Being alone on my bike
As my IRL friends know, I spend a lot of time on my bike. I look forward to spring and summer so I can get out there and ride, and I stretch fall as much as I can so I can ride. It's my favorite exercise. Lots of times, friends will ask to join me, and much as I love their company, I kind of don't want to ride with anybody. Part of it is that I can't find anybody who's at my level: either they're in better shape than I am and want to go faster or take fewer breaks, or the opposite. And when I go riding, I want to stop when I want to stop, and I want to take that hill at my pace, and I want to tear out when I want to/can tear out. I don't want to feel bad for the other person, or myself if I can't keep up with the other person.
"And it's your alone time," a friend pointed out. "I get that."
Exactly. It's a time for me to shut out the world, get some thinking done, and clear my head. And to give myself a challenge, for the past few years I've been throwing the bike in the car, and driving out to various bike trails in Wisconsin. There's the obvious ones (the Elroy Sparta trail is a favorite for obvious reasons) but there's also just nice routes closer to home.
This post isn't about how wonderful those lonely rides through what seems like the middle of nowhere with nothing bothering you are. No, this post is an expansion of a Facebook post I made a couple of months ago, and forgot about.
I'm pissed off about this. I'm pissed off about having to worry. (I mentioned in my FB post that "this isn't white privilege, but it's certainly male privilege." I need to correct that. This situation, this fear of being harassed or attacked, is something most men don't have when riding --or doing any sport-- alone. But the fact that I can even go out to these locals and not get instant stares is certainly white privilege.)
The heartening thing about my post is that some of the reactions to it from men seemed to open their eyes. These are good guys who reacted in a "Oh, yeah, I bet that would be creepy" way, and appeared to genuinely make a note of it for the next time they encountered a woman alone. Others told stories of similar situations and how they'd already been made aware.
Other people suggested I should start carrying a weapon. Problem is, I'm aware of myself that I know that the kind of really effective weapon -- like a gun or a knife -- is likely (and data supports this) to be used against me. I'm not a trained fighter: about the best thing I could do is maybe carry pepper spray like I was a mail carrier or something.
I've since gone on several rides out in the middle of nowhere without incident. But lately, this has been on my mind, and I'm angry that I have to even worry about this.
"And it's your alone time," a friend pointed out. "I get that."
Exactly. It's a time for me to shut out the world, get some thinking done, and clear my head. And to give myself a challenge, for the past few years I've been throwing the bike in the car, and driving out to various bike trails in Wisconsin. There's the obvious ones (the Elroy Sparta trail is a favorite for obvious reasons) but there's also just nice routes closer to home.
This post isn't about how wonderful those lonely rides through what seems like the middle of nowhere with nothing bothering you are. No, this post is an expansion of a Facebook post I made a couple of months ago, and forgot about.
So on Sunday, I parked in Jefferson right by the Elroy Sparta trail, entered the tunnel and there were two guys in there. One about my age, one maybe in his 30s. They were nice enough: asked me how far I was planning to ride and I'd mentioned I was going to the Rome/Sullivan junk parade. "Oh, you'll have to leave the trail to do that." I know, I told them. "How are you getting to Rome?" At that point I started getting the creeps. "I dunno, I'm going to wing it and decide when I hit some cross streets how I want to do it." I made some more small talk, because I wanted them to go first, but they didn't. So I rode off. They weren't right behind me, so about a mile in, I made up some excuse about how I forgot my backup bottle of water as I passed them back to my car (they finally got going). I didn't pass them again for about five miles (halfway there). At least I stayed confident and cool, as if (as I've been advised and have always done) I was packing. It turned out they were just two perfectly friendly people out to make conversation, but I wonder if they realized that asking a woman alone where she was going and what route she was taking and waiting for her to leave before they embarked was, well, scary. I won't call this white privilige, but it's certainly male privilege. Do my guy friends ever have to worry about shit like this? Do my guy friends understand why I got the creeps?
I'm pissed off about this. I'm pissed off about having to worry. (I mentioned in my FB post that "this isn't white privilege, but it's certainly male privilege." I need to correct that. This situation, this fear of being harassed or attacked, is something most men don't have when riding --or doing any sport-- alone. But the fact that I can even go out to these locals and not get instant stares is certainly white privilege.)
The heartening thing about my post is that some of the reactions to it from men seemed to open their eyes. These are good guys who reacted in a "Oh, yeah, I bet that would be creepy" way, and appeared to genuinely make a note of it for the next time they encountered a woman alone. Others told stories of similar situations and how they'd already been made aware.
Other people suggested I should start carrying a weapon. Problem is, I'm aware of myself that I know that the kind of really effective weapon -- like a gun or a knife -- is likely (and data supports this) to be used against me. I'm not a trained fighter: about the best thing I could do is maybe carry pepper spray like I was a mail carrier or something.
I've since gone on several rides out in the middle of nowhere without incident. But lately, this has been on my mind, and I'm angry that I have to even worry about this.
Comments