cat on roof

I got off the ferry into the sunshine and headed down the Embarcadero towards the ballpark. I wasn't headed to a game, I just wanted you to get a sense of my route. I ride this path several times a week, and I enjoy it much more than anything that takes me near Market Street. I can forget about the misery and violence and mental illness and even the stench of my fair city if I can just stay away from Mission and Market. So I do. So I ride along in the bike lane next to the defeated commuters who herd themselves toward the freeway and parts unknown. Sounds busy, but it is a smooth ride and the lights work with me. I don't actually go as far as the park, I turn off just before at Townsend, where there is a bakery called Town's End, a restaurant that has fondue night on Wednesday and an apartment building called Mutiny on the Bounty or Crushing Waves or some other deep sea sort of thing. This is a block past Brannan and it was when I got there that I felt someone on my tail. And then I heard him. Just a little whirring noise every ten or fifteen feet. It started to disturb me. I imagine that this is because one of the ferry workers kind of pissed me off on the boat. I've sailed with these fellas 40 or 50 times in the last few months, and I know where to put my bike. I wait until all the rental bikes are stowed and then I lay it gently on the last one. I like my bike. Well, one of the seamen felt a need to exert his power on me today, and started yelling at me across the crowded deck to put it somewhere else. I ignored him and took care of things, but I guess it stuck in my craw. So the repeated buzzwhir right behind me wasn't greeted with enthusiasm. I figured that since I was turning off at the next block I could handle it. So I turned. And the whirbuzz came right along with me. This was too much. I came to a near stop and turned my head. I don't do that a lot on my bike. I've got places to go. It turned out it was only a mere messenger boy. His message to me: sorry. Pretty lame, he suggested, to be drafting a girl. He'd been riding all day though, 35 miles or so, and he was tired. I laughed and said it made sense to me. So hang on. Okay, I didn't say the last part, but I told him it was no problem, as I'd just gotten off a boat and I had strength enough for two. And I rode. Much like the wind. And he drafted and chatted and told me about his day, and how he'd almost seen a car/bike fight when a messenger laughed at a car in traffic and said he hoped the gas prices hadn't gotten too high. He really had a lot to say for a tired rider. I laughed occasionally and agreed once or twice. Then, after about a mile, and a history of the traffic problems over the years on this particular road, he headed off to his last delivery of the day and told me he'd owe me a beer on pay day. Only problem, he added, was that it was pretty hard to find him on pay day. Then I was on my own, remembering a tired me last week on this same stretch of road. As a girl on a bike, there are certain hazards or annoyances that one must accept. There are others that one can ignore and taunt. Almost daily I am passed by boys who don't actually ride as fast as I do, but who can't stomach the possibility that they will be seen trailing a female. They stand up on their bikes and peddle their asses off until they are about a half a block ahead, then they settle into a speed that is still faster than they are used to. But at least they are not pulling up the rear. Which is funny, because I always enjoy a nice rear view. Anyway, last week, when I was tired and had a ways to go, one of these boys struggled past me, and rather than laugh him off, I picked up my pace and steered against his back tire. I drafted that little fuck for ten blocks. So today, when messenger boy - he never told me his name, but neither did I - needed a rest, I figured it was my due.