A level playing field

New Orleans is legendary for its flatness. The highest point in the city is probably Monkey Hill, which was one of those government projects invented just to put people to work during the Great Depression. According to local lore, Monkey Hill was built so that the children of New Orleans would have the chance to know firsthand what a hill was.

Then there's this bridge on Interstate 10 over the Industrial Canal. We call it "the High Rise". There's a sign at the approach urging motorists to maintain speed, but they never do. When you listen to the rush hour traffic report on the radio, you can just about count on there being a slowdown at the High Rise. The simplest explanation is that the car engines struggle to make the grade, but I remember a friend of my father's who had a much more intriguing if slightly less plausible theory. This fellow was from somewhere else. I don't remember where precisely, but somewhere hilly. Anyway, he figured that New Orleans natives, owing to their utter lack of experience driving on uneven terrain, are simply not comfortable not being able to see on down the road. No matter how many times they've crossed that bridge, deep down inside they don't really believe there's anything on the other side till they reach the crest and see it for themselves. Like I said, it's an interesting theory at the very least.

Fortunately, Monkey Hill and the High Rise are both off limits to rickshaws. Even so, when you rely on nothing but pedal power to move 400 or 500 pounds of human flesh (and that's not even counting my own 200!), you start to realize that the city's not quite as flat as everyone supposes.

I mentioned in an earlier post that almost everyone who gets on board suddenly becomes self-conscious about his or her weight. "Are you sure you can handle it?" they always ask. And I always promise them that it's not an issue. And it never has been. Until yesterday.

I've been on the job for a month, and yesterday morning for the first time I found myself in a very embarrassing situation. Then later that day the same thing happened again. TWICE ON THE SAME DAY! On both occasions, I picked up a husband and wife couple at a hotel. On both occasions, both man and woman were on the hefty side. On both occasions, I found myself trying to take off on a slight incline. And on both occasions, I found myself unable to budge the bike.

The second time was the worst. I really thought that there was some mechanical problem. Perhaps one of the wheels was stuck against a curb. That happens sometimes. I checked and saw that nothing was blocking the wheels. So why wouldn't they turn?

Trying to be gracious, the male passenger said, "We're a pretty heavy load,"

"That's not the problem," I insisted. "I've hauled more weight before. Maybe the chain has come off." I checked the chain, and it was fine. I was still pretty sure that something else had to be wrong. I grunted and pushed against the pedals some more but to no avail.

By now there were cars lined up bumper to bumper in front of me. I squeezed the brake tightly to keep the bike from rolling the six inches back down to the curb while I waited for a break in traffic. How was I ever going to get this thing moving and do it quickly enough to merge into traffic? Seeing my situation, a driver took pity on me and stopped to let me in. Abandoning all effort to pedal I got down and pushed. It was excruciatingly slow. Someone down the line lost patience and started honking. The whole line of automobiles was witnessing my utter humiliation.

After what felt like 20 years without parole, I crested the hump (We're talking about a distance of not more than a couple of feet) and was able to start pedaling. I was torn between relief that the bike really was in good working order and disappointment that there wasn't any good mechanical explanation for my failure after all. The rest of the ride was fine. I worked up a good sweat even though the temperature was in the low 40s, but that's nothing unusual.

Note: According to Wikipedia the elevation of New Orleans ranges from six and a half feet below sea level to twenty feet above.