The five stages of grief – commuting in Dubai edition

As one might expect, cycling in Dubai is an acquired taste. Many dismiss it out of hand as being too dangerous; when in reality the barriers to cycling here (and to some extent in any dense urban environment) lie less in the realm of danger and more so in the kingdom of personal fortitude.

Luckily for myself I happen to possess an abundance of cycle related personal fortitude (owing largely to my own rampant sense of self righteousness combined with a curious lack of thanatophobia). Thus, before moving here I figured cycling in Dubai wouldn’t be such a big deal for me, and I was largely correct.

What I didn’t count on however was the progression of feelings that would wash over me during my first few months on the road. Previously, cycling had been a fairly straightforward activity for me. I would mount my steed, head off into the mean streets, battle for space and sometimes get in a huff with motorists, but I largely enjoyed my time in the saddle.

Here in Dubai it was a slightly different story. To begin with there was the ominous foreshadowing. Never before had I encountered so much negative energy around cycling, or travelling by any means for that matter. It seemed from my research that the streets and byways of Dubai were a battleground strewn with the bodies of cyclists, pedestrians and motorists alike. This lead to my first stage of DCCG - Dubai Commuter Cyclist Grief:

Denial

As I mentioned above, I possess copious quantities of cycling related personal fortitude. In fact I excrete it from my pores and it is scraped up by industrious Swedes and sold by Bike Nashbar as a fortitudinal supplement called ‘TudeMAX’. Its from this well of fortitude that I drew the strength to ride my bike from Reno to Burning Man last summer in one go despite the hysterical objections of fellow burners warning of reckless opiate-laden motorists at the helm of giant rented RVs on narrow dark winding roads. With so much fortitude actually seeping out of my body on a regular basis, I denied to myself and others that I would have any trouble riding in Dubai. “Not a problem!” I shouted from the rooftops to no one in particular. Then I arrived in Dubai.

Anger

My first forays onto the road were cautious. We were staying down at the Marina, and I was equipped only with my newfangled Brompton in its glorious cream finish (extra) and Brooks brown leather saddle (also extra). I had just purchased the bike in London a couple of months previous since all my other bikes were hanging out in a shipping container in Jebal Ali and I was rather suddenly visa-less and back in the UK (I can only go so long without a bike). The Brompton is a lovely bike, but is best for short distances and it isn’t very imposing, I look a bit tame on it to be fair.

Curiously how I look on a bike relates to how I ride it. When I ride my vintage Schwinn MetroCycle 3-speed I tend to ride slower (even though I can cruise), and less aggressively. Conversely, when I am on my sleek Cannondale R1000 with its zippy Ksyrium Wheels I tend to ride like a bat out of hell. Perhaps it is related to my body position; my set up on the Cannondale is more bent over and sporty (go figure), and the Schwinn is more of a sit-up-and-beg dutch bike style. Thus, getting back to the Brompton - which is not quite begging, but definitely not bat out of hell, I felt a bit cautious riding around town. I did end up riding home from work in Bur Dubai to the Marina one night, but I looked for back streets through Jumeriah and (GASP!) road on the footpath along Al Soufah Rd.

Once my other bikes were released from Jebal Ali prison and we moved into our place in Downtown Burj Dubai I set about my regular routine of riding to work every day. This is when the second stage of DCCG set in, ANGER! What were all these motorists doing? Accelerating like mad from lights only to get to the adjacent red light and wait for 2 minutes, honking like deranged madmen, passing too close when there was plenty of space in the adjacent lanes, basically behaving like a pack of self important well armed baboons. I had seen all of this behaviour before on the streets of NY, LA and London, but here it is incredibly pervasive and dare I say personally vindictive. Generally motorists infuriate cyclists by disregarding them completely, but here its that feeling combined with a rage that you even exist and a not so veiled desire for you to cease to exist.

This made me quite angry. I would arrive at work or home in quite a foul mood at times. I must note at this point that not every motorist in this city is a deranged psychopath, but they seem to live here in greater numbers than other cities. Some days I was quite happy while riding in fact, mainly because no psychopaths happened along that day.

Anger isn’t very healthy, in fact its quite oppressive, taking over from ones otherwise sparkling lovely personality and making one bitter and perhaps even close to becoming like the very people who enraged one in the first place. I believe this is how civil wars generally begin. I needed to curb my anger and change tactics fast, that’s when I hit stage 3:

Bargaining

Anger obviously wasn’t getting me anywhere. Whenever I would caustically approach offending motorists I would get nothing but vitriol in return. Everyone believes they are right and when attacked will tend to fight rather than roll over; especially self important motorists who recently nearly ran you down.

My tactics then turned to education, I would bargain with motorists for better behaviour! I started carrying around printed leaflets containing the RTA’s guidelines for motorist behaviour in regards to cyclists and proffering them to unsuspecting motorists. The key was sympathy, no one will be sympathetic to you when you come on like an attack dog. Therefore, despite feeling like I wanted to strangle said motorist, I would with a smile proffer the leaflet and point out that according to the relevant governing body in this particular Emirate, they were breaking the rules and it didn’t make it very safe for me to boot.

This was psychologically rewarding to me for a time. I actually had more sympathetic than angry responses to my leafleting antics. I came away happier that I had pointed out to someone that they were wrong, and they agreed. After a while though, the exercise became less useful. I started to revert to angry tirades, proffering my leaflet with an air of self importance, only to get angry replies. It takes quite a bit of effort to be civil to someone who shows no regard for your personal well being. More effort in the end than I was apparently willing to make for the given return. This triggered the fourth stage of DCCG:

Depression

It was clear that my bargaining ploy was a short term gain. It made me feel more empowered for a while, but after a while the crushing realization that even if I pulled over 100 cars a day I wouldn’t be able to have any effect on driver behaviour. Motorists would continue to annoy and endanger me and I really had no control over it. Depression set in.

I found myself not wanting to ride to work in the morning, or home in the evening. I didn’t feel like dealing with the constant stream of people who were so focused on their destination that they couldn’t be bothered to slow down for 5 seconds or so and merge slightly left whilst passing me. I felt defeated. I didn’t want to give up cycling, but I also no longer really felt like living in Dubai. The weight, the burden of the depression ended up colouring my views on the city in general, I developed a very jaded view of life here.

I plugged along like this for some time; trying to figure out what I could do to change the state of affairs. I would fall back into my former stages at times – defiant and bold, caustic and aggressive, leaflet man, but nothing really seemed to help. What kept me going was the little moments, the flickers of enjoyment that cropped up here and there. Slicing through a traffic jam, gliding along an empty lane, spotting a wayward peacock, things that wouldn’t have happened had I been in a bus or a car.

Then one day recently it happened, the last stage:

Acceptance

As I recall I was sitting at my desk contemplating the ride home. I had been meaning to print off some more RTA flyers since I had run out, but hadn’t gotten around to it. All of the sudden I had a thought. “What if I just rode home?” I know it sounds simple, but it was the product of an enormous amount of pressure and stress, sort of like a diamond - a gem of an idea. I would just ride home; I would ride and not let the buffoonish behaviour of others get to me. They would honk, I would shrug. They would drive recklessly, I would stay vigilant and resolute, but calm.

Why was I playing their game? Why was I getting sucked into their world of puss and vinegar, a world of stress and tension and a burning desire to get to one’s destination marginally ‘quicker’. I was like a born again Christian who is distraught by the hedonism surrounding them, frantically proselytizing to an indifferent public. I had been such a fool! The answer was there all along, Acceptance!

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t accept that it is anyone’s right to drive recklessly and endanger me. No one has the right to honk and wish me off the road, no one has the right to cut me off, but I also have a right not to internalize all of the hatred that I feel towards those people. They do not have the right to make me angry or depressed; they don’t have the right to pull me down into their swirling cauldron of joylessness! I will no longer let those things that are beyond my control get me down – acceptance.

Of course! It all makes sense! I got out of the car to avoid all of those feelings – the frustration of being stuck in traffic, mad at the world, self righteous. All I really did was switch from petrol to leg power, but I never left the traffic. With acceptance came a renewed sense of joy, I am in traffic, but above it!

That night I rode home; it was the same route as usual, but something had changed. I got cut off, bummer, but no harm done - people honked, sucks to be you motorists - didn’t make a light, oh well, what I am rushing home for anyhow? You have no idea how light I felt, all of that rage lifted from my shoulders! It does wonders for the gray matter.

I am not so naïve to think that this is the end of my journey. There will be times that I am outraged, angry, full of vitriol, insistent that others know, realize, nay, admit that they are wrong. That is life. But the outlook has changed my dear readers. Sunny days are here again (metaphorically, realistically it hasn’t rained since March), I’ve put on a happy face. I faced down Dubai... and I won.