The idea behind Critical Manners was simple enough: bicyclists who assembled at the Main Library in San Francisco would proceed in single file, and stop at every red light for the duration of the ride.
“We take obedience of the law ridiculously seriously,” read the notice from the self-styled Missy Manners.
OK, I responded, thanks for the invite – even though my manners suck! I suppose there is always room for improvement.
“There's always room for improvement,” Missy Manners primly assured me.
OK, OK – I get that. I can try to be civil. It might be a stretch, come Friday evening, after a taxing week of work. But I’ll try. Anything. Once. If it isn’t clearly hemlock packaged as Kool-Aid.
I did worry about the date – Friday the 13th – hardly an auspicious day to ride. But hey: I will fear no evil.
Obviously the intent of Critical Manners is to demonstrate radical courtesy in contrast with the aggressive misbehavior of “the testosterone brigade” which has been the subject of copious harsh and often one-sided reportage of the March Critical Mass bike ride.
If cyclists simply follow the rules of the road, then conflicts with motorists should magically disappear. And they might even begin to like and respect us, woo hoo!
So at 6:05 I arrived at the library - too late to be read the rules of the road by Missy Manners, as the ride was just getting under way. There were 16 cyclists counted in the news reports – it may have been a little higher with some other latecomers, but no more than 20, tops.
Maybe 4 or 5 motorcycle cops took turns following and in some cases preceding us. Because we stopped at all the lights – and it seemed they were timed so nearly each one we hit was red – progress was slow.
In the news coverage that appeared the next day in the San Francisco Comical, a rider opined “You know, there's nothing really wrong with red lights."
Playing devil’s advocate, I’d suggest they are most needed for reining in motorized traffic. Also, the vehicle code does not require bikes ride in single file – there was no reason we could not ride two abreast and hold the lane we were in.
But I came with what I hoped was an open mind, and was willing to observe the premise of this ride’s organizer.
The route took us up Polk Street to North Point. Did the helicopter hovering ahead of us belong to a news organization or the police? This eye in sky remain fixed as we plodded northwards towards the Bay.
A few of us waved, sardonically disbelieving that we could be worthy of such lofty attention. At least it did not trail us to Embarcadero, which we then followed down to Market Street.
Bicycling single file does not promote conversation, apart from warning people about obstacles – “Debris bin ahead” – and traffic. As I am not the chattiest person to begin with, it essentially eliminated the ease of conversing with others as we were hardly ever alongside one another. Even at lights we tended to be strung out in a line, keeping a wary distance between us.
At the traditional starting point of Critical Mass, we walked our bikes onto the promenade across from the Ferry Building. On the sidewalk leading to Market St. Missy Manners thanked the police escort – who congratulated us on a tranquil and uneventful ride that could serve as an example for all.
With that bizarre encomium, I took off on my ownsome, musing that apart from a few fleeting moments of surrealism, this must have been the most boring bike ride of my life.
Unlike other rides - with friends, or casual, impromptu companions, or en masse - the extreme self-conscious effacement and submissiveness of Critical Manners precluded my developing any sense of riderly community. Riding together is an interactive and spontaneous joy when it is unfettered by inflexible and illogical restrictions.
After being immersed in an atmosphere of milquetoast deference to any and all rulers of the road, I now felt an urgent need to flout the law and break something. But instead of smashing a windshield or keying a double-parked car, I contented myself with breaking wind in the general direction of the hyperpolite Messrs. Manners.
Well excuse-say moi!
