A Pamplona Style Pickle

Every morning I pass by the same intersection in front of the Virgin Macarena Church. It is said that the Macarena protects bull fighters so it is to her I would like to send a shout out, "hey Macarena, aye." If she is reading my blog, I also would like to thank her for this morning's near death miss.

Directly in front of her church is where the "corrida" breaks out. There are multiple cross walks that pass over the bike lane and no real traffic lights that tell a biker when and when not to proceed. At this hour, hundreds of people are scrambling around trying to get to work. Here in this tiny corner of Seville there is much less order than in a bull ring, yet all players seem to make it out alive.

Today, as many mornings, I starred as the bull, slightly tired from fighting the "picadors" found along the ride up until this point. As I pulled up with flaring nostrils, I saw him, the Matador. His real name is probably Juan or José and he passes out free newspapers. His theory is if he stands mid cross walk he can hand out more papers than if he stood a few feet to the left. He swings them around like a bright red "capote". People either avoid him or take the paper.

I was turning up dust when I got to him. Steam may have been coming out my ears. Every morning he stands there in front of me with his "capote". Today, I was able to dodge all the people, or so I thought. He lifted his cape, and there they were, the evil swords that one day will kill me, teenagers crossing out of the cross walk. My wheels squealed, my eyes rolled towards the Virgin Macarena Church, and then to toreador Juan.

Like a Toro Bravo, I turned my bike around and went for him. I was not going to let him think he was going get the crowd to say "olé" for his guile manoeuvre, oh no, they were waving white handkerchiefs before I was done with his sorry ass. Lucky for him and for me, the Macarena looked kindly on all of us.

A seemingly medi-evil pickle

As a biker, you are not a pedestrian nor are you a true vehicle. At least I think that is what we like to think as bikers so that we can get away with anything and go just about anywhere. We ride on sidewalks along with dogs and their owners, wedge ourselves between buses and cars and cruise over greenways. There seems to be a common belief or rather a common denial among us that we always have the right of way.

Two days ago, a man looked at me shaking his head. I thought, what is your problem buddy? Then I realised, I had just gone straight through a cross walk on the red light. I felt like crap. No time to apologise, since I had already sped past. A friend of mine confirmed this trend by telling me she was almost hit by one of us two-wheeled maniacs while walking down the sidewalk.

Have city bikers become bullies of the streets and sidewalks? Is it possible that the reason that people stay clear of the bike lane is out of fear of us Biker Bullies?

This morning, it became more evident than ever. As I turned the corner, I realised that I was leading, no kidding, in "V" formation, a flock of mad bikers. We spread out, almost galloping like a band of battling horsemen straight from the middle-ages, taking up the entire street, blocking traffic from getting on the bridge. This was not the type of power I wanted to feel on my bike. Had we gotten so ballsy as to take on the city buses? It appeared so. For one second, Seville was our Kingdom, The Majestic Kingdom of the Bikers that said "Bring-Bring".

We all learned in grade school that bullies do not stick together. The point of being a bully is to ultimately rule the weak. So even though in this moment, we had formed this V for victory against the city bus, everyone wanted that "V" for themselves. The "V" quickly disintegrated and transformed into a multitudes of I's. The I´s began to whiz by, leaving me to fend for myself amongst the fumes of the now passing bus.

This has become the city's cyclers' epitome for at least the last month. I no longer dread hitting pedestrians or cars hitting me. Now I fear that other bikers, travelling at top speeds on sidewalks and in the lanes, will meet me face to face, and challenge me to a joust.

I am ready, you mad wheeled knights. I am prepared to defend biker chivalry and those poor peasant pedestrians that I once cursed. I have my bike chain ready to knock you off your high bike.

It is my hope that one day Seville will be the The Majestic Kingdom of the Bikers that say "Bring-Bring" excuse me.

Frozen pickles: Picicles

I have to sadly report that these Spanish people have just lost their fight. It is funny how they eventually conform to most anything. You can no longer find the grand masses of drivers travelling over 180 km/hr. They seem to also be giving up smoking and those who continue are only smoking in the designated areas. At least they are still double parking.

To top this all off, and make my life a little less exciting, most of them, it seems, have stopped walking in the bike lane. Where are the rebels? Has the government taken a cattle prod to those who just a few weeks ago refused to not walk in the bike lane? The frisky construction workers also seem to be on a continual coffee break; none to be seen. And it seems that I may have recent evidence that the Spanish news may be correct in that the country's youth is turning into a bunch of alcoholics with bad hair cuts (the bad hair cut part is my take on things since yes the mullet seems to be back "in style"). Since I no longer see them on the streets yelling, I must assume they are in a drunken stupor some where or passed out on their parent's sofa. The nuns are definitely busy in the convents making Christmas pastries and thinking about the naughty things they could do to a Jew girl like me next summer (hey nuns, you stole our marzipan recipe).

This morning I was fed up. I haven't been hit or yelled at in almost a month. SEVILLE, I challenge you. What? Are you a bunch of pussies? Where are the conquistadores?