diary: A weeklong electronic journal.

Sol Levine

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Posted Friday, May 4, 2001, at 8:30 PM ET

As the afternoon heat started to break, I grabbed my bike and rode down to the White House. It's one of my favorite things. Kinda nutty, huh? Actually, it's very pretty there, as is Lafayette Park across the street. The grass in the park smelled fresh-cut and was such a nearly impossibly green color, I flashed back to my first trip to Yankee Stadium as a young boy. I have deep respect for the history of the White House. Both the symbolism and the reality. The White House is not merely a façade; the business of the nation is really conducted there. I covered presidents for more than a decade, from Reagan to Clinton, and I have many memories—both fond and painful. But that's not why I went down there today. Reminisce? Smell the grass? Take a hike! I went down there to—RIDE MY BIKE IN THE FREE AND OPEN SPACE WHERE CARS, TRUCKS AND BUSES ARE BANNED: THE 1600 BLOCK OF PENNSLYVANIA AVE N.W.! GET down. If you were hoping for some sappy "Diary" entry about the White House, George Washington, or the War of 1812, click ahead, reader. You've been set up. It's Friday, for cryin' out loud. And I'm cruisin'.

What I like to do best is get out on the oh-so-smooth pavement of the avenue and do loops and figure eights, up and down its quarter-mile length, using tourists as live pylons. I smile, but I get some really funny expressions from people in return. I have an almost perfect record: no hits, no errors, and just a couple of runs. (How could they not trust me?) A lot of people come here, and not only visitors from out of town. Besides a couple of other bikers who stay far away from me, there are joggers, mothers with strollers (pylon exempt), people just out for a walk, and rollerbladers. (Tip: Never play chicken with a rollerblader carrying a hockey stick and wearing a helmet.)

Tourists from around the world clearly dominate the scene. You can feel among them the buzz of excitement just being there. In fact, this afternoon there was some real drama. The gates for the north lawn driveway opened. A motorcade was forming up inside. Agents took their places. Everyone up and down the avenue moved in and crowded around—pressed close on tiptoe—to see. Was it the president? Yes! Vicente Fox, the president of Mexico, departing the White House. Vicente Fox? Again? President Bush, if you two guys keep this up, Laura might start to get suspicious. I mean, what are you two doing? With the motorcade out of the way I pedaled past the gate and over to the section of the fence that overlooks the narrow strip of the north lawn where TV news reporters do their stand-ups. Sometimes they draw a pretty large crowd. But only a dozen or so are pressed against the fence when I wheel up. "Who is that? What are they saying?" I imagine they're thinking. But I prefer actual conversation. Strange, no? When I speak with strangers, they can sometimes become upset. I don't know why. Maybe they're just shy. I used to feel that way too. I turn to them from my perch atop my bike, and loud and clear, with a curious, perhaps incredulous tone, my wildest-eyed unshaven look on my face, I gesture toward the reporters and demand, "Who the hell do those people think they are?!!" Pleased with myself, I anticipate a vigorous conversation. But the tourists look at me agape. I definitely captured their attention, but now they're the ones with the wild eyes. My finely honed instincts detect discomfort in the air, perhaps a mild sense of fear. Like I might rob them. As they back away, split into two groups, and scurry off, I can hear rapidly spoken French. The other language I think is probably Dutch. Oh, well. I tried. There's one person still there. It's a very large man dressed in soft tones and a smile. With an earpiece. Now I'm starting to get that "oh, shit" feeling. "Eye doent bulive they-all understoud you," he says, searching me with his eyes. Trying to start a conversation? Or investigative question-and-answer session? Just then, I suddenly didn't feel like much of a people person. I'm outta there, and fast. I suppose that could have been a hearing aid in his ear. But I doubt it.

After the Oklahoma City bombing, the Secret Service recommended to then-president Bill Clinton that Pennsylvania Avenue be closed to motor vehicle traffic. The White House is, after all, less than 100 yards from the street. From the very moment it was closed, local D.C. officials and some members of Congress howled in protest. "Keep Pennsylvania Avenue open to the people!" was their cry. What's the real issue here? Caving in to terrorists? No, much more important. Rush-hour traffic. Pennsylvania Avenue was a major cross-town artery. Now it isn't. Traffic has been rerouted to another street. Is it as fast? No, not quite. But so what? Rush-hour traffic is horrendous now but only a little more so than it was before Pennsylvania Avenue was closed. Now visitors and residents alike are enjoying the open space and stunning views of the White House without having to jam into each other on the sidewalk. Today a group of about 150 elementary-school munchkins from New Jersey filled the sidewalk and the street, jumping up and down, just being happy. Another group—visitors from Grand Rapids, Mich.—about 30 high-school-age kids and their chaperons, wearing Christian Discovery badges, lined up three deep in the middle of the avenue for a group picture. And the tourists and joggers and skaters and mothers with strollers kept coming. But by this time, I was in the shade, just taking it all in. I could have been somebody's pylon. Pennsylvania Avenue is open to the people indeed. Just not your car.

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Posted Friday, May 4, 2001, at 8:30 PM ET