Covered in lights

It was after I found my secondhand Volkswagen Jetta encased in a thick cocoon of ice and city firefighters chastised me for parking it in front of a raging apartment building fire (in fact, the car came before the fire) that I decided to get rid of it.

That was in 1989 and since then, despite gaining a husband, two kids and a dog, my main mode of transportation has been my bicycle.

But I’m a bit of a fair-weather cyclist, opting for the métro when it rains or snows. Or even when it gets cold. I always wear a helmet and I cover it and my bike with lights.

I’m lucky my commute is along the Lachine Canal, from N.D.G. to the Montreal court hous ew. But when I do share the road with cars and trucks, I try to do just that — share. ’Cause cycling scares the hell out of me. I’ve witnessed some ugly accidents involving cyclists and cars, and it’s frightening how suddenly they can happen and how bloody they can be.

So I keep to the right, don’t go very fast, signal and usually obey stop signs.

Once I rolled through one because, seeing a group of police officers on the other side, the curious reporter in me got distracted.

I was pulled over, asked to produce a driver’s licence and was fined $45 and three points. I’m OK with the $45 fine. After all, I did go through the stop sign. But three points? I’m contesting that because the law has to be applied equally to all people. I need a licence to drive the car I don’t own; not the bicycle I do own.