April 25, 2009

• Tacos and Peanutbutter

  For the second night this week, Little Foot has woken me from a dead sleep to express an intense desire for peanut butter. Fair game, though—last time she got hungry in the night, I’d gone on a 6-mile walk before bed; this time I biked 23-odd miles in an evening for Critical Mass. So while I munch my toasty grain bread smeared with nutty love, and while I drink my mug of ice cold milk, I will tell you all about this evening’s bike ride. Why not? Get ready for some good-ole-error-ridden-3am-writing, friends…

  Critical Mass happens every month in cities all over the world. In Chicago, a Critical Mass forms on the last Friday of every month at Daley Plaza, in the shadow of the one-eyed Picasso. Critical Mass is not an organization, but simply a group of bike-riding-people operating under a shared knowledge to meet, pedestrianize the city streets for a few hours, and remind citizens of our constitutional right to assembly. The official “party line” is that there is no political affiliation, but I tend to think that the simple act of commuting by bike is political, so it really depends on who you talk to.

  I live about 15 miles from Daley Plaza and left at 3pm for a 5:15 arrival. Typically, this would give me loads of time to linger at the plaza, read my book, and eat my tangelo, but while I rode my bike, Little One rode my bladder. I had to stop, lock up my bike, and rush for a piss a grand total of 5 TIMES, just on the ride downtown. I arrived at the plaza just in the nick of time.

  I met a work friend at the Mass early to help her distribute fliers for work (the MCA is offering 2-for-1 admission to anyone who bikes to the museum this week and next—you just flash your bike helmet at the admissions desk to redeem the offer).

  People seemed genuniely excited to get our 2-for-1 tickets. I like talking up the museum with the people; Strangers are so much friendlier than the world gives them credit for. Handing out coupons, I met another pregnant biker, who in addition to the big belly, was hauling a cute toddler and a dog riding in pull-along cart. She pointed at my middle, pointed at hers, held up her hand for a high-five, and said: “Rock on!”

  Once all my coupons distributed, I met up with a new friend named Lexi. She’s the new fiancée of a pal I went to high school with who now lives in Chicago. I’d met her at a few parties and suspected we’d hit it off if we hung out solo and I was right: she is super cool. Lexi is getting her doctorate in children’s psychology and is a very smart, excellent conversationalist. She fears that she’s boring people with talk of grad school findings, but I loves me some research so we make good companions. I think she’s just bored herself to some extent: getting a doctorate like this, complete with internships and residencies, pretty much consumes your life.

  Once the ride began, about 250 friendly bikers hit the streets with police assistance. Not every city is so awesome about blocking off the streets for rallies, but Chicago police expect us and are always ready. They block off traffic at intersections so that we can all stay as one car-free group. Riders who beat the cops to an intersection get off their bikes and block cars with their bodies to let the riders stick together. As we pass pedestrians, we yell: “Happy Friday!” People lean out their car windows, quizzical. Some honk in anger. Some honk in respect. All cooperate very nicely. It is really the most effective demonstration I’ve ever partook in. I’m pretty sure this is because the call-for-action IS the action.

  We rode through the south-west side, then up north to Humboldt Park. At this point, it was close to 7:30pm and Lexi and I smelled tacos. We parted from the group and got some delicious dinner at a taquria, which included trough-sized cups of ice-cold Horchata. We lingered for an age at the taco-place; she’s doing her thesis on Fatherhood and Paternity; I find this to be a pretty fascinating subject, especially since the two are so often two separate rolls. For me growing up and for many: biology has little to do with who our dads are. Lexi seems to be investigating why this is, and why is is not as frequently the case with maternity (I concur whole-heartedly: step-moms are entirely different creatures than step-dads).

  By the time I got home and showered up, it was way past my bedtime. My muscles are pleasantly sore in that first-ride-of-the-season kind of way. This baby loves bike rides almost as much as she loves tacos and peanut butter.

  Did I mention it was 80 degreed here today? You know the fates are rooting for you when the first-bike-ride-of-the-season coincides with the first warm day. More warmth tomorrow. I look forward to my Frisbee.
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  Have you ever participated in a critical mass, bike or otherwise?

  In an unrelated note:
  Parenting is a subject I’ve become increasingly interested in but cannot abide most books/articles/magazines about. When I mentioned this to a friend, she reminded me of something I’d heard of ages ago: Ariel Gore‘s Hip Mama zine. I subscribed and just got my first issue today. And I got to say: in a society where parenting is oftentimes just another excuse for companies to sell you shit, it’s great that people are writing about the topic from a realistic, politically-engaged, sponsor-free perspective. Anyhow, I just thought I’d pass along this tip: if you know a pregnant femanist, this mag makes a really great shower gift.
  

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