One of the crude and unfortunate ironies of living in Asheville (or any similar, semi-rural outpost) is the saddeningly sedentary lifestyle that one generally maintains in such a place. New York City, my former home, was a place of concrete and electricity. Cars spouted fumes in vicious quantities, and subways linked all corners of the city.
And yet, I have never before walked so much in my life as when I lived in New York. Even on those days when I broke down and took the subway (I preferred to walk whenever possible), I still needed to walk to the subway (ten minutes or so), and walk to my destination from the subway from which I exited. Walking was an important part of my daily life.
Here in Asheville, my car has replaced my legs, and I am no longer proudly cruising the streets on the "Number 11" (my legs), exercising mind and body. Things are really just too spread out (or so I had thought), and public transportation requires way too much forethought and organization for my needs.
Yesterday, I decided to make a bold move: I would begin to walk to and from work each day, at least until the weather became too severe to allow it. I would, in this way, walk over an hour a day. The exercise would awaken me, and the fresh air would cleanse me. And so, leaving much time to spare before work yesterday, I did just this, and walked to work.
It was a great walk, and I once again was reminded of the joys of walking--the sights that one sees along the way, the signs and buildings that one never notices when driving, the personal contact with other people (mostly homeless) walking the streets. I arrived at work feeling great, and happy with my newly formed tradition.
This is exactly what I was telling a co-worker last night, explaining the joys of simple exercise and movement. She looked at me, a concerned look darkening her countenance as I described my route.
"Oh, honey," she said, "you better get someone to come pick you up tonight."
"Why is that?" I asked innocently.
And then she explained to me the dangers of the zone through which I am forced to walk. She told me of the number of people she knew that had been mugged (especially around the perfectly named convenience store--The Hot Spot--, which I knew to be somewhat shady) or attacked. One of the chefs chimed in, reminding her of the prostitute that had been chopped to pieces and thrown in the French Broad River.
"I'll drive you home tonight," she offered.
In other posts, I have already discussed, albeit briefly, the strange social dynamics of Asheville. This is a town of young, generally educated, somewhat "crunchy" characters. It is a growing social urb, filling quickly with homes and stores and restaurants (as well as with mixed opinions on the worth of this "yuppification" of Asheville).
It is, however, also a Southern town pulling itself out of a fifty year depression that began in the 1930s and has only in recent years begun to improve. Apparently, in the 1930s the city ran out of money after having sunk huge quantities of funds into building the town's infrastructure. And just like that, after years of hard work and development, the city went bankrupt and stopped spending. The town slowly fell apart, crumbling and moldering. Ironically, it was this economic disaster that has helped to maintain the historic buildings, etc. in the town, as nobody had the means to knock them down and build something new.
So, even as this town grows and "yuppifies" and fills with trendy restaurants and trendy characters, it also betrays a seedier side, an impoverished class of people that have not yet (will they ever?) felt the benefits of the city's growth. Certain sections of town (specifically a few convenience stores, as mentioned in another post) seem to be always filled with drug dealers and addicts, and the main town square is an important locus for homeless people.
Point is--I can't walk to work. Or, better said, I can't walk home from work.
So I bought a bike.
I found this great place near the river, quite close to my home, called the ReCYCLEry, and bought a mountain bike for forty dollars. The place is basically a greasy hole in an old building. The room is jammed with bike parts, and old bike tires lie against the front of the building. Inisde, a strange cast of characters work on the bikes around them. A tall man with dreadlocks, piercings, and a scarred face attends to me. A young girl, maybe 12, blonde, works on a bike. Two punk-looking girls talk next to a tool bench.
The ReCYCLEry seems to be an example of a anarcho-punk establishment that really works. Their mission is to help people learn to fix bikes and to help people without bikes get bikes. They are non-profit, and the place is staffed by volunteers. Anyone can walk in, and with the help of one of the volunteer mechanics, build a bike. The parts around the shop are fair game, and one can build a bike with any non-claimed part in the shop.
Bikes like the one that I bought are sold cheaply to help pay for the rent, upkeep, etc of the building. So I am now the proud owner of a mountain bike, though I plan to return soon and begin building my very own, self-built dream bike. And now I can ride quickly past any menacing crackheads or drug dealers or panhandlers that I come across on the way home from work.
More soon from Asheville.
