Work with me GMA!

When I heard about the contest "Work With Me, GMA!" I knew I had to apply, given that riding a bike taxi is one of the most interesting, challenging and rewarding jobs I've ever had!  Seriously, I could never apply for something like this sitting in an office, making phone calls or doing something typical all day.  As a former news producer, that would NOT make good television!  Below is the 250 word essay I've submitted.  Cross your fingers they want to "work with me!" 

A 120 lb. woman, pulling three full grown men in a cart: that’s me.  I left a high paying, television ad sales job this summer to pursue my passion.  While applying to start a local Girls on the Run Council, I’ve taken on a few part time jobs, and driving a bike taxi is one of them.  I’ve driven some interesting characters from all walks of life, including men sporting tights and tu-tus, incredibly generous homeless people, and a baseball team mascot.  I’ve endured the physical challenge of pulling folks of all shapes and sizes up hills on a one speed bicycle, felt the pain of sitting on an uncomfortable bike seat for hours, and laughed off harsh judgment from former colleagues wondering why I left my job for this and how much money I make.

It’s not about money, I tell them, as I recall how dreadful it is to be in an office rather than outside, along a beautiful river.  I’m paid in smiles from children who delight in taking a ride.  I’m paid in the gratitude I get for stopping to talk to those who are otherwise overlooked.  I’m paid in the awe I experience when I witness a sunset through the frame of an old steel bridge.   And, I’m making a few bucks while exercising, not spinning away money on a gym membership. 

After her triathlon, Juju should be in great shape to work with me! I can carry camera equipment!

Experience my world:  www.bikecabforcutie.blogspot.com.    

 

The Neighborhood Barber

One of our regular riders and supporters is a barber who appears to know pretty much everyone in our town.  Every night, he rides a taxi around the city for about an hour or so.  I've driven him twice now and both times it has resulted in some really great conversation and, to my pleasant surprise, overwhelming evidence that a sense of community does still exist.  Despite the fact most people I know barely know their next door neighbor, have put up a privacy fence, or wouldn't think of knocking on a door to borrow a cup of sugar, I'm pleased to report this isn't the case everywhere.

While we're driving, the barber is invited to block parties and birthday parties. If we smell a barbeque, he's intent on finding it and stopping in, and has apparently done so with other drivers. Everyone we stop and talk to knows him by name and he knows theirs or at least knows something about them.  He constantly reassures me that no one will "mess with you" or any of the bike cab drivers because we're friends of his. Good to know.

Our first time out, I saw one of the most beautiful things an avid runner could ever witness.  It was just about dusk as we turned down a one way side street.  The street lights that had just turned on revealed the silhouettes of a line of children, standing shoulder to shoulder across the street.  They varied in age and height but by my estimate they were all probably between four and ten years old.  "Go!" someone shouted and half of the kids came barreling down the street towards us as fast as they could.  The half that wasn't running was cheering and laughing and jumping and clapping. The children who were racing crossed the "finish line" which was composed of the outstretched arms of an older girl standing in the middle of the street.  After a winner was determined everyone fell back behind the imaginary start line. 

We had gotten closer to the kids at this point and the barber told me to park along the side of the street.  The kids came up to us as if we were Santa and Rudolph sitting in a sleigh.  At this age, it appears to be a chore to even stand still for a few seconds, so you can imagine the excitement when the barber said he had a prize for the winner of the next race. 

Their little feet, many of them bare, lined up behind the imaginary start line again.  This time it was a relay race.  The smallest children went first with the tallest lined up at the end of each line. I noted there was no complaining about sore feet, no fighting over teams, no pushing to go first.  It was as if they'd raced down their street a thousand times before, and they very well may have.  "Go!" yelled the girl at the other end of the street. Feet pounded the pavement as each child put his or her heart and soul into running as fast as their little legs could carry them.  One boy in particular, running in a pair of shorts, no shoes and no shirt, was a speed demon.  The look on his face as he ran back from the turnaround point was that of an Olympic sprinter.  He was no more than six but I'm sure he could have beaten a high school athlete. 

He, and every child on that block, was running for the pure joy of it. I couldn't stop smiling for a few reasons.  First, I've experienced the euphoria you can get from running, the alive feeling you get when everything is in tune and nothing is in pain.  I felt their joy.  Second, I was smiling because it made me think of how the simplest things can make you happy.  These kids didn't have the latest running gear, Gatorade or energy gels. They had nothing but an empty street, and they were clearly completely satisfied. 

After a victor was declared by the girl at the other end of the street, the winning team celebrated, and the barber gave each team a prize that, without us even asking, they promised they would all share.  You'll share? I asked to be sure no one was left out.  "Yes," they replied collectively, "because we are neighbors." 


   

Baby in a Bag?

"It's the baby's first day out!" a woman greeted me as she, her dufflebag and a girl who appeared to be about ten boarded my taxi for a ride at the festival on the river this weekend.  I wondered to myself whether this poor little girl hadn't gotten out of the house in ten years. The woman pointed to her dufflebag and explained they had to leave the baby home with a sitter when they went to an amusement park the day before.  I was appalled.  She was carrying a baby in a dufflebag?!  All that came to mind to say in this situation is that it was a nice day to be outside, although I told myself I'd try to stay away from the generic subject of weather when making conversation with my riders.
Beyond confused and perplexed as to why anyone would carry a baby in the dufflebag, even though I noted it did have some netting for air circulation in areas, I started pedaling and my thoughts started reeling.   Maybe the baby was premature and needed tubes and devices in the bag to survive.  Maybe she was albino and really needed to stay out of the sun. Maybe they were really afraid of germs.  I kept sneaking a peek back at the dufflebag and trying to look through the netting. I could make out blankets and a stuffed animal, but definitely no baby.  Maybe it was a class project for her daughter who had to look after a baby doll for the weekend. In which case I thought: FAIL. It's in a dufflebag.
The woman sat with the dufflebag in her lap as I racked my brain to come up with questions that wouldn't be offensive, but would help me figure out what was in that bag.  "Is it a real baby?" seemed far too insensitive if it was indeed a real baby that needed for some medical reason to be carried in the bag. Then the woman told me a story about how she rescued the baby after it was found drowning in a pond.  I whipped my head around again, straining to get a good look at whatever was on the other side of the netting.  It has to be the stuffed animal, I thought, and concluded this woman may have an obsession with suffed animals much as I know, thanks to cable television, doll collecting can become an obsession for some women, and men for that matter.  Okay, so she's referring to a stuffed toy as a baby. Peculiar, but not unheard of.  I really had nowhere to go with the conversation with her because this was all still an assumption. Luckily it was a very short ride.
The little family disembarked and the woman started to unzip the dufflebag asking, "do you want to see the baby?" I'm glad she offered because otherwise I'm pretty sure I'd still be confused. Absolutely, I said, but was bracing myself for the reaction I'd have if she showed me a real baby or a raggety looking, formerly waterlogged stuffed animal.  Yes, there was a stuffed bear, a few blankets and in the one corner of the dufflebag, she pointed out, there was the three week old baby.  I gasped, but it was more of a sigh of relief.  This was indeed a baby... a baby kitten.  No bigger than the size of my hand.  Barely moving, but absolutely adorable baby Lucky, as they told me they named her.  Lucky for me, too, that I didn't have to report anyone to child services for keeping a baby in a bag.

I say Hello... Hello, hello

It started about five years ago.  When I started running, for fun.  Since then, I've easily logged hundreds of miles up and back along the beautiful river front where I often drive passengers today.  At the beginning of those five years of running, I starting saying "hi" to nearly everyone who'd pass by me.  At first I did it because I'd read somewhere that if you look a potential attacker in the eye, he's less likely to attack you because you could identify him later on.  Saying "hi" forced me to look at anyone passing by.
Soon, though, something changed.  I realized that saying hello, through my huffs and puffs made me feel good, alive, part of humanity.  I felt as though I could relate on some level to anyone I greeted because we were sharing the same path along the river.

The feeling is even more evident in races, where saying hello or thank you to traffic police and volunteers almost gives me a rush.  These folks, for some reason or another are not able to participate in the actual event, but are out there on race days whether it's 95 degrees or 5 degrees.  Regardless if it's mile 3 or 23, if I pass a volunteer I say hello or thank you. I'm not sure why it makes me feel good to say these words, but it energizes me to know that, because of these people, I can experience the pure enjoyment that I get from running.

While driving the bike taxi, my "hello" is accompanied by the "ding ding" of the bell on my bike.  Sadly, about 75 percent of the time, I get a blank stare or a confused look, as if I'm riding by on a smoke breathing, flying dragon.  Some folks get the courage to muster up a little smile, but it's unbelievable to me how few actually wave, or return the greeting.  The only exception is children.  They smile and wave and point and even jump up and down.  Now I'm not saying their parents should be jumping up and down when they see a rickshaw driving down the street, but a "hi" or a smile, even if it's to see their kids so excited, would be lovely!

While driving over a beautiful, old, huge bridge last night, I saw an extremely ordinary looking man, minding his business, probably on his way to the parking lot on the other side of the bridge to drive home from work at the state.  "Ding ding, hello!" is my pretty typical greeting.  Given the normal reaction I get, I was forced to slam on my breaks when about three seconds later, after the man had processed the one word I called out, he yelled, "THANK YOU!"  I turned to see him stopped, hands up in the air and looking at the sky.  I said, "excuse me?" He yelled again, "THANK YOU!" I thought, wow, he's got to be crazy or is being sarcastic.  So I was prepared to be entertained when I asked him, "Thank you for what?"  He turned very calm and normal again, and explained how nice it was to hear someone say hello.  I explained that I couldn't agree more.  We had a little discussion about how many people ignore me or look at me like I'm nuts when I say hi, and he completely understood my sentiments.

The point is, you never really know what kind of impact just one word, like "hello" or a smile or a wave will have on someone's day.  It's doubtful and I hope this isn't the case, but for all I know, that man on the bridge could have been so depressed and miserable he was thinking of jumping... until one little word brightened his day.

The Karma Melon

Karma.  It can be good or bad, but the more I take notice, the better it is.  The dollar I spent on a Mega Millions ticket didn't pay off last week, but another small investment I made did.  Being out and about often, you come to know and recognize others who are "on the streets" often as well.  That includes more homeless people than I'd ever expect to find in a city this size. All hours of the day, they sit, they walk, they strike up conversations with me.  I see the same people pretty much every day and have gotten to know many of them by name.
One evening, I headed into a convenience store for a snack.  Although I'm surrounded by dozens of delicious restaurants whose aromas taunt me as I ride through town, I try not to be tempted because I'd be spending money rather than earning it, and who wants to eat dinner alone?  As I walked out of the store and headed back to my bike taxi, a woman (I'm trying to be politically correct but since I want to paint a picture of the scene, it was a man rocking an 80's style woman's haircut and wearing women's clothing) asked me for a dollar.  I assume she was homeless because I've seen her a few times since then.  I had already torn into the bag of Cheetohs I had bought, so feeling guilty that I was eating and she was not, I reached my bright orange Cheetohs covered fingers into my pocket and procured a dollar. She was appreciative and headed into the store too.  Would she come out with Cheetohs and experience my sense of enjoyment as well, I wondered?  I watched as she returned with a cigar.  Not what I was expecting, but I didn't judge.  I thought about what I'd spend a dollar on if I only had one. Guaranteed it wouldn't be a cigar, but to each her own.
A day or so later, I was at the farmer's market picking up some veggies.  I only had seven dollars in cash but only needed a few things: garlic, sundried tomatoes, spinach, onions and cucumbers.  I grabbed a melon because it's melon season and I knew it'd be nice and fresh.  Well, that melon brought my total to eight dollars and rather than hold up the line while I fumbled for my debit card and changed my method of payment, I told the cashier to just put the melon back.  A lovely woman behind me in line said, "Oh no! Give her the melon.  Here ma'am, have a dollar."  I really appreciated the offer, but my pride got the best of me and I felt guilty because I could have bought it with my debit card so I said, "No, thank you, I really don't need the melon."  She insisted though and said if it felt more fair to me, I could give her one of the five garlic heads I had in my hand that came as a package.  She only needed one, and there was no way I'd use five anytime soon, so I was happy to oblige.  I smiled as I thought of the dollar I'd given away just a day earlier and knew that I'd just been the recipient of a karma melon.  What goes around really does come around.
So reflecting back on the lottery drawing I didn't win.  I understand comparing a melon with a winning lottery ticket is like comparing apples to oranges.  But regardless, I believe it's karma in action.  It's evident to me that if you share even just a little bit of kindness with others and take note of the small joys that you are the recipient of, you'll reap far more rewards than you may realize.  Some may say they'd prefer a Mega Millions winning ticket, but I feel so lucky to have all the "melons" I've received in my life, whether it's actually a melon, or a phone call from a good friend sharing good news, or the enjoyment I get from a bag of Cheetohs. To me, all this is like winning the lottery over and over again.

The Little Bike that Couldn't. Until...

I'm one of those people who gets thoroughly frustrated when I can't do something.  Especially when it's something I know I am capable of.

The plan was to shuttle luau-goers from a party, up about a 50-meter incline.  Maybe a hill in some books, but not in mine. That is, until I was pulling a 200 pound bike cab and two very average sized women.  I switched into the climbing gear and pedaled and pedaled. Slower and slower.  And then, as I recall and would explain to other drivers, the gears slipped, the shocks bounced and me, the bike, the pedals and the two women stayed very very still. Seconds passed as I put every ounce I had into moving forward but was no more successful at it than the Statue of Liberty would be.  Then my biggest fear was realized as we started rolling backwards. I was certain my tip was slipping away too.  Luckily, the brakes worked, as did my very helpful colleague who jumped off his cab to pull one humiliated driver and two embarrassed passengers up what was seeming like Mount Everest.  

Needless to say, with my inability to get up this hill, it was a rough night on my legs and I can't say my efforts were rewarded financially.  I kept making excuses to myself and the bike boys, blaming the gears and the shocks.  Eventually, I swallowed my pride and decided, being the wuss I'd convinced myself I was, to sit at the top and "help folks who were too tired from walking up the hill."

None of the guys gave me too much grief about it, to my face anyway, but one of them took the very same bike out the next night.  I smiled inside when he told me he returned it to the shop immediately because it was too difficult to ride.  Indeed the shocks were shot and the gears had some serious issues.  I got that update and breathed a sigh of relief just before I had to haul two grown men up that very same hill on a different bike.  Which I did with no problem.

Lesson learned: If you can't do something, try and try again.  Then place the blame somewhere else, and cross your fingers your excuses are validated!  I'm curious how often this method works...

Your leg is dirty

Let's get something straight.  I'm not doing this job to get rich.  If I wanted or needed loads of money, I would have stayed in the position I was in.  I would make my Masters degree work for me.  I would not be volunteering one day a week and I would not be working for free for a year and a half starting up a non-profit.  Nor would I have contacted the owner of the bike taxi company and asked to work a few shifts a week for a few dollars a day.  

So, to the former co-worker who pulled up to me in a work vehicle yesterday and said, "Really?? Really?? THIS is what you're doing.  Ewww. Your leg is dirty!!!" Yes.  Really. Really.  I happen to enjoy the bike chain grease that looks like a cool tattoo on my leg.  I'm sorry that you have to go back to your office and sit at your desk because obviously you are miserable.  And no, I'm not saving for a vacation, I happen to enjoy doing what I do and am glad to earn a few bucks doing it.  I feel sorry for anyone who can't say the same thing every minute of the day.

It's baffling to me the stigma that comes with taking a job like this.  People have asked if I'm embarrassed, if my husband is embarrassed.  Why would either of us be embarrassed? Thankfully, my husband loves me enough to want to see me happy.  I'd be more embarrassed if he made me stay at a job that was not my passion.  And quite frankly, Mr. Suit Finance guy I met last night, it's none of your business how we pay the bills. Maybe we don't live beyond our means and haven't been living beyond our means like the rest of America. You are not my financial advisor and after that comment, I don't think you ever will be.

Change of gears (no pun intended).  Obviously this particular evening started off a little rough as I pondered how some folks just don't get it.  But in no time, I was enjoying the company of wonderful people who were consuming culture, food and wine at the monthly gallery walk around town.  I picked up a gentleman who had probably an hour long commute from one side of the river to the other and back each day.  He made it there by way of bus, bike and foot. Every day. Today he paid a few bucks to shorten that commute and I learned his wife's name was the same as mine.  I drove a group of girls my age around to the galleries and was touched when one ran back inside and came out with a cup of sangria just for me.  It turned out to be a lovely evening.