CU-tran2
August 25, 2001

Chicago Tribune - HAVANA - In Cuba, transport is a man's world. Men drive the vast majority of the cars here, from grumbling '56 Chevys to spiffy new SUVs. They drive the belching diesel buses, the tractor-trailers, the taxis, the motorcycles with sidecars, the horses, the oxen, the pink camel-humped tractor-trailer buses, the tractors themselves and even most bicycles. Women perch sidesaddle on the back of bicycles, take the passenger seat in cars, cling to the backs of men on motorcycles, bounce along in the back of trucks and mostly just try to avoid being run over. It is with some sense of delight then that I, a determined woman driver, have been set loose in Havana. I love the astonished stares from men as I tool around at the wheel of the Tribune bureau's red diesel Toyota. I love the looks on the faces of Cuban hitchhikers when they flag me down, open the door and gaze upon a face they never expected at the wheel. Sometimes it turns out that the woman I stop to pick up is plying one of the world's oldest professions, and we look at each other in surprise. Mostly, though, I love the bicycle races. Since the Soviets pulled out of Cuba in the early 1990s, leaving the island with a fraction of its former oil supply, millions of Cubans have taken to bicycling. Cuba's government imported hundreds of thousands of Chinese Flying Pigeon bikes a decade ago and today most major Havana thoroughfares have a lane reserved for pedalers. In the revolutionary spirit, I've been riding my bicycle to work most days, and on others I pedal around town for exercise. Because my $300 bike brought from the United States is a Rolls-Royce in comparison with most of the creaky, aged beasts on the streets of Havana, I frequently pass other bicyclists. This rarely bothers the tired old men or the families of four pedaling along on a single-seater bike, a pink birthday cake held precariously out to the side. The younger guys, out of pride, sometimes pump the pedals a little faster but rarely stick with me for long. But I finally found a cyclist who wanted to race. I was gliding slowly down onto one of the city's main avenues, when a young guy in work clothes whizzed by me, some books in a sheet of plastic strapped to the rack on the back of his bike. The bike looked in good condition, and he was riding with some energy. I fell in behind, not thinking at first of a race. But as I built up speed, I caught and passed him. I detected a hint of surprise, a whiff of wounded pride. At first I couldn't see or hear him trying to catch up. But when I least expected it, he came speeding by on my left, pedaling like mad down the avenue's bicycle lane. I could swear he was grinning slightly. I added more speed and trailed him at a slight distance, just out of his range of view. Then, when he relaxed and slowed, sure he had lost me, I zipped by again on the left, my legs starting to burn with the effort. Surely, I thought, his old bike wouldn't be able to match the pace. But as we came within two blocks of the end of the avenue, the obvious finish line in our several-mile race, I heard the rustle of a sheet of plastic about 10 feet behind me. I laid on more speed. The rustle fell back. With the end of the street just a quarter block away, I slowed slightly to make a U-turn back to my apartment, pleased I had won. And just then he screamed by on my left, legs flying--and made it to the corner first! He slammed on the brakes, turned right and, without looking back that I could see, made his way at a more stately speed up the next street. We both went our separate ways covered in sweat, but I had the clear feeling we had made each other's day.