Notes from a Divvy early adopter:
*Bike sharing. Seems like a good way to get from the train station to my office. Yes, as a lifelong pedestrian, I’ve learned that many Chicago bike riders are aggressive jerks. But I’ve always found that it’s hard to be unhappy while pedaling a bicycle. And for $75 a year, I’ll get unlimited half-hour trips from Divvy, the city’s new bike sharing program. Sign me up!
*Uh-oh. Glitchy website. That bodes ill, I believe, because Divvy is as much a technology program as it is a transportation program. The registration form has three fields for street address and demands that I fill each, yet my address fills only one. After repeated denials, I figure out a way to fool it and it lets me in.
*Just two days later, I receive in the mail a blue plastic fob, my electronic key to the system. That was fast!
*I do not read any instructions because, as a rule, I do not read instructions. But it occurs to me that you don’t just need a supply of bikes at your point of departure, you also need an empty spot — or dock — at the high-tech bike rack at your destination. A full Divvy station is just like a full parking lot; you’ve got to cruise on by.
*I’ll need a system map in case I have to ride around looking for empty Divvy docks. Of course, there’s an app! But it does not load on my iPad 2 because I have not updated my operating system.
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*The website version of the map does load, though, and shows me real-time inventory of bikes and docks. It changes quickly, more quickly, I am certain, than my scrawny legs can pedal.
*Day one. The map shows plenty of bikes available at Lake and Clinton streets, near Ogilvie Transportation Center, but only two open docks at my destination, State and Kinzie streets.
*I insert my fob and a green light blinks on, which despite having not read any directions pretty much tells me that I can take the bike out of its dock. It resists. I pull harder. Harder! Got it.
*Nobody likes to look as if they don’t know what they’re doing, so even though I am a new Loop bike rider, I adopt a confident air and start pedaling. I quickly come to see that my Divvy bike does not grant me entry to the brotherhood and sisterhood of hard-core Chicago cyclists. I might as well be in an SUV, the way some fixed-gear riders glare at me from beneath their scuffed and dented helmets. Perhaps it’s because I am going the wrong way down a one-way street.
*On Kinzie Street I pull into a dedicated bike lane crowded with speeding cyclists. My baby-blue Divvy bike is not cool. It’s like everyone else is riding a Harley and I’m on a My Little Pony.
*At my destination, I claim the very last Divvy dock. I get to work eight minutes earlier than usual. Excellent.
*Day Two. The map tells me there are two empty docks waiting at my destination. I pedal for less than 10 minutes. When I arrive, all the Divvy docks are full.
*The map tells me docks are available just two blocks away. I pedal as fast as I can. I am going the wrong way down a one-way street again. A fixed-gear guy glares at me. I get to work two minutes later than usual. Bummer.
*To assure a good supply of bikes and docks, a fleet of blue vans motors around the city “re-balancing” the system. Around the clock, the vans ferry bikes from full to empty stations. Hey, wait a minute … I am riding a Divvy bike to keep a car off the road, but the Divvy bike is a slacker taking a ride? And it’s a Mercedes-Benz van, so it’s a comfy ride too.
*I discuss this with Scott Kubly, the managing deputy commissioner overseeing the program for the Chicago Department of Transportation, who draws an analogy with riding a bus versus driving a car: The bus is greener because it carries more people. The vans carry about two dozen bikes, he says. (He also scoffs when I say that when I was growing up, that frame design was called a girls bike. “I would say it is a bike designed for all users,” he replies.)
*Day three. As my train approaches the station, the map shows plenty of bikes at a rack nearby, but all 15 docks are full at my destination. I take a bike anyway and figure I will have to ride on if nobody has pulled out a bike. As I approach my destination, I see a blue Mercedes van pulling away from the rack, leaving eight wide-open docks beckoning, arms open. I smile at the van.
*Day four. Forget the map. Things change too fast. I head right to the rack near the train station. From down the block, I see only one bike. I walk faster, not wishing to share this bike with other bike sharers. Panting, I reach the bike and stick my key in the slot — and a red light blinks on. I do not have to read the directions to understand the bike is out of service. Running late, I get in a cab.
*Second week. I have grown acutely aware of the fact that every car has a driver’s door. If someone so much as cracks it open, I will taste door paint.
*Third week. Pedestrians! Why are they such aggressive jerks? A woman steps in front of me without looking. I glare at her from beneath my helmet. But the ire passes quickly. It’s hard to be unhappy when you’re pedaling a bicycle.