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I’m outside the elementary school on a crisp afternoon, waiting for my daughter to emerge from her kindergarten class. Behind me, in the bike trailer, my toddler son is dozing, his chubby chin resting on his chest so that all I can see is the top of his yellow bike helmet. One of the other moms glances over at my well-used bike and smiles. “I like your sticker: Care-free Mom.”
Actually, the sticker says Car-free Mom, which is not the same thing at all.
My husband and I have never had a car. It’s always been better for the world, our wallets and our waistlines to bike everywhere. We live in Vancouver, where bike routes are plentiful and snow days are few and far between. Sure, it rains a lot, but we buy good rain gear.
Our bike-everywhere lifestyle hits a bump, though, when our daughter starts school. Because she is in French immersion, she goes to a school five kilometres away. That’s five kilometres in the morning to drop her off, five kilometres home, five kilometres in the afternoon to pick her up, five kilometres home – 20 kilometres a day, pulling kids in the trailer. It’s hard on my back, which starts to twinge and groan, and, when I ignore these complaints, resorts to debilitating spasms.
My friendly physiotherapist prescribes daily exercises, tells me to avoid heels and suggests I have my bike fit assessed by a professional. All of this helps, a bit. On the plus side, I’m fitter than I have ever been and my legs are pure muscle.
One Sunday, I haul the kids to the arena for my daughter’s skating lesson. While I watch the kids on the ice, I see a woman I recognize from kindergarten drop-off. Diffidently, I approach her and introduce myself. “I think our daughters are in the same kindergarten class.”
She cocks her head quizzically and squints at me for a second. “Oh yes! I didn’t recognize you without your bike helmet.”
Taken aback, I wonder: What do people think of me, the crazy always-biking lady?
Years pass and the kids’ heads start to hit the top of the trailer. Enter the tandem trail-a-bike. This contraption attaches to the seat post of my bike, and has a seat and pedals for each kid. Once attached to an adult bike, it makes a three-person biking behemoth we call the Beast.
Balancing the weight of two kids is a precarious operation, and it requires care and courage for stops and starts. But we use it to cruise all over town: to school, the beach, birthday parties, swimming lessons, and even a memorable camping trip. Everywhere we go, we turn heads. A three-person bike is just cool to see.
My back takes a hit again, though. The kids are able to pedal and help with the uphill pushes, since they are older and stronger now, but they are heavier too. I regularly wonder if we’re foolish to insist we don’t need a car. I am religious about doing my daily stretches.
Winters are the hardest. My alarm goes off well before the sun even thinks about rising, and I listen to the rain pattering outside my window. Everywhere we go, we arrive wet. Our hallway is festooned with soggy clothes hanging over heaters. Going out for a second time in one day means having to put on cold, clammy gear. And any trips later than about 4 p.m. require bike lights, front and rear, that constantly need recharging. It all seems like a lot of effort just to go somewhere.
The truth is, though, that biking in the rain isn’t bad once you get out in it. Inside our rain gear we are dry, and the rain that sounded like a torrential downpour is just harmless drops of water falling from the sky. We breathe deeply in the fresh air and feel smug when we see people cowering under umbrellas. And spring does come, eventually, with its clear, blossomy days. We dry out our gloves and bike booties one last time, and store them away until the next year.
On a sunny but sweltering summer day, I head out to pick up the kids from gymnastics day camp. The tandem trail-a-bike is parked at the camp, so I get to ride solo all the way there. Without the extra 120 pounds tagging along behind me, I feel like I’m flying, like someone is pushing me along the road.
At the camp I attach the trail-a-bike and tell the kids, “The bike bus is leaving, please take your seats.” As they mount up, another mom says to me, “I like your sticker: Care-free Mom.”
We head home down the bike routes we know like the back of our hands, all the familiar houses, the potholes to avoid, the places where the water pools when it rains.
As we wait to cross a busy street, I gaze at the bumper-to-bumper traffic. Each unmoving car contains one isolated person breathing exhaust and going nowhere. The heat reflects off the pavement in hazy waves, and I realize that I wouldn’t ever trade our car-free lifestyle for the chance to sit in traffic. Our light turns green and we cruise across, wind in our hair, leaving the hapless motorists behind.
Care-free? Car-free? Perhaps they’re not so different after all.
Tara Gaertner lives in Vancouver.