I was worried the rain yesterday morning might result in a low turnout for the ride for Jose Castillo, the 16 year old boy who was hit and killed at the beginning of last month while riding his bicycle home from school. But over 60 people showed up at the Bike Concord Shed—a community run bike and bike-repair shop.
We started out in the rain and by the time we got to downtown the sun was poking through the clouds. We rode to Jose’s school, Mt. Diablo High, where we heard Jose’s English Language teacher talk about how special he was and excited to learn English. She has the same job as me working with newcomers—high schoolers, in her case. I learned that Jose had only been in the country a few months when he was killed.
We left the school and went back through downtown to loop past Ellis Lake and the intersection where Jose died. We laid flowers at the memorial placed near the intersection. Several of Jose’s relatives were there. One was overcome with emotion as his words of thanks were translated to the group. A jacked up truck coming through the intersection laid on the horn and yelled at a woman who had stepped off the curb to take a picture of the memorial. “That’s how he got killed in the first place!” the driver yelled as he sped off.
“Asshole!” someone from our group yelled back. My anger quickly rose and then receded. Bicyclist and pedestrians are accustomed to this attitude from drivers that they own the road. I’ve turned into an asshole myself behind the wheel, more times than I can count, although mostly toward other drivers.
There is something about cars that can transform the most mild-mannered person into a raging lunatic. It’s easy to feel competition with other drivers and it’s often the case that I don’t leave myself enough time when I’m traveling by car. I tend to dilly dally under the false notion that I can control how fast I get from point A to B. So when I finally do leave and realize that traffic is not parting like the red sea I tend to try to make up for it by driving too fast.
But I’m happy to say that I’ve been doing a good job avoiding the use of my truck and it’s anger-inducing effects. In fact, I received an unintended compliment from a stranger that made me swell with pride.
In preparation for a delivery of mahogany bark I moved my truck from the driveway and parked it parallel to the street. I was inside my house with the front door open when I overheard two people talking as they passed by. “Look, the truck has been moved,” one of them said.
I still don’t know many people in Concord and I often feel alone riding my bike in this car-dominated town. The bike ride for Jose had a harmonizing effect on me. At the end of the ride, someone made an announcement inviting everyone to a downtown brewery—a place called Sidegate which I’d never been to. I showed up with my friend Louis who joined me on the ride and a man I’d never met was buying everyone a first round of beers. We moved tables and wiped water drops off of chairs in the outdoor courtyard. As we began talking I suddenly felt like I’d found my people— a whole slew of bike riders that I didn’t know existed in Concord.
Ahh, companionship. I’ve missed that. I’m not a religious person, but it’s been kind of a perfect Easter/Passover/Ramadan/Ostara weekend.
Spotty West Goes East 