A Bixi convert

Bixi convert. Ah, the Bixi: heavy, tank-like, made for war. Perfect, I thought. I don’t need to break speed records; I just want to arrive alive.

I stick to the bike path, using the road only when it’s a much more direct route. I scan left, right and into the distance, looking for ways to avoid close contact with cars. The right of way is only theoretical; I make eye contact with drivers before I cross their path. Every now and then, when I find myself in a flotilla of cyclists, I revel in a fleeting sense of power and security — ha! cyclists rule! — but then a cyclist will do something stupid and I remember there’s no honour among thieves.

The Bixi, with its meagre three speeds, lumbers along. Starts are slow, coasting is slow. It’s hard to pass. It’s a hassle to get going again after a stop. Which means I do sometimes run stop signs at empty intersections. But the Bixi has brought me some calm. I am still on high alert, but my goal is to avoid the fray. I yield more than I challenge. And I won’t die to prove a point. I’m a verrrrry defensive rider. My bike of choice is the slow, steady Bixi, which gets me to work in 13 minutes from Mile End. The minute I start pedalling, I assume the stance of: OK, cars, do not kill me today. I think this way because about seven years ago, in the span of about three months, I was nearly killed three times, cut off twice by cars, once by a bus. That did it. I hung up my helmet and said, “Screw this. I choose life.”

But two years ago, I became a