Let’s get some things out of the way first. I’m not a typical road warrior. I don’t ride with a bike club, and 99 per cent of the time, my journeys on two wheels are solo ventures. My goal isn’t to log miles on Strava, it’s usually to post pics of my excursions on Instagram. And that’s why I love riding. It’s a personal activity that’s great for my body, great for the environment, and a great way to beat the traffic when I’m getting around my small town in northwestern New Jersey. But there’s one other factor that affects my experience every single time I ride: I am a person of color.
As I said before, I’m not a “road warrior,” but I do like to ride for exercise and, as a person of color, I can’t help but be cognizant of the dynamics at play. In one of the rural areas where I do a lot of riding, there are only two types of riders you usually see during the warm months: recreational cyclists and migrant farm workers. With my color skin, it’s not an unreasonable assumption that if I was dressed in street clothes, I’d be mistaken for a laborer. Needless to say, I make sure I’m clad in lycra when I’m riding through residential areas. The last thing I want is for someone to call the police simply because I’m riding through their neighborhood.
There was once a time I was riding in street clothes through a residential part of town and suffered a nasty wipe out. I hadn’t noticed a stick in the road in time to maneuver around it and thus found myself sprawled on the side of the street, dazed. A resident must have called the police because as I began to regain my bearings, I was accosted. This was during the period when I was still in college, so I had a backpack. It was a heavy pack, full of books and a change of clothes. The police literally assumed I was a homeless person and interrogated me about it. “NO! Of course not,” was my annoyed reply. “Then why is your backpack so heavy?” was the response. I couldn’t help but think that if I was white, I would not be getting the same treatment. These flawed race-based assumptions can be more than a mere annoyance though, they can often be a threat.
Being pegged as homeless by small town cops, is a far cry from the treatment BIPOC bike riders are receiving in cities across the country. Imagine being criminalized simply for riding a bike. That’s what was taking place in Tampa Bay, where the police chief in 2015 stated “Many individuals receiving bike citations are involved in criminal activity” and that bikes had “become the most common mode of transportation for criminals.” And in that city, enforcement became so slanted that blacks, who make up around 25 percent of the city’s population, were receiving nearly 80 percent of all tickets issued for biking-related offenses. It wasn’t just Tampa, either. Chicago has an astounding record of unjust policing and disproportionate citation of black bike riders.
When I see numbers like that and read the quotes from the Tampa Chief of Police, it becomes obvious: in the eyes of law enforcement, “black” equals “criminal” and our bikes become like a target on our backs. When I ride in the city, I make sure I have my lights, just in case I end up riding at night, and my bike always has a bell attached to the handlebars. I’ve got to make sure I follow the letter of the law in a way white riders don’t. It’s not a trivial issue for BIPOC, knowing that we could be one “bad apple” cop away from a life-threatening encounter any time we ride.
For me, a worst-case scenario might not involve the police in a city. Instead, it plays out on a ride through a rural neighborhood. I imagine myself chased down by someone in a pickup truck. Seems implausible? I always wondered if it was, until what happened to Ahmaud Arbery played out my nightmare scenario right before my eyes. Much of northwestern New Jersey where I ride is quite rural, with many residents who love their firearms and their trucks, and their secessionist flags. Could it happen here in New Jersey? I would hope not. But as people of color, these are the things that certainly run through our minds. And for many, they can be a barrier to ride.
As planners or advocates, we see how the biking experience can be shaped by the issue of safety. Bike and pedestrian advocates often refer to riders of non-motorized vehicles as “vulnerable” road users. But for BIPOC bike riders, our race adds another layer of vulnerability. It’s mind-blowing to think that the color of our skin and the neighborhoods we ride in affect whether or not we are accosted by the police, harassed by car drivers, or assaulted. Vision Zero policies that have taken root nationwide are defined by the so-called “4E’s” of education, enforcement, engineering, and emergency services. What’s truly needed to make a difference is the implementation of a fifth “E” into the planning mix: equity.
A major problem is that on a planning level, too often the focus is simply on “improved accessibility” when it needs to be “equitable mobility.” What good is access to a space when the resulting consequence for BIPOC riders is violence or harassment or discomfort due to the pervasiveness of racism, classism, or xenophobia? In considering these factors, we need to question the unintended (or intended) consequences of gentrified spaces: areas where profit and “placemaking” have been given precedence over people. Environments must become inclusive and welcoming of both racial and economic diversity. Non-inclusive spaces don’t just reinforce attitudes of hostility, they actively facilitate and promote them. It’s time to move away from that exclusive paradigm and toward a more egalitarian approach.
Inclusion is why I was drawn to bike advocacy in the first place. Bike riding is a beautiful mode of transportation. Elegant simplicity combined with the power to extend its range in multi-modal fashion creates the opportunity to open so many worlds for people to access. And yet sadly, like many other aspects of life in America in the 21st Century, that potential is squandered. Until we can create an environment where both law enforcement and infrastructure are equitable and just, we will never see a full return on our investment. It’s time to shift the conversation from simply what we can build to how we can build it, and most importantly, what it will feel like for the people who use it. Just like an automobile is useless without an engine, a bicycle is useless without a person. Always keep in mind those people who, across the span of American history, have been the most vulnerable, oppressed, and marginalized. Let’s not just build beautiful spaces, let’s create positive atmospheres for the benefit of everyone.
Aaron Hyndman, Former Communications Coordinator, NJBWC
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