I want to ride my bicycle.

Today marks the first day of the summer bicycle commute. We spent Saturday picking out a beaut of a bike for Rachel, then riding to Georgetown and back. Excellent weather for that sort of thing.

Anyway, over the course of the ride I made one observation about the cyclist culture: cyclists are, by and large, incredibly considerate people.

A couple examples. My bicycle is the motorless Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and I am the American Caractacus Potts. It clinks and shudders and screeches and hums, and always pulls through with some loving attention from yours truly. After a couple hours walking the streets of Georgetown we came back to the bikes, only to discover that my front tire had gone flat. I pumped it up with our mini-pump, and it held—just a slow leak. I figured I could make it home with occasional pumping stops. As I stood up, a geared up bicyclist asked if we were from around here.

“Yeah, we’re from Alexandria,” I said, thinking he’d then ask for directions. Wrong.

“Cause there’s a bicycle shop across the street there where you can get your flat fixed.”

“Awesome, thanks! I think we’ll make it home, though.”

He nodded and took off, and we realized that he had been waiting there all the time while I pumped, just to make sure we knew where that shop was in case we needed help.

Twenty minutes into our ride home we pulled off the path for water and a pump. As I was pumping, another cyclist rode by, slowing down, and called out, “Got everything you need?”

So this is me, thanking cyclists everywhere for being upstanding folk, and this is me, adopting the cyclist code myself.

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