Like everyone in Denver this week, I’ve got a serious case of star lust. I rode by Oprah’s Denver headquarters–a classic brick home near downtown she rented for the week–and pondered what I would say if she popped her head out the front door as I rode by. I lingered long near the architecturally improbable two-story tent set up forDigg and Google bloggers waiting for Daryl Hannah to emerge after an interview, not because I’m an immense fan of mermaids, but because someone said she was there. And MatthewModine , Private Joker turned bicycle activist, scheduled a ride with the public this afternoon, cranking along with a full documentary crew.
But of all the stars–JLo, Ben Affleck (still inexorably linked to his ex), Spike Lee–all hold faint flickers to this week’s true star. Few celebrities could invoke such excitement via satellite as Barack Obama managed last night after his wife’s rousing, poetic speech. People were physically moved simply by his smile.
As an environmentally progressive candidate, I have no doubts that Obama would appreciate the intent behind the Freewheelin bikeshare project. It’s just the sort of idealistic attempt at change that he so often promotes.
Obama, however, won’t be seen near a bikeshare station this week. I won’t guide him on a tour of the mile-high city, won’t draft off him down a long, winding path, won’t even know he’s here until minutes before he leaves again.
Indeed, Senator Obama will be the last major figure to arrive in Denver after campaigning across the country in other locations. The entire city, the additional thousands who traveled across the country to see him, we all must feel like the group of friends waiting with lit candles at a surprise birthday party. When will the guest of honor arrive? Is he having more fun at another party to which we weren’t invited?
My Freewheelin bike station at the Denver Art Museum erupted with excitement this afternoon when a motorcade parked across the street, stopped traffic, and Senator JoeBiden emerged from a hybrid SUV. He waved briefly, ushered by a wave of black suits into the Byers-Evans House Museum, then disappeared again. With my telephoto lens fully erect, I stood as a photographic sentinel for the next 90 minutes under the relentless sun, ignoring my responsibilities to thebikeshare station, aroused with the excitement anyone outside Hollywood or New York feels in the presence of a celebrity.
Senator Biden finally reappeared, popped a piece of chewing gum between those newly whitened teeth, took a sip from his Coca-Cola can, and walked toward the SUV with his wife. As he approached the street, he made eye contact with all of us at the bike station fence, fanning cool waves at us, and once again waswisked away. It all lasted 15 seconds.
My shift ended at the bike station, leaving ample time to reach Benedict Fountain Park and join Matthew Modine, his film crew, and yet another opportunity to bask in someone else’s glory.
Instead, I headed west, dropped into the urban ravine which contains the Cherry Creek and its namesake bike path, and pushed my pedals hard. There was only the rush of the water, the occasional encouraging creak from my single-speed cruiser, wind cooling my thinly perspired skin. Star-lust flushed from my body and I suddenly felt a desire for true connection; I pedaled harder, thinking only of my wife and her sincere embrace; my heart quickened, planning imaginary adventures with my toddler daughter; my legs soared, spinning hope for my unborn child due this week. I was fluid, dynamic, but truly connected–I was free!
