Picture James Dean riding a Divvy bike instead of a motorcycle. You can’t without snickering, can you? That’s because I, you, and every other human being on earth looks dorky in the clunky-ass saddle of one. The powder-blue cruisers were designed to evoke Chicago’s starry flag. But they’re more like the dad jeans of bicycles—which is ironic considering the incredibly cool origins of the community bike-share program.
Two years later, Provo pitched a more serious plan. A group member who’d been elected to Amsterdam’s city council pushed an ambitious ordinance that would have banned all motorized traffic in central Amsterdam save some electric-powered taxis. Instead of zipping around in cars, the public would have access to 10,000 government-funded white bikes that would remain unlocked at all times. But the city council rejected the plan, saying that “the bicycle belongs to the past.”
That’s what I believed too, but I purchased a $75 yearly membership at the beginning of 2014 after the city put a dock a few steps from the door of my apartment complex in east Pilsen. For the first couple of years, I checked out Divvy bikes almost exclusively as a way to get from my apartment to Blue and Red Line stops that were just out of reasonable walking distance.
It’s true I could save even more cash by relying on the commuter-style bike I already own. But with Divvy, I don’t have to sweat getting my stuff ripped off or constantly haul my bike up two flights of stairs to my apartment. I still take occasional rides on my own bike, but Divvy has increasingly become my number one way of navigating the city.
Personally, I’d start with a Divvy makeover. v
