Cycling Through the Heart of Rural American Fascism
Igrew up riding my bicycle on county highways in rural northern Wisconsin. You had to watch out for teen drivers racing around blind corners. The roar of an approaching motor meant you should dive into the ditch.
Teenagers are equal parts youthful strength, delusions of immortality, and confused sexual energy. They aren’t the example that should form the basis of a society. And yet…
The rusty pickup trucks driven by middle aged men posed an even greater threat. They embodied deeply rooted anger and sexual frustration.
They pulled up slow and said, “Hey! Where are you headed? Want a ride? Why won’t you answer me? I’m being nice to you!”
It’s better to ignore them than ask to be left alone. If they pulled in front of you to stop, brake lights blazing, we learned to turn and sprint away as fast as possible.
Growing up, my daily reality played out against a backdrop of perpetual terror. We never paused to question it. Heart pounding, we hit those pedals with all the strength our churning legs could muster.
All of my friends lived ten miles away. We’d make arrangements on the landline the night before as The Muppet Show played in the background. That was adult programming then. In the morning, we’d head out the door and meet each other on the road.
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