This is a place where a red light means nothing (other than move faster) and hoards of very late Chinese are ready to run down anything and anyone. And when they do get you, they won’t even look over their shoulder to see what that bump in the road was. Add to that the flying dust from construction, the buses that come at such speed you’d think they were driving away from a bomber, the millions of pedestrians that somehow think that they are faster on two feet than you are on two wheels and you have a pretty good idea of what it takes to mount a bike in Shanghai.  No, this pastime is not recommended for the faint hearted. Flying down the grimy streets, hoping and praying that I will get to my destination alive, I often catch myself looking over my shoulder as if I was in a bad remake of Friday the 13th (bad because it wouldn’t be so scary if it were in a horror film, now would it?).

Everyone stares at me. I suppose that were I one of them, I would stare at me too. I’ve seen very few foreign men braving the streets of Shanghai, but foreign women? We are a rare breed to come by indeed, and we have reason to be. I’ve already had two accidents during my year here.

The first was within my first month. As I rode down the road, scrambling to follow my friend who so effortlessly made his way through the bumper to bumper traffic, I was so filled with the rush of just arriving in this new and exciting country that I forgot that traffic lights are not what I should be looking out for. My bike got hit by a car from behind. As I fell in the middle of the street, sweat poured over me and adrenaline pumped through my veins. All I can remember is screaming loud enough to attract the attention of everyone in sight, closing my eyes and hitting the pavement.  My friend came running up to me but I couldn’t hear him speak because my heart was beating so loud in my chest. I had such a panic attack that I couldn’t move. The driver did stop, which is apparently a luxury, but he just started yelling at me in Shanghai hua and shortly thereafter got back into his car and drove away.

The second time I got hit, I was a more seasoned rider, perhaps getting a little too cocky on my bike, feeling like a bad-ass. I was going straight and was about to turn. I looked over my shoulder and saw no one coming so I started to turn. As I leaned to the left, a motorcycle scraped the side of my bike and I went flying –not falling, flying- off my bike. My bag went one way, my sunglasses another.  I was lucky enough to come out of that one with nothing but a scratch that barely left a scar on my left elbow and a group of shocked bystanders that I like to think will always hold a special place in their heart for that poor foreigner who took such a hard fall. I wonder if they make tee-shirts that say “I biked in Shanghai and survived”?

Despite dodging so many bullets every day, I look forward to the rush. I imagine that were the streets pristine, and the people orderly, the exhilaration just wouldn’t be there.  Now where’s the fun in that?