Cycling in Baton RougeDimitri20131213
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The experience of cycling in Louisiana Dimitri Ploumidis December 13th, 2013 It’s one thirty in the afternoon. Early December. The sun hasn’t come up in a couple of days; yesterday, I could see a cloud moving at the speed of a cargo boat over the massive colorless river, sending forth gusts of wind from the north to scout the territory. Throughout the night there were sporadic rains, but with the daybreak I had to wait till noon for the downpour to pause. At the opportunity, I geared up and headed over the Mississippi bridge to Vidalia, Louisiana. The difference between the temperature of my blood and the atmosphere was turning my skin to leather, yet, all is bearable, welcomed, exciting, as I rode with my field of vision limited to no more than twenty yards. By the time I was on the bridge the rain had started again. A red truck hurled by creating a field of wind and I tightened my grip on the handlebar. I heard a voice, incomprehensible, sounded like shouting, and I determined a good deal of fury. Someone was yelling at me, probably cursing. It is a blonde adult male, anywhere between eighteen to twenty one, wearing a jockey. He opened the window of the driver’s seat and screamed at me something not existing anymore. I’m on the Mississippi bridge on a bike, it is raining, temperature is at the low thirties, I cannot see with all the water on my glasses, there is no shoulder and the fellow yells at me! No shoulder! There is a three mile bridge without a shoulder; apparently, the guy on the red truck, doesn’t really care about it and gets upset when he comes across information that isn’t included in his repertoire, lacking any sense of compassion. The days are shorter and my planning isn’t usually the best, as I choose to stay an extra thirty minutes in my tent in the mornings to feel the weather warming up to the idea of a sun. This increases the probability of having to drive at dusk. As I’m heading south to Baton Rouge on 68 there is a sign saying “Share the Road”; someone has taken the time to send mails, emails, gather signatures, GPS data, go one, two, four times to some public bureau after telephone attempts and mails fail, and finally got a sign up there, a victory, or at least the right to use the mean of transportation of your choice. We need these signs for protection! The shoulder is only twelve inches wide and there is a band of tracks: five inches long, two wide, one deep, set one inch apart from each other. They are engraved on the white line that marks the end of the road and the beginning of the shoulder, which is the most dangerous spot letting bikers just six to seven inches to ride on. Veer left and you might lose your balance and end up in the middle of the traffic; veer right, there is a two inch drop to the ditch requiring mountain bike skills to keep the loaded bike from crashing. South of 68 is
964; no shoulder either for the most part. A strategy is to stand in the middle of the road to make yourself visible. Drivers, oblivious to the situation, beep because I slow them down. To them: I should not exist; I get it. Sometimes I thought so too, but not now, not because I slow the traffic when there is nowhere else I can ride on. Entering the Parish of Baton Rouge, there comes a five feet shoulder, a blessing, together with the first rays of sun. I’m eager to any serendipity that would bring me closer to the heart of the city after being fourteen weeks on the road. I rode from San Francisco to San Diego on Pacific Coast Highway, then through the deserts of Arizona and New Mexico, then Texas. I first entered Louisiana through the Sabine River; immediately, there was a green bike sign and I thought that this would be a good state to ride on. It didn’t turn out exactly like that. Baton Rouge; the name is like a worn red and gold tapestry. I reach the city around four thirty through the Scenic highway. The shoulder is gone and I am trying to get a local to ask for directions as there are no signs. A car with two black twenty five year old men comes out of a gas station. They make signs that they cannot talk to me. A guy at McDonalds tells me to turn at Jack in the Box, a guy outside a Dollar Tree to head straight, others do not know. As I am crossing a traffic light, I have to keep a truck at a distance by occupying the middle of the road for about three minutes. The driver, after I found a one foot shoulder and I was able to let him pass, displayed his dissatisfaction by driving his tail one feet from my bike, threatening me with my life. That gets me, yet, I try to keep my spirit high and move on through patches of lit and unlit highway. On every intersection, on every traffic light, cars drive by at fifty miles per hour forcing me to get out of the way. No one slows down, or shows any signs of respect or decency. If I slow them down so I can protect myself, they counter that with vengeance in the form of shouts, beeps, or even more aggressive driving. I am waiting at a traffic light, taking a break from my own tightrope show and trying to orient myself. A car pulls by me and I node to the driver for some help; a white guy says he cannot hear me. I have to order him to lower his window. There! Now you can hear me! “How do I get to Fifth Street? Is there a downtown area in Baton Rouge?” People are so afraid to even open up their windows and talk. After 3,000 miles, over the three bridges on Anaheim Avenue outside Los Angeles, or inside Los Angeles, or Malibu, I have never been so worried. The hills on Big Sur were a piece of cake; even El Paso was friendlier that Baton Rouge, both in terms of layout and planning, as well as the behavior of the drivers. My friend and host and fellow cyclist, comes over to greet me and lead me in his town. A big fellow, with bold white facial like a knocked out goatee and socks up is knees, takes center stage on the road and tells every driver to just knock their own socks off and wait. He leads or used to lead a bike advocacy group and has more loses than victories in his effort to make Baton Rouge a place that it is safe to ride, because, as he says, “cycling is fun”.
Indeed, the next couple of days we ride together five or six miles across the city, through routes that are less busy, and Baton Rouge unfolds its charms through Christmas decorations hanging from trees and on patios, gardens in the Spanish town that remind me of Havana Vieja, architectural masterpieces from the first part of the 20th century, sharp government buildings, and of course the grand Mississippi river. Bikers here are actively fighting for their right to be able to ride a bicycle, and I think they got their strategy right. They need to convince the authorities to plan for bikers as well as motorcyclists, truck drivers, steamboats, airplanes, trains, horse carriages, automobiles, and the Cirque the Soleil on a tour of the south tier with sitting elephant shows, when they are building roads and bridges. In order to do that, they need to show to the authorities that people want to ride bikes and that there is a large enough population that wants to do so. Undoubtfully, it is a hard fight as most people want to first feel safe and then ride their bikes in town. Yet, they are missing out, as there are some routes here that are serene, safe, and beautiful. Going from downtown to Chelsea’s is a picturesque ride. Most of the downtown is with one way streets, which makes it a lot easier. There are no hills and not much traffic as people take the interstate in and out of the city. You got the levee on the Mississippi river, which turns to a dirt road about five miles south, but it’s still a solid ride. These are just a few of the places to ride on with safety in Baton Rouge. A big plus is also the weather making cycling a possibility year round. I’m sure other places have gone through various stages of ignorance from the authorities and the people, until they were able to build shoulder, some bike lanes and the people learned to respect each other. I’m sure that if it was possible in those places, it will be possible in Baton Rouge and Louisiana, especially with bike advocates like the people who I met here, who undeterred by the city planners and ignorant drivers, take their children to school by bike, go to groceries by bike, or commute to work by bike.
964; no shoulder either for the most part. A strategy is to stand in the middle of the road to make yourself visible. Drivers, oblivious to the situation, beep because I slow them down. To them: I should not exist; I get it. Sometimes I thought so too, but not now, not because I slow the traffic when there is nowhere else I can ride on. Entering the Parish of Baton Rouge, there comes a five feet shoulder, a blessing, together with the first rays of sun. I’m eager to any serendipity that would bring me closer to the heart of the city after being fourteen weeks on the road. I rode from San Francisco to San Diego on Pacific Coast Highway, then through the deserts of Arizona and New Mexico, then Texas. I first entered Louisiana through the Sabine River; immediately, there was a green bike sign and I thought that this would be a good state to ride on. It didn’t turn out exactly like that. Baton Rouge; the name is like a worn red and gold tapestry. I reach the city around four thirty through the Scenic highway. The shoulder is gone and I am trying to get a local to ask for directions as there are no signs. A car with two black twenty five year old men comes out of a gas station. They make signs that they cannot talk to me. A guy at McDonalds tells me to turn at Jack in the Box, a guy outside a Dollar Tree to head straight, others do not know. As I am crossing a traffic light, I have to keep a truck at a distance by occupying the middle of the road for about three minutes. The driver, after I found a one foot shoulder and I was able to let him pass, displayed his dissatisfaction by driving his tail one feet from my bike, threatening me with my life. That gets me, yet, I try to keep my spirit high and move on through patches of lit and unlit highway. On every intersection, on every traffic light, cars drive by at fifty miles per hour forcing me to get out of the way. No one slows down, or shows any signs of respect or decency. If I slow them down so I can protect myself, they counter that with vengeance in the form of shouts, beeps, or even more aggressive driving. I am waiting at a traffic light, taking a break from my own tightrope show and trying to orient myself. A car pulls by me and I node to the driver for some help; a white guy says he cannot hear me. I have to order him to lower his window. There! Now you can hear me! “How do I get to Fifth Street? Is there a downtown area in Baton Rouge?” People are so afraid to even open up their windows and talk. After 3,000 miles, over the three bridges on Anaheim Avenue outside Los Angeles, or inside Los Angeles, or Malibu, I have never been so worried. The hills on Big Sur were a piece of cake; even El Paso was friendlier that Baton Rouge, both in terms of layout and planning, as well as the behavior of the drivers. My friend and host and fellow cyclist, comes over to greet me and lead me in his town. A big fellow, with bold white facial like a knocked out goatee and socks up is knees, takes center stage on the road and tells every driver to just knock their own socks off and wait. He leads or used to lead a bike advocacy group and has more loses than victories in his effort to make Baton Rouge a place that it is safe to ride, because, as he says, “cycling is fun”.
Indeed, the next couple of days we ride together five or six miles across the city, through routes that are less busy, and Baton Rouge unfolds its charms through Christmas decorations hanging from trees and on patios, gardens in the Spanish town that remind me of Havana Vieja, architectural masterpieces from the first part of the 20th century, sharp government buildings, and of course the grand Mississippi river. Bikers here are actively fighting for their right to be able to ride a bicycle, and I think they got their strategy right. They need to convince the authorities to plan for bikers as well as motorcyclists, truck drivers, steamboats, airplanes, trains, horse carriages, automobiles, and the Cirque the Soleil on a tour of the south tier with sitting elephant shows, when they are building roads and bridges. In order to do that, they need to show to the authorities that people want to ride bikes and that there is a large enough population that wants to do so. Undoubtfully, it is a hard fight as most people want to first feel safe and then ride their bikes in town. Yet, they are missing out, as there are some routes here that are serene, safe, and beautiful. Going from downtown to Chelsea’s is a picturesque ride. Most of the downtown is with one way streets, which makes it a lot easier. There are no hills and not much traffic as people take the interstate in and out of the city. You got the levee on the Mississippi river, which turns to a dirt road about five miles south, but it’s still a solid ride. These are just a few of the places to ride on with safety in Baton Rouge. A big plus is also the weather making cycling a possibility year round. I’m sure other places have gone through various stages of ignorance from the authorities and the people, until they were able to build shoulder, some bike lanes and the people learned to respect each other. I’m sure that if it was possible in those places, it will be possible in Baton Rouge and Louisiana, especially with bike advocates like the people who I met here, who undeterred by the city planners and ignorant drivers, take their children to school by bike, go to groceries by bike, or commute to work by bike.
