Here We Go Now

Here are some things I've noticed about my surroundings, now that I've been commuting by bike so much...

Some people, when they're walking down the street and call out to you as their bitch and hoe as you're riding by, mean it affectionately.

It only takes about 15 minutes to ride over to the other side of Berkeley at lunch time. It only takes 10 minutes to ride over to Bake Sale Betty's at lunch time. It only takes 8 minutes to ride over to Trader Joes at lunch time.

There's a biker bar down the street from us that serves breakfast and lunch and also does tattoos. And I need a new tattoo!

It's really not that bad, riding in the scary parts, if you just ride really fast and pretend it's a six block interval.

Here are some things I need to carry on my bike commute...

An air horn that attaches to my handle bars, that I can blow at people in cars when they cut me off or when they honk at me from behind because they want me to get out of their way or when they pass me and then move over in front of me into the bike lane.

Turn signal blinkers that attach to my hands so that when I stick my arm out to signal a turn at night, they automatically start flashing and cars can actually see that I want to turn.

A bell that rings out "excuse me" when I'm trying to inch by stopped traffic who just all happen to be in the bike lane.

Here are some observations I've made about the cyclist/bike commuter pecking order...

Roadies in kits no longer wave to me - even if I wave to them.

Commuters in regular clothes, on flat pedals try to out sprint me from stop sign to stop sign. We race, but we never acknowledge it nor each other.

I can scare roadies by skidding my back wheel when I get to stop signs. It makes a nice loud squeaking noise.

Roadies in kits won't look at me (let alone wave), at night, when I have the green down low glow light on. Only kids and old men and men who call me their bitch tell me how cool the green light is.

Fixies wiz by me so fast, without helmets on and through red lights, but still acknowledge me with a thumbs up.

As soon as it's lighter later and it warms up I'm going to start wearing my kit while I'm commuting on the Xtracycle and challenge roadies and fixies and flat pedaled commuters, as I pedal ferociously by them, to drag race.

And other random observations...

I think I might be the only bike commuter who sings out loud? I never hear anyone else singing. Come on, really?

Riding my bike to and fro to a place called work where everyone else rides their bike to and fro as well, still makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

It's hard to ride past Zachary's pizza and not stop.

Riding in jeans and thong underwear because you forgot your cycling shorts for the ride home, again, up 1100 feet really isn't as bad as it sounds.

Quick, Before I Turn Into A Pumpkin

I'm like Rocky Balboa when he runs up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

I'm the every (wo)man of modern day, the underdog in a line of cars, rising to the challenge of the daily bike commute, riding and rising up a thousand and some odd feet, loaded with my parkas and pants and scarves and ponytail holders and apples and my loofa that I never use at work because there's no shower and my extra gloves and almonds and tangerines and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

All stuffed into my bags.

In the evenings, starting down at sea level, shifting gears through the quiet neighborhood streets of Berkeley, gliding along, smelling the bbq and the garlic and the bacon and hamburgers and the fireplaces and sometimes the jasmine even though it's still winter.

Listening to the voices of those arriving home, but not seeing them, I pass by as they climb out from inside their cars and help their kids or partners carry their day's belongings up the stairs to their front doors. I pass by and finish their conversations in my own world.

Snippets of songs from open car windows as I ride by, while they're stopped in traffic. I'm humming to them.

Peddling along through Rockridge, the faint whiff of coffee as I ride swiftly down College avenue darting in between parked cars with opening doors and stopped traffic and I wave at someone I know, who yells out from their outside cafe table. And I want to stop and have coffee and chat.

But you know, I have kids and all and there's mac and cheese and salmon waiting to be made at home.

On my way home.

From sea level (almost) every night up to snow level, lit up ever so slightly with blinkie lights on the free radical, in the early winter darkness, inching along, past the schools, past the pizza parlor, the grocery store - through the north oakland side.

Under the freeway, up to the frontage road, up into the hills along to the lake, to the bike path to catch a glimpse of the homeless guy who sleeps under the trees as he's making his way along the path.

A big whiff of pot. A black cat crossing my path. And I sing my songs out loud.

The higher up, the slower the cranks turn, my rhythm proceeding slower and slower and I start to sing louder to keep my mind off the heavy load in my bags, the load that feels a little like bricks when going up such steep hills. Why do I carry so much stuff? I wonder to myself out loud.

Someday, you just might need that loofa or some raisins.

Up through her small village in the hills, she coasts down the main street and they stare at her, the middle aged mom, gliding along on her long bike in the night, scarf blowing behind her, as she rides through their little town, smiling - like she's an outsider.

They don't recognize her, but they recognize the bike. In the dark.

Up the final few miles - it's better to stare at the ground and pretend that you're not really climbing up something so steep. Point the light at the ground and focus on how you're going to save the world.

And on how you're going to cook better stuff for your kids and not eat out so much and not eat as much meat, except for bacon, and save more money and start growing vegetables in the garden and take the dog for more walks and simplify and train for cyclocross season next year.

Because you know if you really did train for cyclocross next year and eat vegis from the garden, you'd totally do so much better in your races and maybe this spring you'll even do a 6 hour mtb race or something. And.

And then...

Well shit, I just lost my train of thought. I must be home.