an ongoing series where shanti notes what it is like being surrounded by cars as a transport default

“I feel like I could write a whole dispatch from car culture about the mall,” I say to Shreyas, when I meet him at the mall, after a harrowing journey through a series of interlined car parks which passes for the entrance to our local shopping precinct. People drive to the mall so they can have the experience of walking around shops without the threat of being run over. In the mall people walk in zigzags, and move slowly, and stop to look at the window displays under the artificial light. It is not as nice as being outside, but outside is a two lane road.

I read in the Bike Auckland newsletter that it is a good idea to wear your bike helmet into shops so it shows owners and other customers how easy it is to bike there. There are some pros and cons to this: fortunately it makes me feel like an activist for not doing anything unfortunately it makes me look quite gormless fortunately it enables my laziness unfortunately no one has ever commented on it and I don’t think it has made one iota of difference to the world. ‘What on earth are you doing, I always take my helmet off because it’s so uncomfortable,” my friend says when I explain this to her.

As I pull the bike out of the bike shed I make a little beep beep beep reversing sound. ‘The whole point of bikes is that they don’t make lots of irritating sounds,’ says Shreyas. I wonder if I am brainlessly imitating cars just because I think it’s funny. Then I wonder if I am overthinking things. Then I remember that my constantly-in-need-of-maintenance bike makes lots of sounds already, likes sclichchc from the slightly rubbing on the front derailleur and the actchacthch from the slightly bent front wheel.

At a Film Fest movie (Janet Planet, pretty good) I come out of the theatre and start unlocking my bike. “Does it normally not have a back wheel?” asks Naomii. When the lock is off, the bike falls to the ground: while I was lost in summer in Massachusetts in the 90s someone stole my rear wheel. Luckily Naomii was already planning to give me a ride home – we conducting a riveting analysis of the definitely-too-long film – although replacing the wheel turns out to be a complete faff.

A sequel: as I ride down New North Road a few days later, with a bike wheel tied to my back using my ballerina wrap top, I imagine the passing trucks are all impressed by my ingenuity, commitment to the cycle life and chutzpah. Other things I have recently discovered can be carried by a bike: two free native plants from a giveaway at the community centre, my sewing machine, my viola, even in a rainstorm, if I zip a raincoat around it.

All day, people at work send messages about parking spaces and traffic jams. I say nothing.

“Mmm, she should have a Skoda,” I say to Shreyas, discussing the main character of the dramatic but average film we saw at the film festival. Why do I know what a Skoda denotes? I wonder. As we walk up Pitt Street, I realise how many car logos I recognise: a Lexus, a Yaris, a silent Tesla. I resent this, partially because I am only just starting to grasp the difference between a Specialised and a Jamis and a Marin in the world of bikes – not to talk about my cultural ignorance of types of trains or buses. At least running shoes also have lots of brand recognition.

I write an article for work about air pollution, which gives me cause to think about all the parts of cars I have breathed, that have reached deep into my lungs, that are now bonded to my blood, tumbling in the current of my bloodstream. almost always these breaths are invisible and yet they will be within me for the rest of my life, even if cars disappeared off the face of the earth tomorrow.

I wonder if I will ever live in a world where I don’t feel the need to work ‘I don’t have a car’ into most conversations with new acquaintances, at work, at parties, at church.

Some near misses, still recent enough not have tumbled into the abyss of ‘it happens every day’ kinds of memories: a truck pulls out right in front of me at the Great South Road intersection as I bike towards Totara Park. A real-estate branded city car just manages to stop at the lights, completely covering the pedestrian crossing. My heartbeat accelerates as a car rushes around the corner on the road outside the library as I carry my books towards my bike. A car doesn’t see me as I cross the road in front of the Wellington airport car park on a rainy morning. A car tears up beside me as I pedal up Bond Street towards the lights.