For the first week, I’m too stupid to be afraid. Moon-eyed at this city that unwraps itself from the hilltops. Each hill has a name: Potrero. Billy Goat. Irish and Russian and Mint and Nob. From some hilltops, you can see a suspension bridge or two, or the emerald hills across the bay. From the hilltops, it’s the most beautiful city in the whole world and I feel lucky to have a bike with gears that shift low enough that I can push my way to the top of them.
After a week, I snap out of it. Now I’m afraid. There’s no safety in the bike lane. No magical power to the skinny white line that separates the bikes from the swarm of rush hour traffic. Some bike lanes feel like suicide missions, like the one on Fell Street between Scott and Baker that leaves you stranded on the left side of a one way street where everyone wants to make a left turn. Or the long haul down Folsom which takes you clear across town and where practically every intersection is marked by a ghost bike— a bike that’s painted white and chained to a lamp post as a makeshift memorial to some bike rider who never made it home. And sure, the Broadway Tunnel up in North Beach is officially open to bikes, but that’s like saying Dracula’s Castle is officially open for overnight visitors. It’s a truth with a trapdoor inside it. After a couple weeks riding around SF, that’s what this town seems like: a city-sized bike trap.