THE COMMUTE: BEGINNING
School had started again, and the streets had slowed to a crawl. ‘I bet I could bike faster than this!’ I scornfully declared, sitting in morning traffic on the way to the office. ‘You should try!’ said Coralie, my faithful but possibly not disinterested chauffeur.
The very next morning, I was up before daybreak, packing my bag while my brother checked the air and oil on the bicycle he was lending me. A forecast with a slight chance of rain did not deter me, and I pedaled out into the pearly light of morning, with lunch, a change of clothes, and a vial of strong perfume slung on my back.
The gears were smooth and the birds twittered.
Then came the first major intersection, just two blocks down. The pedestrian light held up a sanguine hand, and I dutifully came to a stop—before precipitously launching myself across the sidewalk. I landed on my feet, but without my accustomed dignity.
I was used to girls' bikes, with their low top tubes, and those first few dismounts were... less than graceful. ‘Things got a little exciting for everyone,’ was how I phrased it to my family. {They won't let me forget about the time I catapulted over a fence with my bike, so they knew exactly what I meant.} It's a good thing I amuse myself. I probably amused a lot of people that morning.
Traffic was still continuous at that time; I comfort myself with the thought that my witnesses quickly sped on, turned onto another road, and did not see me again that day. Or any day after that.
For the next few stops I had to actively remind myself to throw my leg back like a ballerina outdoing herself in Swan Lake—rather than bending it over in front, catching my foot in the frame, and almost memorializing my visage in the nearest light-post.
But I was soon in my groove, and sailed blithely past long lines of standing traffic. I can't type ‘Suckers!’ the way my brother says it, so I'm afraid it's not as funny to you that I thus mentally addressed my fellow commuters. My family is reading this, and I know they are using just the right tone and cackle.
When I arrived at the office building, forty-five minutes later, I was bemused to find no bike rack. I met the deli owner in the breezeway, and he told me to lock it on the post next to his shop. ‘It's by the window,’ he told me in Spanish. ‘I can see it while I work, and will keep an eye on it for you,’ and he winked. ‘¡Gracias!’
When I went into the office that first morning, I felt I owed someone an explanation for my complexion and the state of my pants. {Cream-colored jeans did not evidence good sartorial judgement.} To the first co-worker I encountered I may or may not have said ‘Good morning’ before I asked ‘Can you believe I save half an hour biking here, instead of driving?’ to which I received a quizzical ‘Really?’
The burning question was, were nine hours in the office going to rest or stiffen my muscles? But 5:00 came, and I was ready for another seven miles. I changed back into those grease-spotted jeans, and headed out.
Evening traffic is smoother, and I lost fifteen minutes biking home. A final gain of fifteen minutes—at much greater effort—may seem a small thing, after all.
But I consider myself as saving an additional 45 minutes, since I don't require additional cardiovascular exercise once I get home from work. Not that I was so faithful to exercise before, but now I can spend those three quarters of an hour working on projects without guilt.
Umm... Not really, because I now have 30+ minutes of daily stretching and posture training to do for my chiropractor and my therapist. Well, for me, I suppose. {Does anyone else who uses a posture halo find that people, i.e. family start speaking to you in an English accent?}
• Mama likes to take pictures of us with the sun in our eyes; here are my siblings and I on a bike trip to the park, three years ago. Wait! Three years ago?! I need to take new photos... •
September 2, 2014