This piece was originally published on GreaseRag.org, where I regularly write and organize Grease Rag events. Grease Rag’s mission is to encourage and empower women/ trans*/ femme (WTF) cyclists in a collaborative and fun learning environment through rides, discussions, shop nights and educational seminars in a safer space.
5 NB, 6:50a
Everyone knows each other.
“Have a blessed day.”
“How’s your mama?”
“Is that where you’re cooking at now? … Their roux is not bangin’, bro.”
One tiny human gets off the bus and turns to the driver and says, “Byyyyyyye,” while waving enthusiastically, strapped into a small Spiderman backpack with matching superhero shoes.
Someone sneezes and four different people respond with, “Bless you,” then giggle about it.
One person compliments another on their style, and find out so and so’s cousin does both of their hair.
2nd and Marquette Transfer Hub, 7:16a
I’m sitting on the granite planters, swinging my feet in a sun dress, balancing on the ledge with my backpack on and spine straight. Spidey sense goes off as a passerby walks by too close, almost brushing me with their bag. About a dozen people are waiting in the same area for their bus. I am the only female.
A big, articulated bus for 10 people. It’s like this every time I ride.
At the Wells Fargo stop, everyone goes into the building, and I cut across the parking lot, through a boulevard of mowed grass, wood mulch and planted flowers, across a two lane road, to Rice Creek Park. I see a small black bird dive bombing a hawk like a maverick, driving it away from the trees. Mallards. Geese. A half of a squirrel. Shimmering leaves and moving water. Birdsong, rustling grass, a jet plane, my jingling keys. Low areas are flooded and shady spots are still heavy with dew.
A mile later I cross busy County Road I and reach my building, where people walking from their single occupancy vehicles look at me strangely.
Total travel time: 1 hour 40 minutes