The Great Suburban Bicycle Race

First, it behooves me to say that technically I live inside city limits. Oslo, however, is described as the biggest little city in Europe or the smallest large town. “Urban Assault Riding” (the once renowned sales pitch for urban ‘mountain’ bikes) is hardly necessary. I find that drivers here tend to be patient towards cyclists and the biggest challenge is avoiding cobblestone streets. Along the many and uninterrupted cycling lanes in the city, a kind of unspoken rivalry keeps the daily commute lively.

Now, there are different categories of cyclists, of course. You’ll find the pros, whose bikes generally cost more than a car. You feel them approach by the cushion of air pressure that pushes you along before they pass you. These men and women simply live for open road. On the other end of the spectrum, you see the obvious Chads & Betties who were suckered by salesmen to buy a medium priced bike, the racing clothes, shoes, all of the extras which cost nearly as much as the bicycle itself. These people look the part, but they are clearly novice riders, ambling along.

Then there are the people that fall in the middle. They can have any kind of bike (cheap, expensive, road or off-road) and any kind of clothing (racing, everyday or sweats) and appear to be reasonably active when not commuting by bike. These are people that I assume are like me, and therefore, active participants. I know I’m not making this phenomenon up, since if I pass someone (especially a guy) he’ll try to catch up or a woman who was previously ambling along will pick up the pace so I can’t pass her. Others sometimes give the sidelong glance in acknowledgment of defeat.

There are daily victories and defeats, and I like to think that I’m on the plus side of passing people versus being passed. My deep competitive spirit (I’m cracking up as I write the phrase) has recently been dampened by hauling Theo back and forth from day care in his trailer. Flying over speed bumps and hopping over pot-holes isn’t good for his helmeted noggin, so I slow down. I am also slowed down by any kind of incline whatsoever. This means I hang in the right lane and only get to pass the occasional Chad or Betty. The ultimate satisfaction, of course, comes from passing another mom hauling her kid in a trailer. (heh, heh, heh)

I used to do this in Philly, too. Once I escaped the grid of Philly’s streets and where the common foe and fun was dodging traffic, this kind of racing rivalry was common along East and West River Drive. (I once made the mistake of trying to pace some speed skaters just for shits and giggles. They were obviously annoyed that yet another novice cyclist tried to keep up with them, though gracious enough in the short convo we had at the end of the run.) The difference between Philly and Oslo is that there were so few cyclists who commuted along the River Drives. It didn’t take long to know which cyclists I could beat and which ones could beat me, because there were only, like, three of us. On my daily commute, I never see the same people twice, which some how makes it a bit more exciting.