Bike Pysch Revisited

The Radavist today ran a “Dust-Up” column on the psychology of bad interactions between cyclists and drivers, and by extension (so the argument continuted) cyclists and hikers. Radavist editor John Watson argues that driving a car leads one into an inward-focused, egocentric mindset that inhibits consideration for others and community mindedness; cycling, because it increases both a sense of vulnerability and the sensory experience of the world and people around one:

When riding a bike, we absorb the world that surrounds us because we have no protection from it. We have to be outward-minded and aware, resulting in a more empathetic world experience.

His case about the hikers he encounters is that they likely drove their car to the trailhead, and thus maintained that driver’s inward focus – plus the individualistic expectation that the ‘outdoors’ should be a place of solitude as opposed to a place where you’re likely to meet other people.

Watson notes that, “Drivers might even view bikes as obstructions to their inward-minded agendas.” And I can absolutely relate to that. As a regular cycle commuter to my office downtown, I have nearly daily experiences with impatient and even aggressive drivers who seem to treat me as an obstacle. I often wonder that had I been in a car, taking up ten times as much road space, those same drivers would probably show more patience and cede much more room on the road for me.

Watson’s case for the “car brain” mindset is a complex argument, and I didn’t find all of it convincing. I did, however, resonate strongly with his exploration of the sense of vulnerability and hightened sensory awareness in cycling:

A second sense develops when riding a bike in a big city. You can almost predict the erratic movements of cars or what the flow of traffic will do as a response to road conditions. Maybe a lifetime of riding a bike, not only as recreation but also as transportation, embedded this atavistic third eye in me while riding in chaotic environments. You’ll always remember how to ride a bike… in a city. […] Your eyes are constantly engaged with the world. You’re looking, listening, and sometimes smelling any potential threat to your safety.

This really rings true to me. Despite frequent interactions with impatient and inconsiderate drivers, I actually really enjoy the experience of riding in traffic: the hightened sense of everything around me, my sense of my own boundaries and agility, and, to be perfectly honest, the adrenaline – “rush” isn’t the right word, but maybe “high” – makes for an overall positive experience. After a day at the office, my commute home feels kind of therapeutic. I typically feel like I have ten times the awareness of the road and the traffic than people in cars have; they’re stuck inside, seeing only through a window, esconsed in their big steel cages, while I float effortlessly among them, attuned to their slightest movements.

Don’t get me wrong: I am aware of the inherent mortal danger in this line of thinking, where anything that I do miss could easily kill me. The stakes are high, and I talk to myself constantly about that facet of the experience. But there’s no denying the appeal of the experience, flying like a bird, senses all open wide, judging and navigating the rhythms of the traffic.

Watson uses the word “vulnerability” and that is exactly right. And yet, I do not feel afraid on my bike in traffic. I am supremely vulnerable – bodily vulnerable – amid two-ton hunks of metal moving in all directions. But fear is not part of that feeling of vulnerability. Indeed, I generally feel confident and connected. This carries through to dodgy encounters with cars. If I’m cut off or passed too closely, I’m more likely to yell at the driver than to back away; and doubly so if I’m yelled at or dissed by a driver (this happens pretty often): I know where I am in space, I know where I’m going, and I’m not cowed by an irate driver who finds my presence surprising or inconvenient.

The other day, I approached one of the tiny traffic circles installed on otherwise uncontrolled intersections in the residential streets in my part of town. These things are “traffic-calming” devices, supposedly, as they force everyone ot proceed slowly through them counter-clockwise, as opposed to having a stopsign that people simply ignore. There was a car already in the intersection, headed in the same direction as me. Another car approached from the left. I rode into the circle, not noticing that the car on my left was probably going faster than he should have been. He entered the circle, braked, and started yelling at me. This wasn’t a dangerous situation, just a question of precedence. He was offended that I rode into the circle ahead of him (he probably hadn’t noticed me at all until I was right in front of him). I yelled back, to the effect that the “vehicle on the right has the right of way, dude!” and got a stream of vitriol in response. He then attempted to pass me in the intersection as he turned left around the circle. I stopped in my tracks, looked him in the eye, and said, “What are you going to do? Run me down?” He turned his car around me and sped away up the street.

What to make of an interaction like that? I felt zero fear, despite being in a confrontation with a two-ton hunk of metal, driven by a guy who was verbally aggressive, and frankly, who probably could have beaten the crap out of me if he’d gotten out of his car. But my hightened awareness of the situation – my sensibilities conditioned by years of this kind of riding – meant I knew exactly where my boundaries were, what my rights were, and, at least up to the point of the possibility of random violence, exactly how safe I was.

Now, if you don’t ride in traffic regularly, that story probably sounds crazy, dangerous, even self-destructive. In hindsight, it’s an interaction I do regret – there’s nothing gained by me standing in the middle of the street loudly asserting my right to be there – and I plan to look for more zen ways through the next one of those I encounter. But the point is that encounter is kind of one of many: it’s just so representative of car-bike (or rather: rider-driver) interactions on the road. And the reason for that I do think is our vastly different experience of the road, depending on whether we’re on a bike or inside a car.

What to make of that? Does the experience of driving a car – and especially a lifetime of driving in cars – make us isolated, self-centered, entitled, and clueless? Does the experience of cycling make us more aware of ourselves, more aware of others, and more polite, as John Watson suggests (on reflection I’m not sure the latter applies to me)? Is it that simple?

I mean, let’s also face the reality that driving in the city sucks and I can’t imagine having to do it on a daily basis. I’m so lucky to be able to commute by bike! Drivers and commuters in the city are probably constantly frustrated by how hard it is to just get where you’re trying to go. Regardless the cognitive-affective implications of being inside a car, the very idea of spending a chunk of every day driving in traffic is enough to make drivers mad. Does the sight of cyclists sharing the road with you somehow make that seem worse? And what’s that about, then? Is it the sheer incongruity that a bike (this alien thing) presents in a world of cars all in their ordered, idling lines? Is it a response to the agile (and maybe surprising) movements of bikes in and out of traffic (themselves well-evolved survival tactics)? Is there some deeper-seated political discontent? Last civic election here, bike lanes became a divisive political issue, as it is in many cities – so I’m thinking that there’s something more going on than just the immediate experience of sharing the road with somebody on two wheels. Is commuting by car yet another instance of the failed promises of urban capitalism, and the bikes that flit about in the face of frustrated drivers a subtle and ongoing mockery of those promises?

Update, Nov 14th:

On reading this back to myself I’m struck by how all my talk of ‘fearlessness’ adds up to a kind of hubris that I should think harder about. People get hit, are injured, and die in cycle-car collisions all the time. My exaltation of the experience of riding at best ignores and at worst pushes that reality right out of the picture. I really don’t want to do that; the vulnerability is real, and my sense of control is of course only ever partial. To forget that is to court disaster.