The velocity of vulnerable

I had a first date today that lasted for 70km. We were introduced before, but only in passing. I dared not look too closely for fear of growing attached when we were first together, but after EFT confirmation pinged my inbox, I was glued to every aged detail. From the distinctive swirl of the Campagnolo embossing to the scuffed remnants of racing days gone by. A beauty.

This is Tuareg my very own vintage, South African built, steel frame road bike. We got to know each other today and I do believe we are a match. Tuareg is an Arabic term meaning 'paths taken', a name given to the nomadic tribes of the Sahara Desert. The root word used by these people groups when referring to themselves (both men and women) translates as 'freemen'. Entirely appropriate for the rebirth of this crafted bicycle to take on the gnarled desolation of the Karoo while whispering to a bullet-proof perseverance I found where Arabic first began.  

It is fascinating to note that the women of the Tuareg enjoy a degree of freedom seen as rare to the majority of Islamic cultures. Worth investigating in depth.
With just 12 days to go until the first Cape Town Freedom Ride, to be held on Women's Day, I have been more carefully considering how urban design and the bicycle are serving the furthering of women's rights in our culture today. We speak of freedom, emancipation and opportunity, but what does it mean in real terms for a woman to be on a bicycle.

Here is my simple story from today.

After riding for 3 hours today through almost every urban condition our city has to offer, I was elated and exhausted. Lung squeezing climbs, and bladder squeezing 60km/hr descents(!) left me feeling utterly spent but not once, not for a single moment, did I feel vulnerable. I received the usual amount of sexist jeering, surprised double-takes and occasional flirtatious greeting by my two wheel mounted male counterparts. Amusing but never threatening.

I showered and changed when I got home from my glorious ride, heading out for dinner and the Tour de France finale at a friend's house just two blocks away.
I walked.
It was then that I realized anew, the power of the bicycle. The weight of the vulnerability I felt when traveling so slowly and deliberately was visceral. My diminished travel speed and sluggish options available as a pedestrian in danger are so contrasting with the flexibility and dynamism of the bicycle I had enjoyed for the day.

As women, we are faced with the frighting, cold and concealed question when venturing out.
Not if, but when will that moment be when we are called to defend ourselves.
That gnawing question is wholeheartedly stifled every-time I head out on my bicycle.
Call it training, call it commuting.

I call it freedom.
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