Bicycle Pride

   

Bicycle Pride

"Lydia, is that your mom on her bicycle?” 

Lydia searched through the maelstrom of Gay Pride, rainbow colored floats riding in the wake of the Dykes on Bikes. 

"Where?" my daughter questioned as she drew her arm away from her girlfriend’s waist and stepped off the sidewalk into the mechanized ballet of riders, dancers and float bandits.

“Right there with the Dykes on Bikes.” 

"OH MY GOD.  It’s my mom.” Lydia's hands covered her face as she recognized me on another misadventure of the Urban Assault Bike.

My travels with Cannondale started as I earned my Master’s Degree at GSU.  I pedaled down DeKalb Avenue twice a week.  Then I lead bicycle tours through Cabbage Town, Inman Park, and straight down Peachtree to Atlantic Station.  Cannondale had landed me and my husband at Shakespeare in the Park and other less intentional urban destinations.  The “Urban Assault Bike”, as it was lovingly called, has a sturdy black frame, puncture resistant tires, resonant bell and glittery lights that give me a sense of bravado as I rode through the city.

The best laid plans of moms and men often go awry.  My intention for the Gay Pride Parade was to meet Lydia and her friends at Piedmont Park a few minutes before the whirl of rainbow celebrations began.  I pedaled as fast as the Cannondale could traverse the hills and road blocks from Decatur to midtown.  I beat the traffic and missed the parking crunch, but was too late to join the spectators on the sidewalk.  It was jammed with sweaty bodies, prancing spectators and the police. Even worse, I was stuck in the street and the Gay Pride Parade had started ON TIME!  Who knew such a thing could happen?

    It was nearly magical the way the street turned into the parade route.  Just as quickly as the parade took over Peachtree, the Dykes on Bikes with their “bad girl” leather swag and baritone s V-twin swarmed from curb to curb in a circumference of roaring chrome and black Harleys.  Who was on edge of that circumference.  Me, frantically pedaling to get out of the way. 

"Why is there a bicycle riding with the motorcycles.” The spectators questioned with their grimacing smiles and hands covering their ears to muffle the noise long enough to ponder the sight.

Flashes of Seinfeld and Kramer getting sucked into an elevator shaft or Winnie the Pooh with his head stuck in the honey jar flashed through my mind.  Suddenly, there was no escape.   All my carefully planned, short cuts and duck outs evaporated.  I was enveloped by the powerful vortex of the Dykes as they roared down Peachtree.  Their concentric circles embracing me like a tornado.  I had nowhere to go but into their funnel.

 "Jump in!" I heard one of the Dykes say to me over the throttling motors.  Surprisingly, a rider opened up a space in the lineup and extended her arm offering my humble commuter bike a rolling position into their motorcycle ballet. 

Never was I so graciously welcomed into a group of motorized vehicles.

"POW!" One of the  Harleys backfired as it down shifted to match my pedaling cadence.  People ducked for fear of gunfire, but it was from the backfire as a Harley down shifted to match my cadence.   In the meantime, Cannondale’s pedals spun like a mad sewing machine keeping pace with the parade.

Just as inexplicably as the parade sucked me in, it spit me out.  I looked up to see the astonished faces of my daughter and her friends on the sidewalk. 

     “Mom, you were riding your bike with the Dykes on Bikes! Lydia stammered like I didn’t know that myself. 

”I know.”  I said with astonished embarrassment. I jumped in to the opening that was like the parting of the Red Sea with unlikely bystanders with pink polka dot skirts, high heel boots, and feathery boas.     

“It all happened so fast.” I said buffeting myself from a back slashing, beeded boas slung around a gyrating dancer.  “One minute I was riding next to the sidewalk looking for you and the next I was in a motorcycle gang.”

There was a lot of embarrassment and a bit of explaining, but I was never so happy to get off my bike. 

Peachtree Street is still a friend to the Urban Assault Bike.  She and I wander the streets of Atlanta adorned with a rainbow flag, and my daughter has another funny story to tell her friends. I ride the streets with my own pride for my daughter and the city that welcomes her and opens it road for the Urban Assault commuter.  And when the Cannondale grows up, it will be a big black Harley.