On Commuting

Every day, I hop on my bike and trek the 3.1 miles to work. Head down against the merciless wind, eddies of traffic flowing around me, I pedal hard against the pavement, one small revolution at a time. Having traversed it hundreds of times, I know this route like the lyrics to RENT. I slip into an almost meditative state, which is probably not the frame of mind you should be in as UPS trucks bear down behind you. Still, I take the rumbles, the honking and the exhaust and incorporate them into an unorthodox urban reverie.

With almost equal reliability, I pass the grocery on the corner of 18th Street and hear a piercing whistle. You know the kind, the penetrating wolf-whistle that men are so naturally adept at. A high note, followed by a portmento to a lower pitch, then back up again. A curlique on the staff.

At first, my reaction was annoyance. What chauvinistic pig goes around whistling at women these days? Where does he think he is, Southern Europe? Then, I inevitably succumbed to the implicit flattery. Though I am bundled up in three layers of fleece, a scarf, an ungainly helmet and '80s style legwarmers, I am still attracting attention. Sweet, I can make heads turn! Or maybe it's recognition of the badassery of biking in traffic, faithfully braving the harsh winter. You go, girl, says the Incognito Whistler. Go out and stick it to the Man. On the silent, uninterrupted mornings that I pass by unheralded, I can't help feeling that something is amiss. I reluctantly dissolve back into solution.

Occasionally, I turn my cheek and take a quick glance to the side. This usually elicits additional whoops and shouts. I imagine high fives, fist pumps and terrorist fist jabs in the parking lot. I never have time to actually see anything beyond a brief glimpse of warehouse, then I right myself and pedal faster to beat the yellow light. There is work to be done after all.

Yet, my thoughts linger on. Who is the Incogito Whistler? Is he a grizzled, old man, fully-bearded, cantankerous and impervious to the forces of political correctness? A dapper poetic soul, who relishes the whimsy of anonymous encounters? A fellow cyclist? A pipe-smoking Russian ice skater? For the last year and a half, have I been callously passing up the love of my life? Should I do something?

Missed Connections - Whistler's Other -w4m - 23 (18th & Canal)

Every morning, I bike past the Richwell Market and you whistle at me. Normally, I brush this aside like clingy lint and continue on my merry way with nary a second thought, but lately I've been wondering--do you like orange juice with pulp? Have you ever pondered how they get the middle bun on a Big Mac? We've never seen each other face to face, much less met, but we still have a connection ripe for exploration. Let me know if you want to break the 4th wall or stroll down the street singing "Les Champs-Élysées." Sure, I realize that simply stopping would be a much more efficient way than Craig's List to accomplish this, but that would ruin the enigmatic appeal of this exchange. Please reply with the colors of my headband and backpack; your pic gets mine.

A sudden thought strikes me: what if the Incognito Whistler is a woman?