This particular image has occurred to me multiple times over the last couple of years, but this morning, toiling into work along the (mostly) flat roads of North and Central Cambridge, it started expanding in my head.
(Before we start properly: I realise that, as a metaphor, this makes certain assumptions about shared experience and is bound to be flawed, but this is what I’ve got so far...)
For the most part, when I cycle between home and work, the prevalent wind is in my face every morning, and behind me in the evening. When I cycle into work, I feel embattled; when I cycle home, I feel a little smug. Not always, but most of the time. Watching the faces of other people moving in the opposite direction each way, I formed the following model:
Simple Privilege
Imagine a substantial bike journey. You have to cycle from one place to another along roads shared with other users. People moving in the direction you’re moving in have the wind against them - headwind; people moving in the opposite direction have the wind behind them - tailwind.
You’re all heading for the same destination but from different directions. You cannot control the wind. You are either fighting it or boosted by it.
You arrive, dishevelled, sweaty, later than your colleague, despite setting off at the same time from the same distance away. “Terribly windy today!” you pant.
They, cool, well-groomed, look at you curiously: “I didn’t feel anything...”
You never feel the wind at your back, only in your face. And it’s nothing you did better or worse - the direction of the wind and where you live relative to the goal was decided long ago. You’ll need to leave home earlier, work harder, or both, to get there at the same time as, or earlier than, your colleague.
And the impact of that historical chance is that your colleague gets to work earlier than you, is regarded as a better worker, more reliable, and a lot less untidy to look at.
“But it’s not as simple as that!” you might say. “Some people coming from the same direction, going the same distance, go faster than you anyway, so it’s nothing to do with the direction of the wind!”
Well, yes, and this is something I tell myself every time anyone overtakes me, because that matters if the thing rewarded is moving faster, if we continue to tell everyone that the person who moves faster is better than the person moving slower. Maybe the faster person is carrying fewer things, maybe they’re fitter or stronger than me, maybe their bike is more aerodynamic (I do have big saddlebags, after all), maybe they could afford a better bike (see? I’ve done it myself! Okay then: a bike better suited to moving quickly). So the model expands:
Intersectional Privilege
But if we talk about that, we also need to talk about the other cyclists who are moving slower than you as all of you battle into the same wind. They may be less fit than you, they may be carrying more things, they may have an older bike or one less suited to cycling against the wind. They may even have decided to cycle slower, because it’s less stressful. Everything is relative, after all, and being able to overtake them doesn’t make you a better person than they are.
“Well,” say the motorists. Hold on; motorists?! We were talking about cycling... “The thing is: you don’t have to deal with traffic jams, do you? You have your own special lanes.”
“Actually,” you start to say, “you definitely get traffic jams in cycle lanes, or at the side of the roads that don’t have cycle lanes...”
“It’s not fair,” say the motorists, “for you to get special extras like bike lanes. After all, you don’t have to pay for fuel!”
“Technically,” you try to explain, “most cycle lanes, where they actually exist, are generally pretty narrow and don’t actually impact on your use of the road, and besides - very few of them actually have anything other than psychological levels of protection for us - we’d definitely come off worse in any impact between you and us.”
“Whatever,” say the motorists, and stop abruptly to park in the cycle lane so that they can be conveniently close to where they want to be, saying, as they get out: “if you paid road tax, you’d be more equal to us, and you’d get to have a say.”
“No such thing as road tax in the UK!” you call after them, but they’re long gone and you have to swerve around their vehicle into the path of a motorist who suggests that you use the pavement if your way is blocked.
“But pedestrians are even more fragile than us, and there’s...”
“There’s plenty of room!”
“There’s plenty of room on the road - why can’t you share that?”
But they’re long gone. “Bloody motorists!”
“Hold on a second,” says another motorist, coming up over your shoulder, “not all motorists are like that. I never drive or park in bike lanes, and I always give way to cyclists and I even leave plenty of room on the inside of roads with no bike lanes. Some of my family are cyclists. I sometimes cycle myself, actually.”
“Well...”
“You shouldn’t be attacking people who are on your side.”
“I can’t tell which type of motorist you are until we’ve finished an interaction. In order to stay safe, I have to assume that you might be the dangerous type of motorist who resents me taking up space, or just doesn’t see me. I have to be vigilant and proactive and assume that dangerous things could happen to me - you have a lot more power than me, and you can hurt me just by not noticing me. Besides, your exhaust fumes are just as...”
“But I do notice you. I’m a very careful driver. You can’t say all that about all motorists.”
“I didn’t say all motorists and, look, this is distracting - I need to focus on the road.”
“I was only trying to have a conversation.”
“You’re freaking me out!”
“Wow, why are you so sensitive?”
“Er, because several tons of fast-moving metal and glass (I’ve seen the instructional videos, you know!) is paying a LOT of attention to me and asking me to pay attention to them when I need to pay attention to the whole road and my pedalling and breathing and...”
But they’re long gone.
The next stretch of road has official signs telling you that you need to move onto the pavement in order to retain the protection of the bike lane. It’s that or move out into the middle of the road to avoid the parked cars. You try staying in the road, but it gets a bit daunting, so you move onto the pavement for a stretch. The surface of the pavement is rough and there are big lumps where tree roots are pushing up the concrete. You start to lose speed and the whole thing is very uncomfortable. This place is not designed for bikes.
Ahead, some pedestrians are walking across the whole width of the pavement. You ring your bell in plenty of time to let them know you’re coming.
“You don’t belong here,” they say, faces twisting.
“I know, but there’s no room in the road.”
“We don’t like moving out of your way.”
“I don’t like moving you out of my way.”
“That bell is very passive-aggressive.”
“Well, it’s the standard signal that’s universally understood.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Would you prefer me to shout?” You pass them.
“I just don’t like that bell! Bloody cyclists!”
But you’re long gone.
“Make up your mind!” says a motorist as you hit the road again. “Are you a vehicle or a pedestrian?”
“Yes...?”
Somewhere up ahead, you know, your colleagues have already arrived at their destination, well-groomed and full of energy.
Sometimes they ask why you are so tired. Sometimes they decry that you seem to be so angry all the time. “I’m fighting the wind,” you say.
“What wind?”
