THE traffic on St. Mary’s Road didn morning as I neared Fermor Avenu the Exchange District. I can pedal when my legs feel like it. I was making feel the strength in my quadriceps, and coming quite proud of the shape my leg many miles they could take me on my b
As I cruised along, I became aware of engine coming up behind me. That soun “spidey- sense” in cyclists; it usually me is approaching, and you automatically d make sure you’re hugging the curb.
Turning my head slightly to the left, I the corner of my eye a large dump truck at a good clip, but he moved to the left la second dump truck was speeding up to p curb lane; he was at my side in a split se roaring in my ears, wheels up to my sho a blur, passing me by a whisper. I scream then swore. Out loud.
It’s my third week as a bike courier. I’ And I’m a grandmother.
If I could have caught up with that truc probably my son’s age or younger, he wou finger wagging like never before. What if mother, I’d say. How would you feel if som her? I’d ask him. She could be horribly hu because someone was in a hurry, I’d nag, in his face. I’m sure he would no more tha drive away shaking his head at the crazy
I worked for Natural Cycle Courier fo summer. They deliver anywhere in the c year. They use no cars; larger items are bike on a trailer. And they’re all very yo 10 years on their mothers. But they took summer like no other.
My new job as a bike courier opened m the curb lane. I’ve heard that cyclists ar heard sneers at their “saving the enviro young, granola- thinking attitudes. I’ve h that they ride bikes because they just ca know otherwise.
Bev Watson learned an important lesson in her summer of cycling: Bike couriers don’t cry.