I had no intention of doing the ride. I wanted to be sure my identity as a non-joiner remained intact.
I went to Bainbridge Island yesterday with my bicycle and my snapshot camera. My plan was to ride around a bit, take a few pictures, then get out of Dodge before the crowds made me crazy. It was the day of the annual Chilly Hilly ride, a springtime bike tour of the island that attracts upwards of 4300 riders of all shapes and sizes, covers 33 hilly miles, but is (I thought) the very pedal-palooza kind of setting I try to avoid in my outdoor activities.
Maybe it’s the 20-some years I spent as a newspaper photographer--often covering major college and pro sports, political campaigns, and other spectacles that involve huge crowds of screaming people--but today when I hear about an event that will draw humongous numbers of human beings, I think “Not for me.” My weekends are spent hiking in the mountains on trails not traveled by others, or bicycling quiet country roads.
Still, I am a “people person” (I wouldn’t have been much of a newspaper photographer had I not been engaged and interested in the lives of those around me.) Yesterday as I photographed the colorful scene of the cyclists, it took about two seconds for me to shed my self-imposed exile from humanity and decide I wanted to be part of that crowd. I wanted to ride along with the young racer dudes, to see how long I could hang onto a spot in their pace line. I wanted to be in the scene and cruise with the street kids wearing tennis shoes, the kids sometimes having to push their bikes uphill. I wanted to give words of encouragement to parents who were pulling children in tag-along trailers.
It was very cool to be swept along in that peddling river of humanity.
And my quest for solitude? Well, that can wait till next weekend.
