Youheaddownfruitvaleuntilitdeadends

Life in the Bike Lane

Tom Frady

Uh oh. The driver is out of his car and coming toward me.

But he’s not mad.

He’s lost.

If you six loyal members of the Bike Lane Army (BLA) will check your archives, you’ll be reminded that I have said, “I know my way around the backroads.” I often tell Ms. Bike Lane, “I’ve been here on my bike.”

On this particular day, I was on a solo ride and had stopped at the intersection of Garden Bar and Fruitvale, taking a break and straddling my bike in the shade of a driveway entrance.

“Do you know how to get to Lincoln?” he asked.

Why yes, I do.

He then added, “To the airport.”

That complicated things a bit.

He said he had started somewhere around Loomis and had been “looping around” for some time. It didn’t really matter where he started. He shouldn’t have been at the intersection of Garden Bar and Fruitvale.

I also learned that he did not have GPS in his car.

Sometimes, for my own amusement when riding solo, I set up little thought problems for myself. I imagine coming across a couple of cyclists who are lost and need directions to Newcastle, Sheridan or, more importantly, the nearest donut shop.

I had finally been given a chance to demonstrate my superpower. The problem is that directions on our backroads are not easy.

At some intersections, you have to make a turn to stay on the same road. I’m talking to you, Wise Road. Go straight and, suddenly, you’re on a completely different road.

I’m guessing that’s what happened to our driver.

In some cases, there is more than one way to get to the same destination. Figuring out the best route for a perplexed stranger can be a challenge.

And, of course, there are the traditional country-road directions: “Turn where the old oak tree used to be.”

I gave him my carefully considered route.

“Youheaddownfruitvaleuntilitdeadendswellit’snotreallyadeadendbutturnleftonhungryhollowithacoupleof90⁰turnsanddeadendsonvirginatownwhichbecomes12thturnrightanddriveuntil12thdeadendsit’snotreallyadeadendbutturnleftthenrightagainon7thstgountilyoucrossthetracksthenturnrightonhstwhichbecomesnicolausandproceedtoaviationblvd”

I accompanied this verbal masterpiece with helpful hand gestures indicating the various turns.

“Want me to repeat it?”

Without really waiting for an answer, I repeated the entire thing.

“Youheaddownfruitvaleuntilitdeadendswellit’snotreallyadeadendbutturnleftonhungryhollowithacoupleof90⁰turnsanddeadendsonvirginatownwhichbecomes12thturnrightanddriveuntil12thdeadendsit’snotreallyadeadendbutturnleftthenrightagainon7thstgountilyoucrossthetracksthenturnrightonhstwhichbecomesnicolausandproceedtoaviationblvd”

I watched his eyes glaze over somewhere around “hungryhollow.”

That’s when I realized something important.

Knowing how to get somewhere and explaining how to get there are two entirely different skills.

Members of the Bike Lane Army (BLA) may also remember my June 22, 2017, column about poorly marked detours through the rice and cornfields between Lincoln and El Camino Avenue, which is what my car GPS calls Highway 99.

Heavy rain had caused flooding, and the detour signs were minimally helpful. I was nevertheless able to get Ms. Bike Lane and me home in the middle of the night because of the geographical knowledge I had accumulated through years of riding my bike out there.

I’ve ridden through Rio Linda, Nicolaus, Catlett and Trowbridge. Those roads tend to be straight and flat.

It is still easier to DO than to DESCRIBE.

Our driver eventually left, heading in the right direction down Fruitvale. Frankly, I wasn’t entirely confident he really knew how to get to Lincoln, let alone the airport.

As I headed back toward Lincoln myself, I wondered if I might run into him again—still lost, only now frustrated.

I didn’t.

Maybe that was a good sign.

Or maybe he was still driving around out there.