flattening, and I was going to be fine. At some point in these few long years, I'd learned that you never forget why you a ride a bike.
