le vélo
A few months ago, Tisséo, the government-subsidized company that runs the buses and métro trains in Toulouse, went on a long and utterly punitive strike. For nearly two months, buses stopped running, or ran so infrequently and with such irregularity, that it became imperative for much of the commuting public to find an alternative form of reliable movement. Indeed, my main mode of transportation into the city, and shuttling both Jacques and Léon to and from school came to a screeching halt.
I was dumbfounded and not a little livid. How, why could one company grab an entire city and its suburbs so firmly by the family jewels, when the machine they were raging against was a comittee of mayoral representatives? Those guys don't take the bus! Or the métro! Why batter the downtrodden?
Enfin, bref. Here comes the positive part: several weeks into the strike, I pulled my neglected bike out of the parking lot and skittishly practiced going around the block on it a few times. Because I was nervous. Traffic rules in France are not intuitive, and even when they do make sense, I'd say a small civic-minded minority actually follows them. I envisioned myself T-boned, run off the road or into the Canal, or careening into random pedestrians wandering into the bike lane, injuring myself or Léon, who was strapped into his child seat behind me.
Now I am practically addicted to riding my bike. I want to take it everywhere, and I do, liberated from bus time schedules that are never accurate, from monotonous routes, from being at the mercy of the whims of another chauffeur. I follow a long line of women for whom the bike was a true symbol of freedom, and I feel that liberation in my thighs when I turn right on a red light, while the Line 2 monster has to wait its turn.
I was dumbfounded and not a little livid. How, why could one company grab an entire city and its suburbs so firmly by the family jewels, when the machine they were raging against was a comittee of mayoral representatives? Those guys don't take the bus! Or the métro! Why batter the downtrodden?
Enfin, bref. Here comes the positive part: several weeks into the strike, I pulled my neglected bike out of the parking lot and skittishly practiced going around the block on it a few times. Because I was nervous. Traffic rules in France are not intuitive, and even when they do make sense, I'd say a small civic-minded minority actually follows them. I envisioned myself T-boned, run off the road or into the Canal, or careening into random pedestrians wandering into the bike lane, injuring myself or Léon, who was strapped into his child seat behind me.
Now I am practically addicted to riding my bike. I want to take it everywhere, and I do, liberated from bus time schedules that are never accurate, from monotonous routes, from being at the mercy of the whims of another chauffeur. I follow a long line of women for whom the bike was a true symbol of freedom, and I feel that liberation in my thighs when I turn right on a red light, while the Line 2 monster has to wait its turn.
Comments