Follow the Leader: Biking to Preschool

He rides the line.

"Stay behind me now, guy. Follow the leader."

With that said, I lead my four year old to preschool on his own two wheeler. To our right is a line of parked cars. Behind us is a school crossing. Passing us on our left is a panel truck. Coming up is our left turn. We share the road with moving cars, parked cars, idling school buses, minivans, dump trucks, geese and ducks, children, joggers, dogs and taxis. It's a little over a kilometer (half a mile) from our house to his preschool. There are no hills- just a flat, neighborhood grid dominated by a couple schools, apartment blocks and churches. A nearby, parallel arterial street is six lanes wide. Our daily route to school takes us down a two lane road punctuated by 4-way stop signs.

Yield to wildlife.

At the age of two, Kelvin first went to school in the back of a baby trailer, or strapped to a tandem stoker seat. By his third birthday Kelvin was insisting on riding his little kick bikes to school. Even though his legs would be tired before we were even halfway there, he still wanted to ride his own bike. We started riding on the sidewalk. Kelvin was pretty fast on a sturdy, pink tricycle he inherited from his sister. And while his trike was faster than his kick bikes, Kelvin still wanted to be on his two wheelers.

Kelvin popping a wheelie on the way home from preschool.

The rule in our house for our own kids and neighborhood kids is that if they're riding wheels, they need a helmet on their head. The condition of the helmet has sometimes been of secondary importance. Our goal is to instill a habit of wearing a helmet the first time and every time. There were a few tantrums, when stubborn kids didn't want to wear a helmet. But my wife and I held firm, and our kids have taken up the habit.  Sometimes we would spend thirty or fifty dollars on a new helmet for a toddler, only to discover them the next afternoon peeling first the stickers and then the thin shell off the helmet. With our youngest on the verge of five years old, we think we're past that expensive, inquisitive stage of picking apart the styrofoam liner, or giving the helmet to the dog for a chew toy...

Both of our kids grew up on the back ends of tandems. We wore our kids in slings from birth. We quickly found that the easiest way to keep them upright and secure on a bike seat was to strap them to the saddle with their sling. They could see an entire world that was previously obscured inside a baby trailer. They also learned to balance better on a bike than on a trike. They understood that shifting their shoulders and hips would tilt a bike.

Kelvin bound onto the stoker seat with his baby sling.

And both of our kids were little speed demons. But we tried to teach them pacing and respect. We would encourage them to slow down at the beginning of a ride so that they still had energy in the second half. We practiced how to pass people and obstacles on the sidewalk. We emphasized control: being able to stop a bike was just as important as starting it. Crashing into friends and pets was not encouraged. More than once we ended rides early and walked our bikes home because a child was endangering themselves or others. The most common problem was riding out into the street without stopping, looking and/or listening. The second most common problem was kids not obeying instructions while riding, such as, "Don't ride through the big puddles, and stop at the end of the block to wait for everyone else."

Kelvin's first afternoon on a two-wheeler.

We find that our kids respond better to positive instructions than to negative reprimands. Instead of always telling our kids what not to do, we try to tell them how we prefer they do it. It's easy to be a drill sergeant constantly screaming, "Don't ride so close to parked cars!" "Don't ride over other people's lawns!" "Don't ride against traffic!" "Don't dart out into traffic!" Being a negative parent is sometimes necessary, but it isn't particularly fun or fulfilling.

Instead, we play a game called, "Follow the Leader." The leader is usually an adult, although more mature kids might be able to lead, too, in safer, quieter settings. The leader is the lead rider. He or she sets the pace and the route of the ride. If the leader says, "Single file," then every rider behind has to line up in single file, with nobody riding next to anybody. With some kids, there may be tension as to who is the first, second, third or last rider. We let them work it out for themselves, unless the situation demands executive action: 

"Line up by age, now. It's not safe to ride two abreast on this sidewalk/trail/road. If we can get home without any arguing, then there may be pizza. If anyone rides through a stop sign or hits a car, we are all getting off of our bikes and walking them home. Understood?"

If the leader feels that riding in an empty stretch of parking lane is safe, then that's what the crew will do. If the leader wants to ride on the white line, or take the lane, or even take the sidewalk, then that's what everyone behind them will do. Unlike their father, my kids have not yet learned first hand why it's dangerous to ride in "the door zone." But they have learned that Dad doesn't ride so close to cars that he can touch them. I often ride along the white parking line while my kids ride in the middle of the parking lane. They enjoy the freedom to hop bumps and wobble around pinecones. But they know that when I sweep my hand behind me, it's time to line up.

The leader has to demonstrate good traffic skills. Communicating your intentions is ninety percent of the trick to riding in traffic. I announce both our turns and stops loudly, and use hand gestures, too. I try to teach my kids to look both ways at every intersection, and to never assume that anyone sees you, or knows what you're going to do.

Riding stoker.

If you have a week of bad weather or bad colds or flat tires, don't sweat it. There will be times when the temper tantrums kick in, and the kids don't want to do anything. Some days I ride with Kelvin to preschool in the morning, and pick him up in the afternoon in the car because we have errands to run. Missing a few days or weeks of riding isn't the worst thing in the world. Get in the car and drive if you have the needs and means. But when the opportunity comes to simplify and economize, take it. You'll be glad you did.

Second Prize in the Independence Day Bike Parade.

What's under that Kilt?

Q: What does a man wear under his kilt?

A: None of your darn business.

I find it annoying and amazing that people who have never worn a kilt in their life will ask me if I’m wearing my kilt “traditionally.” In their minds, that means that I’m not wearing underwear under my kilt.

Unless you’re on Spring Break in Daytona Beach or picking up a hooker, it’s not considered polite to ask a stranger, or even an acquaintance, “Are you wearing underwear?” But somehow it’s considered normal, even expected, to ask a guy in a kilt, “What do you have on underneath?”

Remember back in 1992 when some smart aleck college kid asked Bill Clinton on national television, “Boxers or briefs?” The norms transgressed in that question are the same ones that titillate people when they ask a guy in a kilt, “How’s it hanging?” Remember when Marylin Monroe stood atop a steam vent and we all saw her undies? Ditto.

Where does this odd norm originate from?

Let me preface this by stating up front that I DO wear underwear under my kilt. The few times I’ve tried “going commando” I have briefly appreciated the freedom of my testicles hanging unhindered, but quickly the chafing of my penis on wool/acrylic/cotton was so irritating that I quickly slipped into something more comfortable. Maybe other guys who are uncut and have an intact foreskin hang differently. I’m also not a boxer short guy. I prefer bike shorts, or briefs tailored like bike shorts. When I wear my kilt on my bike I wear bike shorts underneath. It’s just comfier that way.

There are both historical and contemporary origins for the “myth” of the True Scotsman. Since at least the Twentieth Century it has been a custom for drunk Scottish hooligans to lift their kilts and expose themselves to rivals and women. Rivals are supposed to be scared, while women are supposed to be excited. The women who’ve been flashed by drunks in kilts tell me they’re more scared than turned on. 

I have never gotten drunk with a bunch of friends in kilts and said, “Let’s show our stuff off!” I don’t understand that mindset at all. But I’m also not a big team player/sports fan/crowd joiner. Maybe if I was “that kind of guy” I’d think it would be funny to paint my cock and balls in the team colors and show it to the world, or show a girl the ribbon I’d tied around myself. 

When the kilt was uniform issue in the British Army, there were regiments that enforced a no-undies policy during parade inspections. Having served myself, I know that what is expected for parade isn’t necessarily worn every day (just witness the 13-button fly on American Navy sailor suits). There may have been British sergeant majors with mirrors on golf clubs inspecting their underlings nether regions, but I’m sure it was just another way to humiliate the troops into disciplined compliance, and thus make them more fit to join the forlorn hope.

Historically, some Scots did wear shorter kilts, but not by choice. During the Napoleonic Wars, “Highlander Regiments” were all the rage in Great Britain. (I guess when you’re being recruited to be cannon fodder, a kilt would be an attractive bonus.) The English system of outfitting armies wasn’t what it is today- at that time the commanding officer was personally responsible for clothing his regiment, and would be given a government allotment to do so. Cheapskate commanders skimped on the length and breadth of their regiment’s kilts, and kept the extra money for themselves. During the occupation of defeated France by the Allied powers, many a French lass got to see what was under a Scotsman’s kilt. The advent of mass-produced prints at the time perpetuated the stereotype of short, regimental kilts.

So let’s call this contemporary tradition what it is: Sexual Harassment. It’s an assertion of power over another person. We used to think that it was cute or funny if a guy (and it’s almost always a guy) walked around in a trench coat exposing himself to strangers. Nowadays it’s frowned on, and usually treated as a crime. A woman exposing herself is expected to be drunk, and called a slut. But she’s not usually charged with a crime and blacklisted from society as a sexual predator, as guys (justifiably) are.

Here is my challenge to inquiring minds- if you want me to tell you what I’m wearing under my kilt, then you have to tell me what you’re wearing under your pants.  Give as good as you take, I say. And if you can’t take it, then don’t give it.

If the kilt is an expression of freedom from societal norms of couture, then there should be a corresponding freedom to wear a kilt any darn way you like. And if you don't agree with me, then you're no true Scotsman.

“So why the kilt?”

It’s the question I hear the most when I’m wearing a kilt, on a bike or off. Sometimes it’s called a skirt, or a dress. But folks are always curious, even if they’re not always polite. So here are my Top Five Answers:

5. It’s my heritage. Ok, this is a bit of a stretch. Only my great-grandmother was a MacDonald, so that’s not much of a claim to Scottish identity, as it makes me about one-thirty-second Scottish. And to be honest, I find the MacDonald tartan somewhat ugly, at least in the base version.

4. I split pants like Ron Jeremy. I’m 6’5” tall, with a 36” inseam, and a waist that varies between 38 and 42”. Finding pants that fit is literally a pain in the ass. Pants that look good aren't comfortable. Pants that are comfortable don't look good. A pair of Dockers or Levi’s may look fine, but I can’t pop a squat without busting a crotch. I can spend eighty or a hundred bucks on a pair of pants, only to have them rip apart the second or third time I wear them. Because of my thick, muscular thighs, pants that fit in the waist don’t fit in the legs. And pants that are loose enough in the legs usually fall off my waist. Baggy sweatpants and camouflage, battle-dress-uniform (or “cammies”) feel good, but they look sloppy. Specialty manufacturers sell trousers with diamond-gusseted crotches, but they’re hard to find and pricey.

3. I’ve got the legs for it. I bike and walk every day. I’ve got tight thighs and bulging calves. If you’ve got it, flaunt it. I get compliments on my kilts every day I wear them, and that feels pretty darn good.

2. Riding a bike is hard on pants. I’ve blown out the crotch on too many pairs of pants, throwing my leg over the saddle. I’ve caught the cuffs in the chain, and torn the knees when crashing. There are more knickers on the market now than there once were, and yoga pants (not leggings) are also comfy on the bike. But the number one reason I wear a kilt is…

1. Comfort. My kilts are comfy on the bike and off. They’re cool when it’s hot, and warm when it’s cold. They don’t bind or chafe my legs and nether regions. I don’t get cramps in my back from belts tightened too much to keep up sagging pants.