Poodle Rides Bikes Politely

SWERVE AND CURVE:  I was trying to locate my inner quiet this Tuesday evening while sipping a sazerac, a drink allegedly invented by some Creole apothecary from Haiti sometime in the early 19th century. Where the sazerac is concerned, there’s much myth and little fact. So much the better. Its ingredients, however, are known. Rye whiskey, vermouth, bitters, and some other stuff. And whatever is available that can pass as absinthe. 

In some establishments, the whiskey is infused with a splash of liquified duck fat. This is known as a “duck fat sazerac.” The happy collision of these syllables — a poem unto itself — is what drew me to the drink in the first place. What it tasted like was beside the point. 

Be advised; it takes a professional bartender to make one of these things, and then, it’s a performance better than anything you might see at The Granada Theatre. That it also comes with a “sidecar” containing a murky-looking fluid said to be absinthe adds to the sacramental mystique of the whole thing. It’s not a drink. It’s High Mass said in Latin. 

The top of my skull throbbed gently as a half-moon filled the night sky. Couples walked by, laughing, touching, not talking. A silver-haired man went the other way, hand dug deep in his pockets as if marching into a bitter wind. 

No, I was not getting buzzed. I was doing my part — as a lifelong, card-carrying bike rider — to help save State Street from itself by enjoying a drink that requires monthly payments. 

I was also celebrating the fact that the City Council had just rejected the misguided idea that bikes needed to be banned from certain blocks of what is now being called the “Grand Paseo” — as opposed to the State Street Promenade — to protect the untrammeled sanctity of the pedestrian experience. 

Being a multi-modal kind of guy, I too have been known to walk on occasion. But when so doing, I look both ways when crossing the street. I don’t have ear buds on. I do not have my face planted in my cell phone. And I do not expect the world to protect me from my self-righteous stupidity. Because so many pedestrians do not — and yes, I am otherizing you — I saw no need for me to have to “walk my wheels” for certain blocks. 

Clearly, there’s real friction on the street between bike riders and pedestrians. And because five years ago, State Street was declared a pedestrian mall, there has been much talk of restricting bike access. In response, bike advocates pointed out that the Bike Master Plan declared State Street the “spine” of the city’s bike infrastructure long before COVID rearranged the furniture on State Street. 

They also made the point that people riding bikes spend money on State Street even though there is not that much there to buy. I have bought far more expensive coffee drinks than my cash flow will allow. 

In deference to the tender sensibilities of my fellow residents, I do not wear Lycra. Or walk into shops with those obnoxious clip-clop cleats that allow cyclists to think they’re flamenco dancers.

And yes, I share the road with cars. How magnanimous of me.

The real conflict point has long been the relatively small number of young e-bike riders in the throes of their hormonal shift who zoom down State Street, scattering innocent — not to mention entitled and oblivious — pedestrians in their wake. They give e-bike riders a bad name. They give all bike riders a bad name. I’d say they give me a bad name, but I do that very well without any help from anybody. 

We have responded, as usual, by simultaneously overreacting and doing nothing about it. Now, after about 4.7 years, that’s starting to change.

Police Chief Kelly Gordon — one of the two Kellys now running this city — has convened yet another of the ad hoc blue-ribbon task forces for which we’re so famous to explore enforcement options and expand educational efforts to teach would-be road warriors remedial manners.

There are a million reasons why this hasn’t already happened. There weren’t enough cops. No cop would endure the agonies of the academy to chase after entitled adolescent miscreants. And it was unclear that cops had any jurisdiction to enforce traffic rules on a street closed off to cars.

In the meantime, other cities — like San Clemente — have passed local ordinances restricting where e-bikes can be ridden and at what speeds. There’s talk of requiring licenses for riders of e-bikes that go faster than 17 miles an hour. That’s the top speed, by the way, of all the white e-bikes that can be rented on State Street and elsewhere around town. I have yet to hear one syllable of complaint about anyone riding these bikes. 

There’s also talk about holding parents of these scofflaws financially responsible. If San Clemente can do it, certainly we can too. 

The reality is that e-bikes are the missing link in how we get from A to B and should be embraced as such. They neutralize gravity, serve a utilitarian function as air-pollution-free, mid-range, no-parking-necessary transport, and yes, add an element of joy to what would other be a humdrum excursion. 

If we allow a few kids to ruin it for the rest of us, we’re stupider than they are. They, at least, have an excuse.

And so, for that matter, do I. I’m sipping on my sazerac. I now enjoy the taste almost as much as the name. But I have yet to try one infused with duck fat. If any place makes this, send me a shout. 

In the meantime, I’m happy to share the road with pedestrians.