Schulman: Can NY cycling compete with riding bikes in Paris?

I was convinced I'd hate the bike-share program.

In Paris last spring, I noticed the same kind of bike racks sprinkled throughout the city that are now parked in New York. I was amazed how many bike sharers on the Champs Élysées didn't wear helmets -- and returned to their homes safely with a fresh baguette. Renaults gave two-wheelers the right of way. Bikers stopped for pedestrians. Bike sharing works seamlessly in a city of only 2 million. Its streets weren't overburdened with bicycle-wielding, frenzied pizza deliveries.

In New York, cyclists often surprise and frighten pedestrians when they zoom the wrong way down a one-way street. There I was, in the crosswalk, and the next moment I just escaped wearing crutches to work. I yelled expletives at lawless riders, unconvinced they would change their evil ways.

When the blue bikes began cruising our streets, I lectured my teenage daughter to beware. I grew up here and can recall muggings in the '70s, but she's always known her hometown as safe. Not even Times Square is scary anymore. But bikes . . . that's a horror movie.

The bike racks called to her, reminding her of our trip to Paris, where the highway by the Seine brimmed with families, enjoying a spin past the Louvre. "You're not going to let me ride here, are you?" she said.

"How about taking the bus to the West Side, renting a bike there, and bicycling on the river path?" I suggested.

"That defeats the purpose," she complained.

Hating the sound of my worried-mother voice, I impulsively asked my daughter to rent a Citi Bike with me one recent sunny afternoon. Surprised, her face transformed into glee. We donned our helmets . . . and were off.

Our destination: a gelato store 11/2 miles away. The bike lanes west on Ninth Street were scary at first, but I shifted gears into "denial." I watched for potholes. My daughter watched over her shoulder to make sure I was still riding high.

"Isn't this fun?" she said, as we savored chocolate ice cream cones.

I admitted it was. How liberating to glide back home! En route, I yelled at a bicycler plowing through a red light. "Obey the traffic laws!" I reprimanded.

My work is never done.

Candy Schulman lives in Greenwich Village.