Photo Essay: I (Bicycle) SLC

I dream of owning a bicycle that would fit in my pocket. I would fly to Salt Lake City, Washington DC, San Francisco, Boston, Barcelona, Wiesbaden, and I would ride.

The Signal in the form of a double chime told me that we were making our final decent. At five hundred miles per hour we were rushed westward across the country, four hundred, three hundred, descending. The beautiful salt topped mountains were scattered below like crumpled tin foil. We slowed to one hundred miles per hour as we hit the tarmac.

I arrived in Salt Lake City late in the evening, my friend Ryan picked me up from the airport and as we drove through town I could feel myself getting closer and closer to really seeing this city. Below the tin foil peaks we were moving an even sixty-five miles per hour as the highway signage and buildings flew past the passenger window of his beast of a car.

Too late and too tired I awoke the next morning with two wheels beneath me. It was Ryan's bicycle, he had let me borrow it for the day while he went to work. At this point moving thirty-five miles per hour, the cool morning air was refreshing. The buildings from the previous night were coming into focus. There was a light up ahead, green, yellow, I raced toward it, red, shooting through the intersection. My heart was pounding, my lungs filled with cold air.

I remembered why I enjoy my bicycle so much. I was beginning to miss my bike except for the exciting new scenery that was all around. For me having access to a bicycle when exploring a new city is invaluable. Out of breath at this point, in the 300 south by 300 east block of Salt Lake City I began to slow. Twenty miles per hour, fifteen, for me having two wheels for exploration is second only to one other essential urban amenity.

My heart was pounding as I continued to apply the breaks, from fifteen miles per hour to ten, five to three, two, one, and there it was. I locked up the borrowed bicycle in front and walk in to get a warm espresso drink.

Finally I was seeing. Taking residence in an old brick structure, the owner was more than willing to explain what he knew about the buildings previous lives. He offered me suggestions about where to eat, directions to places in the city, any question at all, he was more than willing to take time to engage in conversation. From the moment I stepped into Nobrow it was clear that people keep coming back for the warm company that is offered there.

I took a seat at the bar and order a cortado to chat with the barista while observing the neighborhood personalities. This place is a meeting point, perfect for a tired traveler.

A long conversation with the owner about Nobrow revealed the levels of dedication and knowledge that he has invested in the place. At one point I noticed a customer walk behind the counter and grab his own refill, a woman studying on her laptop was asked to watch the store for a minute while the owner ran an errand. They confirmed to me that they have never worked here when I asked about it.

Soon I found myself in conversation with a group of four regulars, all had wandered in at separate times throughout the morning, and all were willing to offer suggestions about what to see and where to go for the day. Per the advice of this impromptu welcoming committee I ventured back out into the city armed with a list of places to see and things to do.

The landmark architecture of Moshe Safdie found at the Salt Lake City Public Library, the impeccable gardens of Temple Square and the queer monuments within, the overwhelming view of the Wasatch mountain range from the northern neighborhoods, each point along the way in my memory is punctuated by a blur of life and concrete.

I mounted my two wheeled steed for the final time my last morning in Salt Lake City and began to pedal back to meet my friend, two miles per hour, five, fifteen, thirty. We were back in the car on the way to the airport, forty-five miles per hour, seventy. The jet engines surged forward, one hundred, two hundred, finally shuttling me eastward toward the rising sun at five hundred miles per hour as the last metallic rays reflecting off the rockies dissolved into the horizon. I closed my eyes for the rest of the morning flight and recounted my bicycle dream.