Critical Mass Busts Catholic Ass

When R. and I met, I had just moved to St. Louis and had discovered that I could get around faster by bike than by bus. An unusually shy and socially inexperienced twenty-seven-year-old, I had a vague feeling that I wanted to get involved in something radical, and a definite feeling that I needed to get out and meet people. When I saw a flyer for Critical Mass I knew I had to go, no matter how nervous and nauseous I felt about it.

I didn’t notice R. on that first ride, although he claims he introduced himself to every unattached female. Eventually I began to distinguish him from the other forty-something professional guys by his self-deprecating humor. I kept to myself at first, but I loved being part of the freewheeling group and soon started connecting with people. He and I became part of a core group that met to plan Critical Mass, went out after Critical Mass, and started riding socially on days other than last Fridays.

R. had just left a miserable marriage and a house in the suburbs for a studio apartment in a walkable neighborhood. He was 70 pounds overweight and planned to ride his bike in city parks for exercise. He had so much fun riding his bike to the park the first time that he started riding everywhere he went and lost the weight in a few months.

I was recently married, to a guy who didn’t own a bicycle. A strange thing had happened after our wedding — he lost all interest in sex. Some Catholic switch had turned on in his brain, telling him that wives were for worshipping; only sluts were for screwing.

That was his story, but I think he also felt threatened by my newfound independence. Biking had sparked my confidence, and it became a source of contention between us. He wanted to spend weekend nights in front of the VCR; I wanted to go out riding with my new friends. He wanted to go for Sunday drives, which I used to enjoy. But now I couldn’t stand sitting passively in the passenger seat, watching the scenery flying by, and I started going on group rides in the Illinois countryside on Sundays instead. He told me my friends were nuts (fair enough) and that I was “living on another planet” if I thought a bicycle was a viable means of transportation.

I tried to get him to buy a bike. We first went to a non-profit shop that taught city kids how to build and fix used bikes. He waited impatiently while an elderly volunteer with shaking hands tried to change a tube on a $100 bike that looked like it might be a good fit, then walked out without test riding anything. Next we went to a real bike shop and he tried out a $500 Specialized. When I watched him riding it, he looked happy and free, and I loved him, but when we drove home without the bike (“too expensive,” he said), I felt it was the beginning of the end. In this country, biking is a radical act, and just as he couldn’t break out of his Catholic conditioning — he couldn’t free his mind enough to get on a bike.

But my worldview had changed for good. R. started looking more and more interesting to me.

I hadn’t gone to my high school prom, but I went to Critical Mass Prom and wore a strapless sequined dress and fishnet stockings, a big departure from my usual style. Critical Mass had taught me the freedom to create crazy fun, and biking had given me muscles and the confidence to show them off.

Being able to assert my sexuality had the benefit of attracting R.’s attention. I watched him in my rearview mirror checking me out on the ride. Later I told him to ride in front of me so I could admire his calves; he complied.

I wasn’t the only one who was using a bicycle to break out of her shell — there was Sunita, who claimed to be nineteen but wouldn’t show anyone her passport. She seemed to be on a quest to screw every bike messenger, racer, and mechanic in town, the older the better. Quasi-homeless, she was sleeping on R.’s couch while he slept on the floor. (Without seeing the passport, he was keeping his hands off.)

One night, at the South City Diner after a ride, I had egg on my face and R. licked it off. Classy, I know, but we were both new at this game and acting like teenagers. We left together. Stopped by a train at a railroad crossing, we debated getting a hotel room. The stalled train gave us too much time to think and we just said good night.

But R. soon explained to Sunita that she needed to vacate the couch, and he and I started making good use of it. He would escort me home at 2 a.m., 4 a.m., 6 a.m., and then I just moved in until I found my own tiny apartment a block away. Five years later, we drove to Portland, sold the car, and settled down on that “other planet” where biking was normal.

— Lisa S.