Lousy Samaritans
by Diane
Vadino
The problem was not that Nicole's leg was bleeding from three different places or that Katie's tube had blown again or even that our much-anticipated weekend at Mt. Snow apparently coincided with the start of Vermont's monsoon season. Those were the fun things. The problem, rather, was the glowering presence of three of the buffest, toughest bike jockeys since Mad Max roamed the Outback in search of six-packs of Red Dog.
"You ladies need a hand?" said one of our Good Samaritans.
"Thanks, but we've got it," Nicole answered.
"Maybe we should stick around and give the little honeys a hand," one of his friends said. Katie rolled her eyes. I spent the summer working at a bike shop; Katie's taken her bike apart and put it back together again. Condenscension is so attractive. But we didn't want to be rude.
"No, thanks a lot, but really, we'll be fine," Katie said forcefully. Katie lives in New York City.
"C'mon," the first one said again. "How are you gonna fix it?"
Katie slowly described to him the process of removing a blown tube and replacing it with a new one. We are women; we explicate. They glowered some more. We looked at each other. We looked at them. "Thanks anyway," I said helpfully.
"How'd you feel about me sticking my head in your crotch?" said the first one. We weren't sure who he was speaking to, so none of us responded.
"I think I'd probably throw up," Katie finally volunteered. No fear. Life above 110th Street in Manhattan has taught her well.
They laughed and poked each other. One waggled his tongue at us for reasons still undetermined. We stood closer together. After 30 seconds of us huddling together, Katie finished replacing her tube, and we were off like a prom dress. We waited for the sound of their wheels in pursuit, but there was nothing. Just a few calls of "Pussies!" and we were outta there.
Overall, our little episode wasn't too traumatic. We are women; we persevere. We've been subjugated to 2,000 years of rape, torture, and TV commercials in which our sisters are asked to perform oral sex on chocolate bars. The incident was not bothersome simply because our little friends were insulting, condescending jerks. Plenty of people like that are walking the planet, celebrating weaponry and writing postdated checks to Pat Buchanan. The incident was upsetting because it is in many ways reflective of a community that, in some ways, prides itself on being the boys' last refuge. Their territory.
Go ahead. Flip through the pages of almost any mountain bike magazine, and what's there? How many advertisements feature women? Not too many, huh? And the best part is that when women are used in ad material, they're usually used to sell products to men. So we've got Tinker Juarez busting down a trail in his nice, new bike shorts, and Miss August, with her ass to the camera, licking a popsicle and straddling a bike. Hmmm. Takes a real genius to figure out who the target audience is there.
It's not the establishment of mountain biking we're rallying against -- I'm not sure how you could rally against a sport, anyway -- it's the misguided meathead who mistakes our use of Lycra for an attempt to seduce him, trailside, so we can do it right on the rocks at the top of the climb. Men wear tight clothing and it's functional; women wear it and it's a come-on. Never mind that both wardrobes are soaked with blood-stains; to some people, no matter what women do, we'll be viewed upon as objects.
We are women. Every day we deal with sexually frustrated construction workers, Republicans, and bike store employees whose idea of catering to the female rider means pushing floral-print saddles. I'm not asking for Congress to pass a bill mandating that every group ride should consist of three men, three women, and a hermaphrodite leader. All I'm asking is for magazine editors to be aware that women study their pages with the same intensity as men. Occasionally, we'd like to see some female faces in the pictures, instead of articles about the wives of male cyclists and how to fit in a ride after doing the laundry. All I'm asking is to be considered a biker -- male, female, who cares? It hasn't happened in real life, but since when has real life ever been as good as life on the trail?
Mountain bikers have enough to worry about from see-them-foaming-at-the-mouth hikers rallying against the scourge of our sport, and governmental groups slapping 'No Biking' signs on public land from South Mountain to Seattle. What good does it do for us to break down along gender lines? It's a matter of respect. Be aware. Next time you see a girl on a bike, don't assume that she's out on the trail because she can't stand being away from her boyfriend for an entire afternoon. Consider the possibility that she knows the difference between a crank and a chainring. This is not a sport about testosterone; it's a sport about sweat and trees and throwing up last night's dinner after one hill too many. Interesting how none of this is determined by a person's gender. Mountain biking, thankfully, is a sport you don't need a penis to play. Balls, yes. A penis, no.
© Diane Vadino
Bike, September 1997
Diane is a lost author who's been found.