First day on the job, etc.

Yesterday's daylight was fading as I drove south across Lake Pontchartrain toward the start of my new career. The sky and water were the same flat gray. When I had first applied a couple of weeks ago, driving a pedicab in New Orleans had looked to me like a dream job. Now, having finally finished the tedious process of getting my permit, that earlier excitement had been eclipsed by a kind of heaviness -- as though I were hauling behind me the weight of the concerns and criticisms of a lot of people who love me, none of whom really seemed to share or even comprehend my enthusiasm.

"What about all your dreams?" they asked.

"It's too dangerous!"

"You're too old!"

"You're too well edcuated!"

"The physical demands will wear and tear your body to bits."

"Do you really think you can make a decent living at it?"

"Maybe it's OK for this season, but God has something better."

"You're out of God's will and outside His protection."

Even apart from the questions raised by friends and family, I had begun to have my own doubts. Everyone knows that I'm a tentative, timid driver. Whoever heard of a tentative, timid taxi driver? And one who has no sense of direction?  I could get lost in a paper bag! And what about the fact that I've always been so awkward and uncoordinated when it comes to physical tasks? I had taken the bike out for a spin as part of my training the day before and had really struggled to get a feel for it. I'm a fairly experienced biker, but this didn't behave at all like any bike I knew. (Technically, of course, that's because it isn't a bike;  it has three wheels, so that would make it a trike.) Maneuvering this machine through the crowded streets of the Vieux Carre would require a whole new set of skills, and acquiring those skills was going to be a big challenge for someone like me. It would be all too easy to clip a curb or the fender of a parked car, and even such a minor mistake might have serious consequences.

Having grown up in Slidell (a suburb on the other side of the lake from New Orleans) the city had always been a bit of a scary place for me. Not scary in the sense that I was afraid of getting mugged. More like scary in the sense of trying to navigate very unfamiliar terrain. During my high school and college years, crossing the lake for a concert or a dinner date had just enough of an element of danger to make it a real thrill. Whenever I made it back home without incident, I felt a strong sense of accomplishment.

(By the way, this pattern of successful conclusion and ensuing sense of success were by no means a sure thing. On the night I graduated from college I took Mary -- now my wife of 22 years -- out for a date in the city. After an enjoyable evening, we got back to where I was sure we had parked the car, and it wasn't there. Turns out I had parked it illegally, and it had been towed. I had to find a pay phone and call my dad to come bring me the money to retrieve my impounded car. It was midnight on a Saturday, and he had to preach the next morning. I must say that my father, who is particularly averse to having his routine disrupted was quite gracious on this occasion.)

So, here I was headed into the city, this time not for a daring one-night foray, but for a new career. Wishing I could recover my earlier eagerness and unload the anxiety.

Bike Taxi Unlimited has its headquarter in a dank old parking garage on the edge of the Iberville Housing Project. The first level of the garage is occupied by a makeshift office and two long rows of black and yellow rickshaws, some of them ready to roll and others in various states of maintenance and repair.

Upon arrival I was introduced to several of my fellow operators who would be working the same shift. I quickly noted that my colleagues all looked to be in their 20s or 30s, and they all appeared fit and attractive. At least I'm in good company, I thought.

Besides me, there were three others who were about to set out on their first ever shift. Two of these were women. I thought about my family members who feared for my safety and wondered whether pointing to the presence of these female colleagues might provide any measure of reassurance. Surely, if this job is safe enough for these pretty young ladies, it's safe enough for me, a 210-pound, 45-year-old man!

I asked PJ, the owner of the company, whether I was his oldest operator, and he confirmed that it was true. "You know, I went to school at Southern Miss with Brett Favre," I told him. "But he was a freshman when I was a senior. So I really am pretty old!" I had a sense that I was going to enjoy the status of being the oldest guy on the team and  the energy that I would draw from my younger companions.

As it turned out my first shift started in just about the best way possible. The company had a request to pick up a group of a dozen or so tourists at a hotel and take them to a restaurant. Each bike can hold two, or at the most three, passengers; so transporting these was going to require 5 or 6 bikes. Rather than heading out on my own to try to track down my first fare, I would be part of a caravan, following those who knew the way and sharing the experience with my fellow newbies.

I took my place at the rear. As we headed down Canal Street, I was the tail of a beautiful black and yellow snake gliding smoothly through the city lights. PJ had pointed out to me during my training the day before that as you travel down Canal toward the Mississippi River, the tall buildings often channel air currents into a strong headwind. But at this moment, with my legs still fresh and no passengers behind me, this wind was like God's own grace -- both a gentle breeze that caressed my face and a fierce hurricane that toppled the towers of my anxieties and blew them far away. "I'm loving this!" I shouted aloud to anyone who was listening.

There is plenty more to tell about my first night on the job, but I've written more than I intended already. I'll save the rest for another entry. Stay tuned.