I lived with my parents during my university years. My parents owned a house right next to campus. In fact, they lived closer to campus than most people got a park, so it seemed stupid to move out.
The thing about living with your parents until you’re 22 (especially if you’ve had a couple of years of total exchange-student freedom in a completely different country) is that your parents tend to worry about you even as you go about your day-to-day activities. So when I used to go cycling by myself around the perimeter of the airport, my father would express his concern. He told me on a few occasions that I was particularly vulnerable out on those deserted roads, a young woman with only a push-bike for protection: Anything Could Happen.
Nothing happened. Except this one thing. I was alone, on a road with no cars, when I heard another bicycle coming up behind me. When I turned my head to check the nature of my roadmate, I saw that I was being tailed by a man. Perhaps everything my father had ever said to me kicked in — I don’t know, but I do remember the adrenaline — I was cycling quickly and this man’s intention seemed only to be to catch up to me — and all I could do was cycle even faster, so I did.
We were almost at a main arterial road when he did, in fact, catch up to me, panting as much as I was.
“Man, you’re pretty fast,” he said admiringly.
I don’t think I said much in reply. I let him cycle off ahead of me as I let my heart rate slow.
Most young men are just like that one: Perfectly harmless. Better than harmless — his willingness to exchange a greeting showed me that he would likely have helped me out if I’d, say, had a tyre blow out. (These were the days preceding mobile phones.)
He had another thing in common with most amiable young men: He was completely oblivious to the fact that he completely freaked me out. I don’t think strapping young men have the slightest idea about what goes through the minds of young women, alone on deserted roads.
On a slightly different topic, the lower-body strength differential between men and women isn’t really that great (unlike the upper-body strength differential, which is huge), so men should probably quit being surprised that women can cycle quickly.
Especially when women are motivated by adrenaline.
I don’t think much these days about my cycling years. You’d have a hard job persuading me to do that same route now that I’m older and wiser and, admittedly, less brave. But I did this week read an article about the perils of cycling as a female in Melbourne, where I spent the least favourite of my ‘cycling years’.
And if my daughter wanted to commute by bicycle? Or cycle on deserted roads for the pure exercise of it? I doubt I could resist expressing my concerns.
