(1) Besides "certain death," a trusted colleague from Pittsburgh observed, commuting by bike would amount to "16 mile[s] over various rivers, mountains, and non-bicycle-accessible highways."
All fair enough.
Although I had not asked. Since HotU blog launched, I have heard this response several times over -- often defensive, always unsolicited -- about the need to drive. That leads to an important point. We as a society have created auto dependency. For many of us, living without cars is not an option. Not open for discussion. We burn gas, regardless of the ramifications. We also fail to understand why people want to fly airplanes into our buildings.
(2) Two readers responded to my decidedly unpractical choices in "Carrying Capacity of a 47 Year Old Man." Kip, a neo-thoreauvian, sent me a link for panniers. And a young radical named Josh kindly offered his kid-carrier, which would do fine for groceries. Thanks gentlemen, I will pass for now, balancing stuff on the handlebars is part of the fun.
(3) Which leads to my son's bicycle shutdown. I am happy to report that the front gate is fixed, and that kid and I rode to school all last week. More on that in the near future. My friend Merle, an environmental ethicist friend, relayed his own experiences while biking with a child in foster care.
The kid under his charge loved the adventure, though sometimes too much -- and took off into a busy intersection one day.
Thanksfully the kid made it. He survived the mishap and is now adopted.
But is that not the great lesson for young bicyclists?
"Both hands," I am often reminding my son, "you are traffic." Traveling by bike is pure joy. Bicycling involves risk. We weigh risk against adventure. And what more important lesson is there for a child to learn: how to balance danger against reward?
Thanks for all the questions and comments. Please keep those thoughts chuning and those wheels turning!
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Twitter-ific
If you have a Twitter account, you can now follow this blog on Twitter. For my part, I think all you have to do is click here and opt to "Follow Me."
On a car-related note, I've decided to allow myself to drive one day a week. This week I drove three times. I suck, but not as much as I could, so there's your silver lining right there, dammit. The point is, the scooter is so easy and the bike is so continuous (it's physical work, but I can pedal without a lot of stops and starts) that between the stick shift (and I'd be lying if I said I was good at driving a manual transmission; it's actually painful to my passengers) and the traffic lights, just driving is exhausting. Give me a bus any day now: I can read, sleep, or daydream and no one gets hurt.
Hopefully, Dr. H and our two new contributors will add this blog to their Twitter accounts, so you can follow us all and we can be one big happy car-free (in my case, car-minimalist) family.
On a car-related note, I've decided to allow myself to drive one day a week. This week I drove three times. I suck, but not as much as I could, so there's your silver lining right there, dammit. The point is, the scooter is so easy and the bike is so continuous (it's physical work, but I can pedal without a lot of stops and starts) that between the stick shift (and I'd be lying if I said I was good at driving a manual transmission; it's actually painful to my passengers) and the traffic lights, just driving is exhausting. Give me a bus any day now: I can read, sleep, or daydream and no one gets hurt.
Hopefully, Dr. H and our two new contributors will add this blog to their Twitter accounts, so you can follow us all and we can be one big happy car-free (in my case, car-minimalist) family.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
tough love all around
Son and I were looking forward to riding our bicycles to school. We have a safe route -- sidewalk, neighborhood streets, and bike lanes almost the entire way. We started this last year. I got good exercise. He and I bonded over a favorite activity. And he got to his fourth grade classroom on time, with an aerated brain, energies worked out -- and with a healthy jolt to his self-esteem.
So the routine was supposed to start this morning. (Yesterday, the first day of school, was simply too hectic.)
Except we had a bad night. The stress of entering the fifth grade -- "Rules, Rules, Rules!" -- proved to be too much. In a fit of pique while putting away his beloved Chopper, he busted our front gate. Long story short: he cannot ride his bicycle until the gate is fixed.
Which means we had to drive to school this morning.
Bummer.
I sure hope that gate gets repaired soon. The punishment is killing me.
So the routine was supposed to start this morning. (Yesterday, the first day of school, was simply too hectic.)
Except we had a bad night. The stress of entering the fifth grade -- "Rules, Rules, Rules!" -- proved to be too much. In a fit of pique while putting away his beloved Chopper, he busted our front gate. Long story short: he cannot ride his bicycle until the gate is fixed.
Which means we had to drive to school this morning.
Bummer.
I sure hope that gate gets repaired soon. The punishment is killing me.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Compromise
It looks like, no matter how you slice it, it's going to come down to compromise.
I drove Tuesday night.
That sounds, even to my ears, like an alcoholic confessing to a Ketel One martini, extra dry but extra dirty. Not, of course, that I would know.
While Dr. Hallock's been trying to carry a kegger's worth of food home on his bike (you can dress it up any way you want, Dr. H, you're part of the Florida Studies program and we know your black little secrets), I was gambling on whether or not the city council meeting I had to cover would end before sunset. See, I wanted to take the scooter instead of the bicycle (let's call me lazy), but the lights currently operate on island time. They come on when they want and turn off as the mood strikes them; not safe.
I gambled – wisely – that the meeting would last past sunset and took the car. I was right not to count on not needing a headlight – the meeting lasted well past sunset. But, damn it, I've taken the car at least once a week since this started.
Perhaps the key is compromise. As a former coworker used to say, nothing is going to move closer Oklahoma to Orlando. We will always need cars. But maybe the key is to need them a lot less.
I'll still try not to drive through the end of the month. But I'm not pleased with how easily I resort to jumping behind the wheel of a car, and I'd like to see if I can get past that. Suggestions welcome.
I drove Tuesday night.
That sounds, even to my ears, like an alcoholic confessing to a Ketel One martini, extra dry but extra dirty. Not, of course, that I would know.
While Dr. Hallock's been trying to carry a kegger's worth of food home on his bike (you can dress it up any way you want, Dr. H, you're part of the Florida Studies program and we know your black little secrets), I was gambling on whether or not the city council meeting I had to cover would end before sunset. See, I wanted to take the scooter instead of the bicycle (let's call me lazy), but the lights currently operate on island time. They come on when they want and turn off as the mood strikes them; not safe.
I gambled – wisely – that the meeting would last past sunset and took the car. I was right not to count on not needing a headlight – the meeting lasted well past sunset. But, damn it, I've taken the car at least once a week since this started.
Perhaps the key is compromise. As a former coworker used to say, nothing is going to move closer Oklahoma to Orlando. We will always need cars. But maybe the key is to need them a lot less.
I'll still try not to drive through the end of the month. But I'm not pleased with how easily I resort to jumping behind the wheel of a car, and I'd like to see if I can get past that. Suggestions welcome.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
what is the carrying capacity of a 47 year old man on a bicycle?
Eight bags of groceries. Or somewhere thereabouts.
We were having a cookout. Friends were in town. We had been away for a month. There was family to see. So I volunteered wife and me to do some grilling.
Come Saturday morning, we needed provisions.
I rode down the Third Street bike lane towards Publix. Crossed campus. Pulled onto Second. Made it back, four bags hooked over the right handlebar, three over the left, ice and juice boxes in my trusty Jansport. I had everything on the list except for beer. Our friend likes Heineken. Won't mention what Junot Diaz says about Heineken. But the bottles would have to wait.
I made it home by 11:45, fifteen minutes before folks were to arrive.
Wife had wanted me to take car. Pity the wife here. This whole carfree experiment has been a burden to her. While I am holding to my principles, reducing emissions and saving the planet, wife must fret over late-arriving groceries, general procrastination with (what I would call consolidation of) errands, and logistical screw-ups in our already harried life.
I am a slightly shorter, bald Ed Begley.
But I made it back. And the beer problem solved itself.
We were having a cookout. Friends were in town. We had been away for a month. There was family to see. So I volunteered wife and me to do some grilling.
Come Saturday morning, we needed provisions.
I rode down the Third Street bike lane towards Publix. Crossed campus. Pulled onto Second. Made it back, four bags hooked over the right handlebar, three over the left, ice and juice boxes in my trusty Jansport. I had everything on the list except for beer. Our friend likes Heineken. Won't mention what Junot Diaz says about Heineken. But the bottles would have to wait.
I made it home by 11:45, fifteen minutes before folks were to arrive.
Wife had wanted me to take car. Pity the wife here. This whole carfree experiment has been a burden to her. While I am holding to my principles, reducing emissions and saving the planet, wife must fret over late-arriving groceries, general procrastination with (what I would call consolidation of) errands, and logistical screw-ups in our already harried life.
I am a slightly shorter, bald Ed Begley.
But I made it back. And the beer problem solved itself.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Just in case...
... I was thinking about taking the car to city council tonight, but now I don't know...
Click here to see my hesitation.
I mean, I hear he hogs the radio and won't roll up the window.
Click here to see my hesitation.
I mean, I hear he hogs the radio and won't roll up the window.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Everybody Has a Story
Despite Dr. Hallock's assertion that writing for money ruins writers, I prefer writing for money to almost anything else. Of course, I'm trained for little else that pays a living wage, so I find myself writing for survival. I'm OK with that; I understand that I'm not exactly Keats or, sadly, even Dorothy Parker. Oh, how I would love to be Dorothy Parker. My friends could call me "Dot" and I could assault them with my rapier wit... but I digress. I write for money, period. I write for myself, too, but it's a Maslow-type situation here: I have to make sure I have a roof over my head and food to eat before I can get creative.
So, of course, I found a small way to turn this carless experiment into paid work. No, I'm not writing about going without a car for a month – I did that last year and, anyway, lately you can't swing a bankrupt media empire without hitting a first-person journalist report of reducing one's carbon footprint.
No, I'm writing about stories. I've long been fascinated with people. I believe that everyone has a story, and I'm nosy enough – Thanks, Mom! – to pick at the edges of people's lives. I don't want to know what happened to them when they were eight or where they went to high school, but I like to taste the flavor of other people's existence.
Every time I ride the Beach Trolley I end up smushed elbow-to-elbow with those existences. Finally, it dawned on me: I'm not the only one. We are a society of voyeurs. People love stories. That guy with the mullet (I'll let you decide if I'm referring to the fish or the haircut) on the bus? Yup, he's got a story. The old man with a walker and Navy tattoos? You betcha.
Every other week I'll write Trolley Tales for the Pinellas Beaches Patch, an AOL company that's made the plunge into local news. Click here to read the first one, published today, with apologies to Dr. H.
So, of course, I found a small way to turn this carless experiment into paid work. No, I'm not writing about going without a car for a month – I did that last year and, anyway, lately you can't swing a bankrupt media empire without hitting a first-person journalist report of reducing one's carbon footprint.
No, I'm writing about stories. I've long been fascinated with people. I believe that everyone has a story, and I'm nosy enough – Thanks, Mom! – to pick at the edges of people's lives. I don't want to know what happened to them when they were eight or where they went to high school, but I like to taste the flavor of other people's existence.
Every time I ride the Beach Trolley I end up smushed elbow-to-elbow with those existences. Finally, it dawned on me: I'm not the only one. We are a society of voyeurs. People love stories. That guy with the mullet (I'll let you decide if I'm referring to the fish or the haircut) on the bus? Yup, he's got a story. The old man with a walker and Navy tattoos? You betcha.
Every other week I'll write Trolley Tales for the Pinellas Beaches Patch, an AOL company that's made the plunge into local news. Click here to read the first one, published today, with apologies to Dr. H.
Monday, August 8, 2011
My Beach Bike
I just read Dr. Hallock's post below, and I have to say... YES! OK, not so much on the Copenhagen, because Denmark stole my friends and it gets cold there, but everything else, YES!
A move across the bridge offered me almost complete escape from the Men in Tights (OK, they aren't tights; they're silly looking spandex bike shorts, but that doesn't trip off the tongue as easily, does it?), and I have to say, I love St. Pete Bike Club-free living. No offense to those who love to ride, but how are you enjoying yourself?
Sunday morning El Cap and I rode our bikes down to the beach, went for a swim, had breakfast at the Paradise Grill, and rode back home. On our way, we passed two Very Serious Bicyclists. You all know the type: Men in Tights. Stretchy shirts with colorful logos splashed everywhere, expensive water bottles, bikes that push their bums practically past their shoulders as they hunch over their carbon-lithium-titanium-shark's blood-whatever-framed bicycle. They wear helmets and zip along just fast enough to make sidewalk riding a bad idea but not quite fast enough to avoid pissing off motorists (if you want to hear more about my strong feelings, read the column I wrote a couple years ago)
Now, my bike is not expensive. I mean, it was for me, but I write for a living. I consider water-packed albacore tuna expensive. I paid about $150 for it at Wal-Mart (here's what it looks like) and I love it. It has a bottle opener on the frame, cup holder, and leather ditty bag. It also has a heavy frame, fat tires, and no gears.
I love my bike. I love living somewhere where I can roll out of bed on a Sunday morning, ride my bike to the beach, have a swim and some eggs, and pedal back home. I don't give a rat's red ass how much the frame weighs. I couldn't tell you a damn thing about the front sprocket. Hell, I doubt I could even identify a sprocket.
The St. Pete Bike Club would laugh at me. But you know what? That's OK, because I pity them. You see, while they're racing around town, making excellent time, I'm cruising around, taking it all in, having an excellent time.
A move across the bridge offered me almost complete escape from the Men in Tights (OK, they aren't tights; they're silly looking spandex bike shorts, but that doesn't trip off the tongue as easily, does it?), and I have to say, I love St. Pete Bike Club-free living. No offense to those who love to ride, but how are you enjoying yourself?
Sunday morning El Cap and I rode our bikes down to the beach, went for a swim, had breakfast at the Paradise Grill, and rode back home. On our way, we passed two Very Serious Bicyclists. You all know the type: Men in Tights. Stretchy shirts with colorful logos splashed everywhere, expensive water bottles, bikes that push their bums practically past their shoulders as they hunch over their carbon-lithium-titanium-shark's blood-whatever-framed bicycle. They wear helmets and zip along just fast enough to make sidewalk riding a bad idea but not quite fast enough to avoid pissing off motorists (if you want to hear more about my strong feelings, read the column I wrote a couple years ago)
Now, my bike is not expensive. I mean, it was for me, but I write for a living. I consider water-packed albacore tuna expensive. I paid about $150 for it at Wal-Mart (here's what it looks like) and I love it. It has a bottle opener on the frame, cup holder, and leather ditty bag. It also has a heavy frame, fat tires, and no gears.
I love my bike. I love living somewhere where I can roll out of bed on a Sunday morning, ride my bike to the beach, have a swim and some eggs, and pedal back home. I don't give a rat's red ass how much the frame weighs. I couldn't tell you a damn thing about the front sprocket. Hell, I doubt I could even identify a sprocket.
The St. Pete Bike Club would laugh at me. But you know what? That's OK, because I pity them. You see, while they're racing around town, making excellent time, I'm cruising around, taking it all in, having an excellent time.
Got Bus?
I love the bus. I really, really do. There are things I wish PSTA did differently and I hate that it isn't always the easiest way to travel, but in all, I love the bus.
I love it even more after a five-hour trip to Cassadaga, which, unfortunately, was not on a bus.
Let me back up. I write a monthly piece for the Gabber Newspaper called Detours & Diversions, whereby I write about some lessor-known Florida destination. I thought Cassadaga, an historic spiritualist camp just north or the state's center, would be a neat trip. Two of my friends also wanted to go, so, under the guise of "we're carpooling, so it's OK to take the car," we three climbed into my Rabbit and headed for the psychics.
We opted to avoid the interstate and instead take the back roads a noble and time-honored way to see the state. All went well along SR 50, where we bought lunch from a roadside trailer (Texas burgers and pork, hooray Florida food!) but when we hit the Orlando detritus, it all went to hell. See, there are no longer any "backroads" in Orlando. I lived there as an undergrad, well before GPS and texted traffic updates, and it was a nightmare then. Because this is Florida, of course, a couple decades have failed to improve the situation. Think rush-hour, construction-era I-4. With stoplights. And kittens on the road. Playful kittens with malice in their eyes.
Ah, back to my point: traffic was a mess along 17, which made a two-hour trip last five hours. Yes, five hours. I shit thee not. All the while, I kept thinking how much this wouldn't bother me on a bus. I also arrived at Cassadaga in a pissy mood. Apparently the psychics knew this, because it was like a – pardon the pun – ghost town.
There's no grand point to the story here, except to say after riding a couple of buses last week and then plunging headlong into Orlando's snarled mess of traffic, I wonder why everyone out there doesn't take a bus. Because unless I'm on a road trip – this one doesn't count – more and more, driving kind of... sucks.
I love it even more after a five-hour trip to Cassadaga, which, unfortunately, was not on a bus.
Let me back up. I write a monthly piece for the Gabber Newspaper called Detours & Diversions, whereby I write about some lessor-known Florida destination. I thought Cassadaga, an historic spiritualist camp just north or the state's center, would be a neat trip. Two of my friends also wanted to go, so, under the guise of "we're carpooling, so it's OK to take the car," we three climbed into my Rabbit and headed for the psychics.
We opted to avoid the interstate and instead take the back roads a noble and time-honored way to see the state. All went well along SR 50, where we bought lunch from a roadside trailer (Texas burgers and pork, hooray Florida food!) but when we hit the Orlando detritus, it all went to hell. See, there are no longer any "backroads" in Orlando. I lived there as an undergrad, well before GPS and texted traffic updates, and it was a nightmare then. Because this is Florida, of course, a couple decades have failed to improve the situation. Think rush-hour, construction-era I-4. With stoplights. And kittens on the road. Playful kittens with malice in their eyes.
Ah, back to my point: traffic was a mess along 17, which made a two-hour trip last five hours. Yes, five hours. I shit thee not. All the while, I kept thinking how much this wouldn't bother me on a bus. I also arrived at Cassadaga in a pissy mood. Apparently the psychics knew this, because it was like a – pardon the pun – ghost town.
There's no grand point to the story here, except to say after riding a couple of buses last week and then plunging headlong into Orlando's snarled mess of traffic, I wonder why everyone out there doesn't take a bus. Because unless I'm on a road trip – this one doesn't count – more and more, driving kind of... sucks.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
life is too short to ride an ugly bike
A few years back I was in Copenhagen, a city that (I am not the first to notice) raises bicycling to a new kind of sexy. Now let it be said that tall, blonde Danes can make anything sexy.
Scones. Fear and Trembling. Herring.
If you're wondering how tiny fish brined in vinegar can get one's motor running ... what makes pickled fish sexy? you may ask ... well, my friend, you have never been to Copenhagen. Just go there, I would advise all young and/or unattached followers of this blog ... With Haste!
But I digress before I even start.
In Pinellas County, a point we miss with bicycling is style. Visit any of the larger shops in St. Pete and you'll find row after row of VERY expensive road racing bikes. Not a single touring bike in the bunch. Almost all of them very fast ... and kind of dull.
While searching for a bike several years back, I went to three different stores before I went to The Bike Room, where the affable and able Joe McCue pulled out a Schwinn Coffee. It was love at first sight.
The Coffee, now my commuting bike of choice, is not built for speed. The front sprocket is too small. The seat sits straight upright, and when I catch a breeze off the bay, forward progress grinds to a halt. The rabid Action Bikers zoom past me on Third Street. Yes, of course, they move fast. They burn mucho calories.
But here's the catch. They look like dorks. Now please hear me clearly, dear reader. I am thoroughly enlightened on matters of sex, sexuality, and gender normativity. But it is my unwavering belief that men should not wear black spandex. At least in public. Maybe on designated nights when The Boy has been very, very bad to his Honey Pot ... but that's another story. And not one you probably want to hear from me. Unless you're Danish.
But I digress again.
Back to dress codes, style, and bicycles.
Sometimes I see the young 'uns cruising round town in natty fixed wheelers. They always seem to appreciate a vintage Raleigh or Motobecane. And they look cool -- poorly placed tattoos notwithstanding. All very heartening. But still, they are the minority.
All this to say ... fashion matters. When we bike, please remember style.
The future depends on our peddling strong and casting a good shadow.
Scones. Fear and Trembling. Herring.
If you're wondering how tiny fish brined in vinegar can get one's motor running ... what makes pickled fish sexy? you may ask ... well, my friend, you have never been to Copenhagen. Just go there, I would advise all young and/or unattached followers of this blog ... With Haste!
But I digress before I even start.
In Pinellas County, a point we miss with bicycling is style. Visit any of the larger shops in St. Pete and you'll find row after row of VERY expensive road racing bikes. Not a single touring bike in the bunch. Almost all of them very fast ... and kind of dull.
While searching for a bike several years back, I went to three different stores before I went to The Bike Room, where the affable and able Joe McCue pulled out a Schwinn Coffee. It was love at first sight.
The Coffee, now my commuting bike of choice, is not built for speed. The front sprocket is too small. The seat sits straight upright, and when I catch a breeze off the bay, forward progress grinds to a halt. The rabid Action Bikers zoom past me on Third Street. Yes, of course, they move fast. They burn mucho calories.
But here's the catch. They look like dorks. Now please hear me clearly, dear reader. I am thoroughly enlightened on matters of sex, sexuality, and gender normativity. But it is my unwavering belief that men should not wear black spandex. At least in public. Maybe on designated nights when The Boy has been very, very bad to his Honey Pot ... but that's another story. And not one you probably want to hear from me. Unless you're Danish.
But I digress again.
Back to dress codes, style, and bicycles.
Sometimes I see the young 'uns cruising round town in natty fixed wheelers. They always seem to appreciate a vintage Raleigh or Motobecane. And they look cool -- poorly placed tattoos notwithstanding. All very heartening. But still, they are the minority.
All this to say ... fashion matters. When we bike, please remember style.
The future depends on our peddling strong and casting a good shadow.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Singing on the Bike
On the bike I frequently burst out into song. Not singing along with the radio kind of singing. But full throated, barbaric yawps. The tune I can't get out of my head, "GONNA SIGN UP YOUR SOUL, JOIN THE SHARING PATROL," from a band I liked back when I was still Young and Fresh.
Bus Stories
I am very excited to have to go to Clearwater today; I'm writing about Sand Key Park for the Clearwater Patch. Mostly I'm excited because I get to ride the beach trolley. I'm a total bus geek; I love to ride the bus. My mom and dad, who grew up having to ride the bus in New York, don't understand this at all. They refuse to set foot on a bus, no matter how I entreat them.
Anyway, I'm also starting a new series for the Pinellas Beaches Patch about the people who ride the beach trolley, which I'm excited about.
It's the little joys in life.
Anyway, I'm also starting a new series for the Pinellas Beaches Patch about the people who ride the beach trolley, which I'm excited about.
It's the little joys in life.
The Buddha on the Bike
Yesterday I opted to ride my shiny new Panama Jack beach cruiser to the Gabber and back home, an eight-mile round trip. This led me to seriously consider whether or not the gym membership is doing its job. I like to think the free weights, yoga, and running help me stay in shape. I like to think a lot of things that are apparently incorrect. Yesterday afternoon, my pretty new bike made me its bitch.
About six miles into what I am not-so-affectionately referring to a "one-hundred-and-four-horseman-of-the-apocalypse-degree day," I became consumed with the heat, the fact that I had managed to ride into the wind both coming and going, and my apparent inability to develop a better lung capacity than the drunks who have no choice BUT to ride their bikes everywhere.
I was, to put a positive spin on things, living very much in the moment.
That's when a man on a bike pedaled up next to me.
"It's almost too hot for this!" he said, almost cheerfully enough for me to reach over and stick a branch in his tire spokes. Fortunately for him, I lacked the energy.
"Almost?" I replied. I then made some vague complaint about the heat, followed by how I'd be regretting complaining in November.
"In November we'll wish it was this hot again," he said. I agreed.
"No use wishing it was different. Better just to accept it and move on," he said. He turned off the street. "Bye."
The whole interaction took all of 45 seconds, but it left me feeling pretty ashamed. I'd been so busy wishing it was cooler or less windy or easier that I wasn't able to focus on what I had – a bike ride on a summer's day. I hadn't paid a scrap of attention to anything I saw as I pedaled past, engrossed in resentment that things weren't easier.
"Suck it up" isn't exactly the message I took away from that exchange, but that's what I did. Look, the wind will change or it won't, I told myself. I still have to ride into it now; why not focus on something else? I'm not going to get into better shape right now, but I still have to ride with the body I've got. The heat is abating (it was almost six o'clock by this point and it had cooled down to a respectable 95 or so), but, barring a thunderstorm, this is as cool as it's getting right now. I forced myself to stop thinking about those things.
I caught a whiff of a gardenia bush as I rode past. I saw an egret soaring overhead as I approached the drawbridge. An egret looked at me looking at him and decided I posed no threat to his life or next meal.
It was still end-of-the-world hot, I was still not in shape to ride a beach cruiser eight miles, and the wind didn't shift to my favor. When I got back to the drawbridge, it wasn't any easier.
Somehow, I didn't mind as much as long as I reminded myself I couldn't change it.
About six miles into what I am not-so-affectionately referring to a "one-hundred-and-four-horseman-of-the-apocalypse-degree day," I became consumed with the heat, the fact that I had managed to ride into the wind both coming and going, and my apparent inability to develop a better lung capacity than the drunks who have no choice BUT to ride their bikes everywhere.
I was, to put a positive spin on things, living very much in the moment.
That's when a man on a bike pedaled up next to me.
"It's almost too hot for this!" he said, almost cheerfully enough for me to reach over and stick a branch in his tire spokes. Fortunately for him, I lacked the energy.
"Almost?" I replied. I then made some vague complaint about the heat, followed by how I'd be regretting complaining in November.
"In November we'll wish it was this hot again," he said. I agreed.
"No use wishing it was different. Better just to accept it and move on," he said. He turned off the street. "Bye."
The whole interaction took all of 45 seconds, but it left me feeling pretty ashamed. I'd been so busy wishing it was cooler or less windy or easier that I wasn't able to focus on what I had – a bike ride on a summer's day. I hadn't paid a scrap of attention to anything I saw as I pedaled past, engrossed in resentment that things weren't easier.
"Suck it up" isn't exactly the message I took away from that exchange, but that's what I did. Look, the wind will change or it won't, I told myself. I still have to ride into it now; why not focus on something else? I'm not going to get into better shape right now, but I still have to ride with the body I've got. The heat is abating (it was almost six o'clock by this point and it had cooled down to a respectable 95 or so), but, barring a thunderstorm, this is as cool as it's getting right now. I forced myself to stop thinking about those things.
I caught a whiff of a gardenia bush as I rode past. I saw an egret soaring overhead as I approached the drawbridge. An egret looked at me looking at him and decided I posed no threat to his life or next meal.
It was still end-of-the-world hot, I was still not in shape to ride a beach cruiser eight miles, and the wind didn't shift to my favor. When I got back to the drawbridge, it wasn't any easier.
Somehow, I didn't mind as much as long as I reminded myself I couldn't change it.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Runner's High
I'm starting to get the car-free endorphins, much like runners do. More correctly, much like I assume runners do. I can't actually run more than a mile or two without feeling like my chest is going to explode. My understanding, though, is that if you push past the pain and your heart does not slam violently out of your chest, things start to feel pretty good.
My point is this: it's only day three, and I've driven my car one of those days, but I'm kind of liking not driving. I like the idea of hopping on my scooter or bike or whatever. It's an adventure.
Of course, there's still today and 27 more to go, and I have work to do in Clearwater tomorrow, so we'll just see how long this high lasts. For now, though, it's all good.
My point is this: it's only day three, and I've driven my car one of those days, but I'm kind of liking not driving. I like the idea of hopping on my scooter or bike or whatever. It's an adventure.
Of course, there's still today and 27 more to go, and I have work to do in Clearwater tomorrow, so we'll just see how long this high lasts. For now, though, it's all good.
first day, two thoughts (with Petrus Ramus subthought)
1) While away from home, the GFI to our fountains blew and the kid's pool turned green. Much easier to solve with ready access to a car ... just drive to Lowes/Home Depot. Am weighing out Cathy's "Sophie's Choice" ... do I give over a day to prove a point?
2) Response to first responders of our blog. (a) On safety ... I have been biking in St. Pete for ten years and, except during Ribfest and race week, I have never experienced problems. I stay alert and heed the rules of the road. (2) On convenience. Folks make life decisions that require a car then decry their dependence on cars.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Twilight Scooter Ride
OK, it's not a total carbon-less footprint, but it does get 100 mpg. I took my scooter to run the errands.
Because I had an scooter accident on a drawbridge a few years ago, though, I won't take the bridge that's two blocks from my house (it felt like going over a giant cheese grater when I landed and I am not at all anxious to repeat the experience), so I drove a few miles out of my way to use the Treasure Island bridge. It was an inconvenience over what I'm used to, but actually quite nice.
I take the back roads on the scooter, both for safety reasons and, well, really, what's the point of being out in the open air if you can't slow down and take a look around? I was cruising down some brick streets, just trying not to hit a pot hole, when out of nowhere... peppers and eggs. It's a scent that yanks me right back to riding my bike around my old Clearwater neighborhood as a kid. The smell always made me feel less like the only Italian kid on the block, because to me it smelled like the peppers and eggs my mom used to cook for dinner some nights. As I grew up I realized I was smelling melaleuca, the scourge of the Everglades and one of Florida's most hideous mistakes.
Here's where I'd like to wax poetic about how horribly we've mucked up the state, but I can't. I just had a lovely, leisurely scooter ride through back roads. I watched the sun puff up the clouds with pink as I chugged over the bridge, all the while inhaling salty low tide and feeling the night swirl around my shoulders.
I'd really like to write about how I feel like maybe I can go without a car and how we all need to slow down every now and then. I'd like to ruminate about how if we all put away our keys and traveled through our neighborhoods at a slower pace, maybe we'd think twice about selling the empty lot down the block to the highest bidder, damn the results. I'd probably even like to get a little preachy about the number of SUVs that whizzed past me, impatient with my lollygagging.
But tonight I'm too busy remembering the freedom of a twilight bike ride on a quiet summer street to focus on how the smell symbolizes every environmental mistake Florida ever made. Tonight I'm eight years old again, safe in my summer place, unworried by deadlines unmet and how much time it's taking me to get home. Tonight I don't care about carbon footprints or deadlines or my thesis or developers.
Tonight I'm just out for a bike ride.
Because I had an scooter accident on a drawbridge a few years ago, though, I won't take the bridge that's two blocks from my house (it felt like going over a giant cheese grater when I landed and I am not at all anxious to repeat the experience), so I drove a few miles out of my way to use the Treasure Island bridge. It was an inconvenience over what I'm used to, but actually quite nice.
I take the back roads on the scooter, both for safety reasons and, well, really, what's the point of being out in the open air if you can't slow down and take a look around? I was cruising down some brick streets, just trying not to hit a pot hole, when out of nowhere... peppers and eggs. It's a scent that yanks me right back to riding my bike around my old Clearwater neighborhood as a kid. The smell always made me feel less like the only Italian kid on the block, because to me it smelled like the peppers and eggs my mom used to cook for dinner some nights. As I grew up I realized I was smelling melaleuca, the scourge of the Everglades and one of Florida's most hideous mistakes.
Here's where I'd like to wax poetic about how horribly we've mucked up the state, but I can't. I just had a lovely, leisurely scooter ride through back roads. I watched the sun puff up the clouds with pink as I chugged over the bridge, all the while inhaling salty low tide and feeling the night swirl around my shoulders.
I'd really like to write about how I feel like maybe I can go without a car and how we all need to slow down every now and then. I'd like to ruminate about how if we all put away our keys and traveled through our neighborhoods at a slower pace, maybe we'd think twice about selling the empty lot down the block to the highest bidder, damn the results. I'd probably even like to get a little preachy about the number of SUVs that whizzed past me, impatient with my lollygagging.
But tonight I'm too busy remembering the freedom of a twilight bike ride on a quiet summer street to focus on how the smell symbolizes every environmental mistake Florida ever made. Tonight I'm eight years old again, safe in my summer place, unworried by deadlines unmet and how much time it's taking me to get home. Tonight I don't care about carbon footprints or deadlines or my thesis or developers.
Tonight I'm just out for a bike ride.
Sophie's Choice
So, of course, my editor just asked me to meet with him sometime today. In person. In the office. Which takes two buses to get to. Oh, and he says it will only last 15 minutes.
So, do I drive, and make this two consecutive days of failure, ride my bike (in 198 degree weather), or take the two required buses?
I am so used to having a car that it's instinct to grab my keys. As a freelancer, it is also my nature to drop the less important stuff to meet with a client (in this case, my editor) so they know I'm available to them.
More so, other people are used to me having a car. It's one of the rules of American society: you drive places. People do not want to wait for you to bike four miles. They don't want to hold off on doing business while you work out the logistics of bus transfers.
So, what will I do this afternoon? I have to be there at three. Hmmm. We'll see. Stay tuned...
So, do I drive, and make this two consecutive days of failure, ride my bike (in 198 degree weather), or take the two required buses?
I am so used to having a car that it's instinct to grab my keys. As a freelancer, it is also my nature to drop the less important stuff to meet with a client (in this case, my editor) so they know I'm available to them.
More so, other people are used to me having a car. It's one of the rules of American society: you drive places. People do not want to wait for you to bike four miles. They don't want to hold off on doing business while you work out the logistics of bus transfers.
So, what will I do this afternoon? I have to be there at three. Hmmm. We'll see. Stay tuned...
Five Pounds, Auto Free
Like most guys my age, 40-something, I could stand to lose 10+ pounds. The point came home in my last checkup, when the nurse remarked about my blood pressure. Not worried about blood pressure? Check out this site, on the effects of hypertension, from the Mayo Clinic. Hmmmm .... Bike or Die.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Day One: The Goal and The Failure
I blame the air purifier.
My editor loaned me an air purifier several months ago. Don't ask why; it isn't that interesting. The point is, yesterday I decided I absolutely couldn't stand looking at it anymore and it had to go back to the paper.
Have you ever tried to board a bus with a large cylindrical air purifier? Just like I draw the line at two cats ("crazy cat lady" jokes avoidance strategy), I steadfastly refuse to become *that* person on the bus.
I got in my car and brought it to my editor today.
I'm trying really hard to not see this as failure. Instead, I'm thinking of it as me getting my one slipup out of the way early in the game.
I'm assuming if you've found our blog, you know to which game I refer: the game in which I, Thomas Hallock, and perhaps others hang up our car keys for the month of August. We'll blog about it here, no matter how well we fare (clearly).
I did this for a week last year. A month seems a little daunting, but I'm game. Why? A few reasons. Yes, carbon footprint, blah blah blah, but, seriously, have you seen the price of gas lately?
Also, I'll admit, I really like traveling by bus. It's relaxing in a way driving my manual-transmission through tourist beach traffic will never be.
Wish us luck!
My editor loaned me an air purifier several months ago. Don't ask why; it isn't that interesting. The point is, yesterday I decided I absolutely couldn't stand looking at it anymore and it had to go back to the paper.
Have you ever tried to board a bus with a large cylindrical air purifier? Just like I draw the line at two cats ("crazy cat lady" jokes avoidance strategy), I steadfastly refuse to become *that* person on the bus.
I got in my car and brought it to my editor today.
I'm trying really hard to not see this as failure. Instead, I'm thinking of it as me getting my one slipup out of the way early in the game.
I'm assuming if you've found our blog, you know to which game I refer: the game in which I, Thomas Hallock, and perhaps others hang up our car keys for the month of August. We'll blog about it here, no matter how well we fare (clearly).
I did this for a week last year. A month seems a little daunting, but I'm game. Why? A few reasons. Yes, carbon footprint, blah blah blah, but, seriously, have you seen the price of gas lately?
Also, I'll admit, I really like traveling by bus. It's relaxing in a way driving my manual-transmission through tourist beach traffic will never be.
Wish us luck!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)