December 2nd, 2005
113350755185157942
Following in the tire treads of Islam
Every great protagonist has his rival, a blurry reflection of oneself, whose mere existence seems targeted at stymieing the efforts of the hero. For some, it may be the owner of a blue 1997 Dodge Neon with custom tags. For others it’s a reckless cowboy with an inflated sense of grandeur. For me, it’s Islam.
Before a holy war is declared on my web hosting service, let me clarify by saying that I have nothing at all against Islam as a religion, or any person that chooses to follow its teachings. On the contrary, I’m of the mind so accurately described by one over-accepting parent in Hair, “Kids, be free, be whatever you are, do whatever you want to do, just as long as you don’t hurt anybody.” Faith is not something to be labeled right and wrong, better or worse. It’s how you treat your fellow man and the world around you. However, with all truly great rivals there is some outstanding trait that sets them apart, some sort of uncommon flair with which they leave their calling card. In my case it happens to be a slightly dingy “I (Heart) Islam” button on flap of a satchel commonly thrown over the left shoulder of a fellow commuter. Let me paint a picture for you…
Imagine a man, middle twenties– fairly tall, perhaps 183-185 centimeters. Slim, wears dark brown jeans and a grey cotton jacket. His complexion matches his earth tone wardrobe, light brown to sallow skin, and well-tousled, thick, black hair. He lives somewhere near the Tomigaya section of Yamate-dori, for I commonly encounter him there. He works (or goes to school) on weekdays somewhere east of Naka-meguro, presumably Ebisu, as he and I usually break formation at Yarigasaki, where I take the long hill down from Kyu-yamate in Daikanyama, heading west onto Komazawa-dori. I believe that his professional day begins at ten, much like mine, as the days that I don’t come into the office early (leave the house a few minutes after 9:30), without fail our routes intertwine like a zipper.
Like most males under forty not travelling to the grocery store, he rides a mountain bike, which puts me at a severe disadvantage to keep up. Though considerably faster than most domestic errand bicycles, my three-setting drivetrain tension adjuster is humbled on downhill stretches and my legs spin the pedals unhindered. If I wail on the uphill sections and really throw myself into it, I can almost stay with him to Tamagawa-dori, or slowly lose him in traffic. Occasionally he stops to pick up a nikuman (meat bun) at which point I can pass him, though my advantage is short-lived. He is the Armstrong to my Ullrich.
This is compounded by the fact that he’s maddeningly reckless, even more so than I am. Where I am prone to feats of arrogance mainly for being late, he seems to do so only to antagonize me, darting through red crosswalk signals, imperiously swerving around any startled oncoming traffic. I have long since mastered not being a burden to other vehicles in my lane by hugging the guard rail/curb within centimeters, yet he makes a point of passing by me exceptionally close, sometimes cutting me off when I’m laboring and stiff on the handlebars. From time to time, he looks back in my general direction, glancing with an air of poorly-cloaked satisfaction.
My quads are at a point where they carry a fair amount more definition than most non-athletes my age, but to my mind, they’re frustratingly small and soft. I want my body to be a carbon-fibre bow for the nimble, singing violin that is my bicycle, but that is not going to happen on a mama-chari; there will never been enough resistance in the gears to chisel my blocky frame. So for the foreseeable future I will have a rival on the morning commute, and one more reason to break down and buy myself a high-quality tool truly worthy of my passion. Until the day I do though, I’m going to have to settle for being second best.
Until that day, Islam.
Address 7C816D4F
