Jun 12 '06 - 1771 W, 1 I - Vote Good + 9 :: Bad - 11 Memoirs of a Recovering Oil Addict
Published June 12, 2006 by The Newspaper Tree
by Rafael Nuñez
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“Hi, my name is Rafa, and I’m a recovering oil addict.” Many times I’ve envisioned saying that upon attending, in the not-so-distant-future, my first “Oiloholics Anonymous” or “Oil Addicts Anonymous” meeting. What with the ever rising gasoline prices, that possibility looms closer every day.
To be honest, I didn’t even consider myself an oil addict until a year ago, when I gave up fossil-fuel based vehicles for good. I mean, I started driving cars and pickups when I was 12, for Christ’s sake! Then, at 16, when I got my driving license, there was just no stopping me. Cars, pickups, tractors, dump trucks, Caterpillars, buses, motorcycles, 18-wheelers, you name it, I drove it! And so it went for the next 32 years.
Then, in the summer of 2005, I woke up one morning and told myself “Enough is enough! I’m sick of dealing with cars and their unending wants and needs that only drain my pocketbook and frustrate my spirit!" There was always something to worry about: that my vehicle needed repairs; that the insurance coverage was almost up; that the performance was lagging; that it was accumulating too much wear and tear; that the interior was getting shot up; that it needed a wash; that it needed a vacuuming, etc., etc. And on and on and on. There was just never any end to it!
My glorious escape from addiction crystallized when, in a moment of inspiration, I decided to buy myself a mountain bike. At the time I was living on St. John’s Drive and Trowbridge, in the vicinity of Loretto Academy. I decided to move from there to a point on the East Side that would be closer to my worksite, on Lee Trevino and Pellicano. So I started packing and moving my belongings to my present address, close to Carolina and North Loop Drive. I can still remember the surprise on my ex-neighbor’s face when, after finishing moving the last boxes out of my old apartment, I handed him the pink slip, the registration and the title of my '90-something Mercury Cougar and said: “Here you go, it’s all yours.”
He stammered repeatedly while asking how much I wanted for the car. I said “Nothing, I’m giving it to you as a departing gift, in appreciation for all the favors you did for me while we were neighbors.”
He still couldn’t believe it. Somewhat regaining his aplomb, he said “Come on! What’s the catch? No one gives away a car for nothing.”
“Well I just did!” I answered. And that was that. Goodbye, neighbor ... and goodbye and good riddance, car!
* * *
After moving to the East Side in June of last year, I started riding my mountain bike to and from work everyday. And I must confess it took some getting used to. The first week or so, I was sore every evening, especially when it came to my arms and legs, not to mention my rear end.
That was understandable, since I hadn’t been on a bike since the age of 10. Now, after 38 years, I was back in the saddle, riding a bicycle every single day and suffering for it every single night.
After a couple of weeks, though, I suddenly started having fun riding my bike. My body no longer felt sore, and my legs and arms felt stronger. After a month, I was positively energized, and riding my bike was now becoming more and more exhilarating.
During the last year most of my friends -- upon learning I had given up my car and started riding a bicycle every day as my primary means of transportation -- have told me in no uncertain terms that I’m completely crazy. They invariably point out that El Paso is not a “bicycle friendly” town. That I’m going to get hit by a car. That, in fact, I’m going to get killed by being run over by some fossil fuel-based vehicle, quite possibly a pickup truck, a bus or an 18-wheeler. “You’re going to die squished on the pavement like a frog,” more than a few of them have told me.
Then, when gas prices started going up, some of them had second thoughts: “Well, maybe you’re not so crazy, after all ...” But I didn’t give up cars because of rising gas prices. After all, I gave them up before all that. I gave cars up because I was truly tired of them, and of always depending on them.
At least three of my friends have even offered to sell me a car as a form a rescuing me from my obvious dementia. “I don’t have enough to give you a down payment,” I tell them, in the hopes of discouraging their Good Samaritan-like act. But they persist: “Don’t worry about a down payment; just give me $50, or $40, or $30 dollars a month until you complete the $2,500 I’m asking.” Then I tell them: “Let me think it over this weekend, and I’ll call you next Monday to give you my answer.”
Well, needless to say, I’ve always called back that next Monday to say “Thanks but no thanks -- keep the car. I don’t want it. I don’t need it. Like the song says: “I love to ride my bicycle … I love to ride my bike …”
In fact, sometimes when these misguided Good Samaritans keep insisting, I tell them: “To tell you the truth, if my bike wasn’t as big, and hard to the touch and pointy all over, I would put her in bed with me and sleep with her every night. I love her that much!” After this, they give up. They just shake their heads, throw their arms up in the air and shrug their shoulders, as if to say, “It’s pointless, this guy has lost all his marbles.”
I love my bike so much that I even named her “Diega.” Then, about six months ago, I bought another, somewhat more sophisticated mountain bike. Not basic, like Diega, which is only a 12-speed. This new one has 21 speeds, and shock absorbers, front and back. And an aluminum body. And grip-speed changing. This one I named “Juanita.”
When I named my bikes I wasn’t thinking. I just thought the names fit each of them. Then, when I thought about this a little about a month ago, I realized I had inadvertently (subconsciously, I guess you could say) named them after my two grandmas: My maternal grandmother was named María Diega, and my paternal grandmother was named Juana. They were both “adelitas,” since both of my grandfathers had been “Dorados de Villa” and fought in the Mexican Revolution. By the end of the Revolution my paternal grandfather had reached the rank of colonel, and my maternal grandfather the rank of captain. I guess I subconsciously viewed my two bikes as “adelitas.” That is, as my two “girls” who would follow me anywhere, and never let me down. Perhaps I just loved my two grandmas so much (after all, I alternately spent several years being raised by each one as a child) that I named my bikes after them without even thinking about it.
* * *
I have accrued some benefits from the last 12 months of daily bike-riding. For one thing, I managed to lose 30 pounds along the way, without even trying. I never set out to lose pounds; the bike-riding just sort of took care of that. Since I started biking, twice I’ve had to grab an ice pick and cut out two more holes in my belt, which was getting too loose to hold my pants up.
Also, my “wind” and physical stamina, or “staying power,” are much greater than they were before I started bicycling. After a few months of riding, I was able to determine this for myself quite easily, since I’m an avid soccer player. And to boot, an aftereffect from an old arthroscopy meniscus operation, which used to make my knee flare up and hurt badly after games and workouts, is completely gone. My knee no longer flares up, and there’s no pain whatsoever. This was a most unexpected bonus, although also a most welcome one.
And I guess I’m extremely fortunate, because living right off North Loop, I have a wide, well-planned bike lane to ride on whenever I leave my house to go to the store or, alternately, for a pleasure ride into the lower valley. And believe you me, there are indeed some awesome sights to be seen and sounds to be heard in some of the lovelier parts of that oh-so-cherished lower valley of mine! God, it’s good to be alive when you’re out there riding your bike and breathing in that fresh country air! Sometime, for a second, it even makes me feel like singing “Thank God I’m A Country Boy.” But then that feeling (thankfully!) quickly goes away, and is instantly replaced by a swelling up of positive emotion inside and a wide, silent grin on my face.
But living off North Loop took some planning, and quite a few weeks of struggling to make it happen.
And I must concede that once in a while I do ride the bus. But riding the bus is an adventure all by itself. Sometimes for me it’s almost like an epiphany, a communion-like experience with your fellow bus riders. And besides, the Sun Metro buses have racks in the front where I can put my bike while I ride the bus, so that when I get off, I can revert to my 21st Century vaquero-like ways.
Because that’s what I feel like, you know; like a 21st century vaquero (or, better said, “vaiquero,” I guess). A 21st century vaquero and his two trusty aluminum, steel and rubber steeds.
As the old Wild West saying goes: Whenever out on the range, a vaquero and his horse should never be separated by more than 100 yards.
* * *
Rafael Nuñez, a.k.a Rafa Mantecas Califas, is an ex-oilaholic who has never stopped loving his two grandmas, and who to this very day is still called by his oldest friends, "chipilón de abuela" (Grandma's spoiled brat).
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