Biking into Harvard Square
Bike commuting into the Square has turned me into someone I barely recognize: territorial and fully prepared to slap the hood of a moving vehicle before 8 a.m.
My heart pounds as I gear up to ride. The trip from Newton into Cambridge isn’t just a commute, it’s exertion, vigilance, and, depending on the day, hostile territory as I move in and out of traffic through densely packed neighborhoods.
I like the focus it demands. I’m one of the only 50-something women out there among college girls wearing headphones and flip-flops on candy-colored bikes. For them, a bike is a way to get from point A to B. For me, it’s something else entirely. Riding makes me feel like a kid again – a kid with something to prove.
Summer is easy. I have free rein over the construction-clogged bridge into the Square, and Bert’s Electric is not squeezing me into the orange traffic channelising barrels. The driver has already passed through, eager to get ahead of his day so he can drink beer and go fishing in the Charles River by three.
But after Labor Day? Everything tightens: Tradesmen start showing up later, and city bus drivers assert their territory. I become part of the flow – signaling, holding my line, thanking the drivers who give me space.
Not all of them do.
One morning on North Harvard Bridge, I wedge myself between a Jersey barrier and a Stan’s Heating and Cooling van, one foot along the van, the other along the barrier. The driver catches sight of me in his mirror and goes wide-eyed.
Am I really doing this? Is this worth it?
Yes.
I slap my hand down hard on the front fender, my face saying everything: you’re blocking my lane.
There’s no shortage of ego out there. The long-legged boys who snake through traffic at red lights annoy me just as much. Still, I expect a certain level of respect. I follow the rules, but I take my space when it’s mine to take. Think of Evelyn Couch in Fried Green Tomatoes when she rams into the car of the girls who steal her parking spot: “Face it, girls, I’m older and I have more insurance.” That’s the energy.
Yesterday at Watertown Yard, I leave the river path and hit the road, standing up out of the saddle and pushing hard to catch a green light for a left. I don’t make it. The light turns red.
I am pulling up behind a Ford truck when a VW zips past me and cuts in, leaving five feet between his bumper and the truck.
Big mistake.
“Am I invisible?” I mutter as I ride past him, wedging myself between the two vehicles.
One foot down, one ready. I glance back. He’s staring straight ahead, refusing eye contact. It’s a matter of principle. I’m on an eighteen-pound carbon frame; he’s driving a ton of steel.
The light turns green. I push hard. He accelerates. We move together, and suddenly he’s edging me toward the median.
“You bastard!” I yell, surprisingly restrained, given my usual vocabulary.
He swerves off. I take the lane. A clenched fist in the air. Then I drift right, the traffic behind me holding back. Competition over. For now.
Once I’m out there, I never know what the day will bring. Somewhere between Newton and the Square, I stop being a commuter and become a competitor. And, if I’m being honest, I don’t mind as much as I probably should.
Lisa Mae DeMasi is a writer living in midcoast Maine, where she works at a fishermen’s co-op by day, telling the story of the working waterfront and fielding the rhythms of a small coastal community. By night, she is finishing The Baggage Claim, a memoir about love, control, and the long search for agency, which she plans to self-publish this summer.
Illustration: G Schwan via Unsplash