Glenn Kubish

There is a refrain among city bicycle riders you will recognize. One of the marvels of bicycle riding, it goes, is the openness of the vehicle itself, the windshieldlessness of the vehicle itself that encourages and reminds the rider to connect with strangers and places that are right there. Right there in a way more real than they are when experienced from the cockpit of a car. I sing this refrain every time I live a ride like today's back home down the Oliverbahn. First, there was time to stop and consider the textures of elm bark and boa constrictor skin. A few blocks on, it was easy to get off my bike and offer an arm of help, accepted, to this friendly stranger walking warily from curb to snowy curb. Then a quick hello and muffled conversation through neck warmers with an Oliverbahn rider who said he appreciated the bare-ish bike lane and how they (the pronoun of choice for the City of Edmonton) hit a sweet spot with de-icer applications this season. ...

The bicycle rider moves along the circuitry of the city like a glowing radio dial. I picture the toaster-sized, countertop radios I grew up with. There was a round knob on the side. Turning it by hand would shuttle a red dial across the AM frequency numbers—55, 60, 70, 80 100, 120, 140 160—and through the static that surrounded them. As a boy, I would spin the dial back and forth, turn it all the way to the end, and then turn it back slowly and listen for the way CHED at 630, CHQT at 880, CFRN at 1260 appeared like islands of sound. It was eerie and thrilling. Those radio days have aged rapidly. Music is now delivered by keystroke and bluetooth. The new Vampire Weekend I am listening to as I work on this post arrived after I clicked the iTunes icon, entered h-a-r-m-o-n-y space h-a-l-l in the search bar and then clicked on the faux play button. For me, the experience of shuttling a dial across a radio face has mysteriously deposited itself into practice of riding a bicycl...