This uniformity of equipment does raise an interesting question: how the heck do you pick your anonymous bike out of the herd at the almost-certain-to-be-fully-packed bike rack? Answer: remember where you parked. I'm stuffed into the middle of the rack, or it's the one near the light pole. Of course, some people actually decorate their faithful steeds or apply a bit of paint, but most seem to have an unerring instinct for immediately finding their friend among sometimes hundreds of others. Kind of like a mother cow finding her calf in the middle of the herd, I think. Pure animal instinct.
Another note about equipment: the wimpy locks that, as a big city kid, make me very, very nervous. It's a lightweight spring-loaded rod mounted on the rear of the frame above the wheel. You simply turn a key which throws a bolt between the spokes. That's right, a thief with any ambition whatsoever would simply throw the bike over his shoulder. Apparently it doesn't happen that often. But, still, I worry.
As yet another wave of cyclists rolled past this morning, I was once again struck by how normal they looked, by the delightful variety of sizes, ages, types. Fit and not-so-fit, older, younger. And right in the middle of the pack was a slightly overweight elderly Asian woman, gold slippers firmly planted on the pedals.
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