I have an inability or unwillingness to summon up even a trace of fakey-fake “Minnesota Nice,” and so it may come as a shock to some who know me that I have an almost compulsive need to be a courteous community member, particularly when it comes to sharing our infrastructure, including our multi-use trails and bike lanes.
Because of this, when riding on bike paths I have always tried to be conscientious about calling out my passes with the common “on your left” to indicate to the pedestrian or other cyclist that I would be passing them, in this example, on the left. It’s what you do if you don’t have a bell on your bike, and I surely was not going to put something as fred-ly as a bell on any of my bikes…not even the weird cargo bike. So for several years I did what I had done everywhere else I lived — Utah, Texas, Kansas, Oklahoma — and tried to make a courteous passing call in a timely and friendly way. Simple enough.
This, to spoil it up front, is my journey to the peace of mind of having a bell on my bike. I now highly recommend them.
Perhaps the best inspiration for a bike bell are the directionally-challenged-while-startled-people who jump to the left when you call “on your left.” That, while kind of funny, is dangerous for both of us. I suppose a call of “stay where you are” might have avoided the leftward jump, but it also sounds vaguely threatening (though also kind of funny, if you think about it). For these people alone, a bell is better and safer for everyone.
However, Minnesota provided me with some new reactions to my verbal passing calls. There were the passive-aggressive jumpers: people who summoned up truly astonishing levels of theatricality as they lurched and flailed off the path, sometimes with audible expressions of shock. I felt bad because I didn’t want to startle anyone…I just wanted to be courteous. Also, a part of me knew that many weren’t really startled, but were engaging in that most-Minnesotan behavior. Sometimes, some of the lurchers might dare a little more direct feedback and say something like, “you don’t have to shout so loud” as I passed.
Of course, I didn’t mean to shout so loud. I just wanted to give a timely warning. So I put ever greater effort into timing the exact moment of my verbal passing call, trying to modulate my volume according to my Vc (Closure Velocity, pronounced “v-sub-c”) so that my voice would reach at the right moment and at the proper polite volume. A high Vc requires more volume, while a very low Vc can be in almost a conversational tone. The trick was getting it just right to not offend anyone.
“Jeez, don’t sneak up on me!”
“You need to give better warning!”
“You don’t need to shout!”
“Ah! Oh!” as they flailed off the path, still.
While many of these fleeting encounters left me feeling bad for startling someone, or irate about the passive-aggressive theatrics, a few were actual-aggressive enough to rise to the level of actual comedy. I burst into laughter once when, after trying my best for a volume that matched my rapid Vc on a street, not a path, the person I passed screamed something at me about “male privilege.” Some people live unpleasantly obstreperous lives.
The problem though was that I was putting a considerable amount of thought and effort into trying to be the most courteous path user I could be, and depending on my read at the moment was either failing, or just getting a lot of crappy Minnesota passive-aggression (or active uptight behavior control) back. And because of my aforementioned compulsory need to be a courteous community member on the path, it was really wearing me down. But my world changed when I finally broke down and installed that fun little bell on my bike.
The dinging bell still provoked the occasional flailing, and dramatic jumps. But sometimes, people even said “thank you” and waved. It was like an entirely new world! Certainly, no more admonitions about shouting, though not everyone was happy with how early, or late, or frequently I rang my little bell. Most importantly, nearly zero directionally-challenged-while-startled-jumpers.
I’m happy for the more pleasant encounters, and also for the reduction in near collisions, but maybe the most important benefit to my mental health was because I’m putting in so little effort, so little of myself into trying to be perfectly courteous, I didn’t care about the passive aggressive, or the obstreperous. All I do is flick the striker on my bell, without the careful estimations or tense anticipation of trying to get my voice just right, at just the right time, so as to not offend anyone. Just ring the bell, and who cares what they do after that? I did my part. I was no longer “emotionally invested,” as it were. Maybe you knew the peace of mind a bell can bring, but this was revelatory for me. I still don’t like it when I’ve startled someone, but I did my part with my bell, and because it’s so little effort, there’s no let-down for the failure of the effort.
The secret is: The bell tolls for me, not for thee. Sure, it’s a courteous warning, but by disconnecting me by one step from the interaction, it’s brought a great deal of apathetic contentment on the trails. Now every one of my bikes has a bell, save for my race bike. I might not race anymore, but I just can’t bring myself to put a bell on that one.
Of course, not everyone was happy. About three months into being a cheerful bell-ringing cyclist, I dinged my bell while passing a woman on Summit, who shouted after me: “you could just say ‘on your left,’ you know!”
Sigh.
