Two weeks ago, I brought Queenie (my Seattle bike, which is named after the pet chameleon that a colleague once had) on the light rail. It was a little later than I normally commute.
As I arrived to the Columbia City station on MLK blvd, I had to cut the crosswalk (despite Seattle’s zany enforcement of jaywalking) as the train was approaching. An elderly couple was in front of me — she on foot, he straddled a bike. And a typical Schwinn or some other named biped. Since he took the first door, I biked past him on the platform (probably a no-no) to the second set of doors. That’s where the bike hangar is. After he got over the shock of getting beat to the hook, I told him that I wasn’t hanging there. He thanked me. And then he began to covet my bike with his eyes.
He looked, admired. Pointed it out to his wife. He looked at the handlebars. And outloud said ‘Swo-Bow.’ after realizing that his voice was audible to me and the rest of the lightrail crew, he looked up at me.
– Nice looking bike.
– Thanks, it rides well.
I exited at the following station to walk to the next car. Once I hung the front wheel, I stood in the doorway to have the room for my morning stretches and twists. In the course of the next 20 minutes, I had two other grown men, one Asian-American and then a Black man, engage me about the bike. It brought a morning smile to the first guy, and a number of questions from the second.
All in my first 40 minutes out in the morning commute.
washing dishes: a father’s glimpses 