Why Ride Bikes in Atlanta?

Meeting with Joy

You and 100+ of your cycling friends are rolling up to the intersection of Memorial and Boulevard. Eagerly, you pedal forward. As you get closer, you see Jordan in a bright vest at the crosswalk. Pass the intersection, Monica is calling us to tighten up and keep moving. It is 7:45 pm, and we have just rolled out of Estoria for one of our group rides.

The Atlanta Car Driver from their cage sees a green light on Memorial Drive at Boulevard. They wonder why traffic is not moving. It is 7:45 pm and the rush hour should have died down now. They strain over the steering wheel trying to make sense of what is going on ahead. In the distance, they can make out a lone cyclist wearing a colorful vest in the crosswalk. If the cage windows are rolled down, the driver hears a flurry of mixed musical notes carried on the breeze. A parade of colored lights goes by. Finally, the motorist realizes the entire intersection is filled with bicycles. They simply must wait.

Our social rides can shut down big intersections. We designate a corker to stand and help slow down traffic. It is an immense feeling. Our two-wheeled posse is in charge; if even for just a few minutes. Motorists are sometimes surprised. Some take pictures of us. Some wave. Others get grumpy. Riding in Atlanta in a cycling group here feels a little bit provocative. How did I get here?

I often sat shotgun as my dad drove our golden Volvo station wagon on errands around Atlanta. From the passenger seat, I learned early to look out for the little nuances of driving here. We passed through streets like Briarcliff Road, and Lawrenceville Highway and I noticed how my father paid attention. He was defensive driving to avoid potholes, manage people’s road rage, and keep all the Peachtrees straight.

In the late 90s, my parents moved from DeKalb County into Gwinnett County. Around the time that I was about to start high school in Snellville, I felt like we lived in the boonies. Rarely did I see a pedestrian. I no longer saw the MARTA bus around. I thought there was no way to explore without having a car. Atlanta suburbia is almost certain imprisonment without wheels.

When I could get in or borrow a car, it represented a separate space. An identity, a universe, a freedom. The car around that time began to represent an escape. It was my chance to reign on the streets… if I had the money to buy gas. Over time, this shiny car image began to rust. The car went from being the freedom to a restraint.

When I went to law school in Baltimore, I borrowed my mother’s silver Volvo. Sometimes it was a haven and respite from the Inner Harbor. But her car was expensive to maintain, and I always had to worry if it would be OK where I parked it. The first summer of law school, I spent in Los Angeles doing a legal internship. I lived car-free in West Hollywood. Having no car then became its own identity. There, I learned the way Californians greet one another: What Do You Drive?

At none of these times in my past did I ever consider using a bicycle as my main form of transport. It was only when I took a long stint teaching in Japan that I realized the joys of bike riding.

Teaching English in Tokyo, within a rigid, hierarchal high school was often difficult. The English language has so many subtleties and nuances. There were times when my work as a foreign language debate coach became spiritually exhausting. In addition to English proficiency, I wanted to instill a sense of global citizenship and responsibility in my students. Between the language barrier, some words stopped making sense. On those days when words did not make sense, and colleagues were hard to find, I simply wanted to run away from my walkable west Tokyo neighborhood.

It was there, in Tokyo that cycling became second nature to me. The city is flat and has great cycling infrastructure. After work, I knew I always had my bike to come back to. It was on days like that I realized the singular joy of riding a bike. Parking is easy, and Google Maps makes it simple to find destinations worth exploring. On beautiful afternoons after class, I would ride along flower-lined roads. On the weekends, I would follow rivers into new neighborhoods. I was living in line with my sense of exploration, and freedom. It was so refreshing to be unencumbered by the bulky violence and expensive responsibility of a car. This free type of transport moved me. Cycling in Japan changed me.

I returned to Atlanta cautiously in 2022. I had not lived full-time in Atlanta since 2012. Changes were everywhere. Most people in the ATL had a car. They also seemed only to notice other cars on the road. Post-pandemic, it seemed that people were comfortable in their oblivion. The dichotomy between Tokyo and Atlanta felt sharp.

Though I never really thought of myself as a cyclist, I had the urge and desire to roll on two wheels. By dumb luck, I chanced upon group riding here in Atlanta. Initially, it was terrifying and exciting. Through these rides, I saw that the Beltline had revived and transformed Atlanta in many ways. The slow congregating of communities and burgeoning of new scenes made for so many new places to explore.

Our social rides are a call to enjoy the day with one another. So many different types of people show up to ride together. For me, there is no better calling than to live up to and take part in. It is a moral imperative to nourish your joy. Riding in Atlanta began as a continuation of a love I discovered when I was in Tokyo. Yet, the riding here, in Atlanta, and as a part of this community has changed me.