Byrne's Bicycle Diaries

In his book, Bicycle Diaries, David Byrne circles his feet over his peddles and writes about cities he has visited around the world.

Santa Fe, New Mexico is as close as I’ve been to urban cycling. Even the central plaza in peak turista season seems a quiet neighborhood compared to Byrne’s experiences in Berlin, Buenos Aries, Istanbul, London, Manila, New York, San Francisco, and Sidney.

Although they impinge with all manner of vehicular and pedestrian traffic, Byrne finds these places worth seeing from the seat of a bike. Several cities, like Berlin, Paris, London, and New York are actively promoting bicycle use with special lanes, creative racks, and short-term rentals.

Recently in Paris, I saw locals in business attire straddling loaner bikes. Renting from Velib is as simple as swiping your credit card and plucking one of their bikes from the rack. Peddle into the Parisian traffic, and if you persevere for thirty minutes, vous payez rien.

I found Byrne’s socio-cultural, artistic, and, yes, musical commentaries thoughtful once we got through the Bush Bashing. This “Talking Head” has his views and is not bashful about bringing them along on the bike. But can you think of a better place to talk politics?

The author closes with a discussion of urban planning and future travels along the streets in his home town, New York City. He peers over the horizon where technology and legislators promise to curb automobile driving freedoms in Manhattan. And what will become of urban cycling if rallies like Critical Mass “cork” in the paths of others? Will we jeopardize control of our bicycles? More of that later, and permit me to digress.

The first time I saw the New York City was on a bright Saturday in my “72” BMW 1600. Riding shotgun was David Lipp, a fellow Army classmate who was born and raised in Chicago’s near north.

We emerged from the Holland Tunnel and drove into an empty financial district not yet shadowed by the World Trade Center. Then, only stately Trinity Church stood guard over Wall Street. Lipp and I waived off a proposition from una Madonna della strada and walked over to Fraunces Tavern where General Washington bid farewell to his officers. On the way, we passed Delmonico’s Restaurant, when a ghost appeared in my imagination. It was a cigar smoking Samuel Clemens eating sautéed sweetbreads.

Back in the Bimmer, we headed north on Lafayette where Midtown’s congestion swallowed us whole. I had driven in downtown Chicago but had never experienced anything like this cacophonous gridlock.

Lipp was a huge astronaut groupie and worshipped adventures in Outer Space. His eyes grew wide, and he cried out over the din, “I can’t believe they live here.”

Even after reading Byrne’s book, I tend to agree. Permit me to paraphrase Walt Whitman:

“Take your Manhattan streets with its powerful throbs, beating drums and the endless noisy chorus.

Give me fields where unmow’d grass, fresh corn and wheat grow and serene-moving animals teach content. Grace me with solitude and glorious hills as I cycle the Upper Left-hand Corner of Illinois.”