Cycling While Female

“On your left!”

I startle at the aggressive shout. Spandex cyborgs whiz past me on gleaming carbon bicycles, their draft almost knocking me over.

 “Jerks,” I mutter, pedaling my old steel bike uphill thinking, if had a fancy bike I'd be just as fast as you, but much more polite.

For the twentieth time that ride I consider buying a nice bike myself. But then I'd have to lose the smugness of being an underdog. Also, I’m a teacher and I can’t really afford it. Those guys were probably all Techies.

Lake Washington is a deep blue to my right. Leaves rustle from the trees overhead. My thoughts begin to slip away as I fall into the bliss of my pedal rhythm.

The Burke Gilman narrows as it gets close to Kenmore. A man in cutoff jean shorts on a beach cruiser pedals slowly ahead of me, right in the middle of the bike lane.

“Excuse me” I call in a kind, but firm voice, “on your left!”

He stays right in the middle, manspreading the bike lane.

“On your left!” I try again, a bit louder.

He doesn't budge.

I need to go off trail in the dirt to pass him. I can’t help but sigh as I do.

“Bitch!” He shouts.

I white knuckle my handlebars and speed away. How dare he?  Sure, I may have muttered “jerks” earlier, but I didn’t say it with so much anger. Also, there is a huge difference between “jerk” and “bitch.” Ugh. I would enjoy biking so much if it weren’t for all the jerks. And they were always men.

A week before, I was crossing the street with a green light when some guy in a truck tried to turn left into me, his bumper grazing my thigh. And he even honked and swore at me!

I’m sweating as I pedal furiously. I’d like to take my safety vest off, but I’m wearing a tank top underneath and I don’t want to deal with catcalls and honks. I’ve been cycling over 15 years and it hasn’t mattered what I weighed or wore: men view cycling while female an invitation for harassment.

Ugh, men. Males even. That sheepdog that tried to bite me off my bike earlier was probably swinging a pair.

My interior rant is interrupted as I notice a man up ahead, struggling to replace a flat tire. Should I stop and help him? But how many horror movies involve flat tires and strange men? Maybe I could just ask him if I could call him help?

Two spandex guys from the opposite direction stop to help him. I feel relieved.

The bliss returns as the path follows a tree-lined river, the gentle hills rise and fall and I feel lulled by the landscape, the wind in my ears. The miles easily pass, until mile forty, when hunger clenches my stomach.

It’s all right, I tell myself, there is a great frozen yogurt place eight miles ahead. I’m fantasizing about toppings: Reese's and mochi, when a man sitting in the grass by the side of the trail catches my eye. There is something wrong.

Holy shit! I screech to a halt. He is covered with blood dripping from his nose to his chin. He is holding his helmet, looking dazed. A fancy bike is tipped over by his feet.

“What happened?”

“I split my helmet… I crashed really hard coming down from that hill.”

“Jesus.” If he split his helmet, his crash probably also caused his brain to smack into his skull. He might be ok now, but the injury could cause the bleeding and swelling to get worse over time. And the skull doesn’t have room for swelling.

“Can I call you an ambulance?”

“No thank you, I called my girlfriend’s parents and they are coming to take me to the hospital. I’ll be fine. You can keep going.”

For a second, I feel the pull of frozen yogurt. No, that’s crazy, I can’t just leave someone like this.  

“Do you mind if I stay with you until your ride comes? I’m a Wilderness First Responder and I might be able to help you a bit.”

The desperate gratitude on his face makes my eyes well up. “That would be great, if you don’t mind.”

I sit down by him. “I’m Lauren.”

“That’s funny, that’s my girlfriend’s name too!” Good, his memory is working. “I’m Josh.”

“Hi Josh!” I can’t help but flinch looking at his bloody face. “You might need stitches, but we should try to get the bleeding to slow down in the meantime.” I pull a clean tissue out of my pocket. “Push this on your upper lip and chin hard.”

“Thanks.” He does as I said.

What should I do next? Gosh, I had to take the WFR course three times, that’s 30 days of medical training. But up until this point I’ve mostly dealt with blisters. I struggle to remember the course. I need to check him for other injuries, the most obvious one may not be the worst one.

His legs are shaking. I point to them. “Did you hurt your legs?”

“No” he says, a bit embarrassed. He crosses his legs to try to get them to be still. “I’m just a bit shaken up.”

I consider checking him over for other injuries and taking his vitals, but help is coming soon. And I don't have gloves on so I shouldn't get his blood on me. So much blood. I feel a bit dizzy and look away from him.

The main thing to worry about is the pressure in his skull. If I can get him to keep talking to me, I can see if his mental state is getting worse. Maybe I can even take his mind off how much he hurts.

“Where were you heading towards?”

“I was biking on the I-90 trail to Issaquah, then I was going to head up East Lake to Seattle.”

“That’s funny, that is the same route I’m doing in reverse! Do you always like to do such long rides? Most people think I’m crazy.”

“I do!” he sighs, “it’s my favorite thing, it’s how I find my peace. I love to go bike camping.”

“Oh nice! I’d like to do that, but my fiancé doesn’t think it would be safe for me to do alone. Have you ever had any trouble?”

“Well last week, I came out of my tent and was startled to see a bear looking right at me!”

“Oh, my goodness! A black bear or a brown bear?”

“A black bear,” he winces as he shifts in his seat.

“You don’t have to worry too much about black bears, they’re usually harmless. When I was little, my family would vacation in the mountains and there were always black bears in the dumpsters,” I laugh with the memory. “And my brother and I would feed them stale Twinkies! Bears just went crazy for the Twinkies! They’d get the cream all over their mouths!”

Josh’s hand pulls away from his face as he lets out a belly laugh. Then, the pressure of his smile causes blood to stream out of his wounds. “You should keep pressure on your face.” I say.

He nods and does so. He looks pale.

“Do you feel nauseous?”

“Yeah, it’s getting pretty bad.” Oh no, that could be a symptom of the skull pressure getting worse. Or it could just be a reaction to the taste of so much blood. “Should I just lie down?”

“No!” I shout louder than I mean to, picturing him choking on his vomit or passing out. “Just sit like this.” I show him the recovery position, with my elbows on my knees and my head bent.

“Thanks!” He says.

I’m getting worried. I should have called an ambulance when I first saw him.

Just then, a van pulls up and an older couple jumps out and runs to him.

“Josh!” They start to fuss over him with a towel and an ice pack. I feel embarrassed suddenly, like I don't belong there.

“I’m ok!” He says.

“You really need to go to a hospital.” I say to him sternly. I face the couple. “Please take him to the hospital, he has a concussion… probably.”

“OK” they say. I clip on my helmet and swing up on my bike. As I ride away I shout, “I hope you feel better, Josh!”

“Thank you, Lauren!”

After just a few feet, I start to worry. I didn’t see the couple put Josh in the car. I look over my shoulder and they are still talking to him. Should I turn around? Should I yell at them to hurry up?

“On your left!”

Another spandex cyborg shouts as he passes me. I feel the familiar flood of annoyance followed by a wave of worry. He’s going too fast. He could hurt himself.