Last Call

What happens if you build an office park in the middle of a freeway interchange?

We're about to find out.

Although I've worked for the same company for more than a decade now, I've hung my helmet in many different buildings (five, to be exact). Next week, make that six.

This time, my team is being shunted to a satellite campus in a neighboring city. And there are many things I will miss: the views, the green space, the straightforward commute.

Today was my last chance to bike the familiar route. I was a bit of a greyhound this morning, averaging more than 14 mph to arrive in time to get cleaned up before my first meeting (9 a.m.).

I routed myself through the egret rookery, raucous in the early morning. On the way home, I dawdled.

Much of the route to our new location will remain the same; overall, it will be a bit shorter. It's the last mile that will be a challenge.

Stay tuned.

Big Wheel

It's been an odd year. Cold weather. Wet weather. (Lots of that.) Not a whole lot of blogging going on because, well, not a whole lot of cycling going on.

And then came the Cold of the Century. Three weeks of misery (and counting). Yesterday I despaired that I might not be able to ride at all, today (Bike to Work Day). I assured my co-conspirator that I could, at least, lead people the few miles to our rendezvous point. From there, he might not only have to take the lead—he might have to manage the group alone.

Our peloton was smaller this year. Normally, a few weeks before the big day, I promote the ride and start egging people on; but I had no energy for that. When we reached the bridge leading to the Stevens Creek Trail, a woman and her daughter counted off: one, two, ... twenty-four of us. One rider had turned off before that.

Uncharacteristically this year, we were gruppo compatto for most of the route; at the first energizer station [rest stop], a few speedier riders usually split off. Not this year.

A couple of first-timers joined our crowd of mostly-familiar faces. And we celebrated a new first: an odd number of wheels. [Think it through.] A tricycle? [No.] A unicycle.

Who would ride a 36-inch unicycle some 20 miles to the office? Mixing it up in a line of bicycles, in stop-and-go traffic? In the lead, I didn't get to watch him (or to witness the facial expressions of the drivers who passed us). Having watched him dismount, I'd characterize it as a controlled fall, essentially. “There's nothing to it,” he insisted. “You land on your feet.” [Right. You land on your feet. I'd land on my butt. Or worse.]

Once I started moving, my body just kept moving. Maybe I could ride home after all; I felt surprisingly good.

Until I stopped moving. Suddenly, I was tired. My last real bike ride (also a commute to work) had been six weeks ago.

Twenty-four miles for the day. I made it.

So did my followers: No mishaps, no dropped riders, lots of smiling faces, and only one flat tire.

Shadows and Smiles

Wintertime,
And the bikin' is chilly.
Trails are empty;
The sun is low in the sky.

Would this be yet another morning when I talked myself out of biking to work?

I haven't been on the bike since October 22 (not counting the handful of miles on my folding bike each weekday, to and from my commuter shuttle). I haven't biked to work since September 21. It's not the cold I mind, so much; it's the darkness. On that last commute, the traffic for the first three miles was worse than ever, earlier than ever.

Of course, once the foolishness known as Daylight Savings Time is behind us, the mornings are a bit brighter. But I still have to get up and get ready in the dark.

What's the big deal, you say? Turn on some lights. Sure. But I've just never been a morning person.

It was 39F out there; frost on rooftops, and—dare I say—on some windshields. Descending at speed, the cold air stung my face. With the sun directly behind me, I cast a long shadow. A really long shadow.

One lane of a major road was closed for a short stretch. The workers saw me coming and emphatically waved me inside the cone zone. I smiled and thanked them.

As usual, it's important to stay alert—especially at intersections—but ... all the time, really.

Wait for the drivers who run through the red lights. They're all very important people, in a very important hurry to get to very important places.

Wait for the elderly lady who's fixated on one thing: the pedestrian in the crosswalk. She's not going to look around for someone turning onto the road in front of her.

Whenever it's feasible, I stop well to the left of the bike lane at intersections where drivers will want to turn right on red. It's the courteous (and sensible) thing to do. One driver paused next to me, giving me a wave and mouthing “thank you.” I smiled and nodded. There are some nice people on the road.

Getting ready to shower at the office, another woman recognized me. “I rode to work with you once on Bike to Work Day,” she told me. I smiled.

My day ended on a particularly sweet note, at an appreciation party for those of us who teach orientation classes (in addition to our regular jobs). Impressive statistics were shared. (We taught a lot of new employees and interns, this year. I love the interns.)

“What do you teach?” asked one of my fellow instructors. When I replied, he said “I thought you looked familiar!” (One of my former students.) I smiled.

Our party was a teaching party, of sorts. The chefs had prepared a few stations for us. Grilling, appetizers, cookie decorating.

Cookies?! [Good thing I biked to work.]

How Accidents Happen

When I bike to and from a commuter shuttle, the most direct route is on a busy thoroughfare with three lanes in each direction.

In the morning, there is little traffic and the biggest threat is from the drivers who run red lights. Every day. During the evening rush hour, biking the same route is a death wish: vehicles dart in and out of parking lots, change lanes, speed, and run red lights. Every day.

In the evening, I go out of my way to travel on low-traffic, residential streets. I do pass a couple of back-parking-lot driveways, always with care.

I saw the woman in the giant white SUV and slowed down. I saw her looking only to her right as she turned left out of the Whole Foods parking lot.

There has been a long thread recently on a cycling mailing list at work about engaging with drivers who do stupid things. The prevailing sentiment is: Let it go. Say nothing.

The woman in the giant white SUV spoke first. “I'm sorry. I didn't see you.”

“Please look,” I replied in a firm, but even, tone of voice.

“I'm sorry,” she said again.

“Please look,” I replied.

“I apologized twice, you don't have to be a bitch about it!”

Now, that's rich.

If she had mowed me down, they'd call it an accident. She probably wouldn't even get a traffic ticket, much less be charged with so much as involuntary manslaughter. And then she'd get on with the rest of her life.

I, on the other hand, would not get on with the rest of my life.

So please look. In both directions.

That's what I learned in Driver's Ed, albeit in the last century.

Bike Buddy

The Soberanes wildfire rages on in the steep canyons south of Carmel, sending some smoke north to the Bay Area. I have continued to check the air quality before riding; in the early morning, it's clean enough to bike to work.

In the evening? Not so much.

To encourage more folks to bike to work, our company recently started a program where experienced cyclists offer to show newbies the ropes. For our trouble, leaders are rewarded with “Bike Buddy” t-shirts. [Right. Like I need another t-shirt ... ] The logo features a tandem bicycle that only a non-cyclist could draw.

What's not to like about getting more people on bicycles? It's an off-season Bike-to-Work Day, any day.

I signed up. Ha, I thought; no newbie will tap me for a 20-mile commute.

Haha. The joke's on me. Someone did.

For our first trip, we joined the semi-regular Friday gang last week. Today, he was game to follow me on my normal route, which is a tad more direct. It's also a tad more advanced, bypassing the trail and entailing one merge across three lanes of traffic to make a left turn.

It worked out just fine. Traffic is especially light on summer Fridays. And he's a willing student, shadowing my every move at a safe distance.

There's more than self-satisfaction in this, for me; I do manage to pick up the pace when I'm not riding alone. It's all good.

The Weird and the Wild

I was just telling a colleague that one of the things that discourages me from cycling to work more often is boredom. I've ridden the same route so many times. Lately I've been changing it up, seeking diversions that bypass stop signs and traffic signals. I gave up my game of trail roulette, though, after it became a little more chancy than I'd anticipated. (Some local miscreants caused at least one serious crash, and several near misses, by launching a skateboard into the path of an approaching cyclist.)

Yesterday morning I was rewarded with the sight of a small flock of wild turkeys rambling across a suburban lawn. I shuttled most of the way home, though, to avoid breathing the smoke drifting up from a huge wildfire scorching canyons some 70 miles to the south.

This afternoon I returned from another building and was surprised to feel something tap my arm as it dropped from my hair. There on the floor was a yellow jacket—a wasp. Crushing it was an option. But it had chosen not to sting me, so I chose to scoop it up and release it. Missing most of its left wing, I set it on some flowering shrubs and wished it well.

Heat waves and bad air quality are partners. I stepped from the cool comfort of the shuttle into a veritable blast furnace: 97F. No need for exertion today; I prepared for a leisurely pedal home.

What's that in the middle of the lane, I wondered, as I signaled my turn from a busy road onto a side street.

Feathers ... did someone hit a duck here? There shouldn't be a duck here.

I stopped. It was a pheasant. [Yes, a pheasant.] A youngster, molting into his adult plumage. In the middle of the road. He was alive, but in distress. Miraculously, no one had run over him (yet).

What to do, what to do ... He was breathing hard. In this heat, collapsed on the hot roadway was not the place to be. I assumed he was injured and I would need to pick him up, but he rose and started walking.

No, no, not toward the busy road! I formed a moving fence, guiding him slowly to safety (and, shade) under a bush on the corner and wishing him well, regretting that I had no water to share.

That bit about being bored with my commute? Rubbish.

Feel the Burn

It was time to get serious, to double down, to get more fit.

Time to stop finding excuses, get on the bike, and go. Thus, I have biked eight of the past nine days (five in a row): some 319 miles, with about 12,230 feet of climbing.

It's paying off; my legs are stronger. And with this week's heat wave, there was no better time to be on the bike. The early morning hours are cool, and the temperature is dropping nicely during the evening ride home.

I've been mixing it up a bit on the return trip, having invented a new game I call “Trail Roulette.”

It's so convenient to start out on the trail, but it's also so risky. My game goes like this: Stay on the trail until I meet a Bicyclist Behaving Badly ... then, exit.

In the first few rounds, I've been exiting at the same place—the first real exit, after passing under the freeway.

Today, I didn't follow the rules; I stayed on the trail after a pair of cyclists approached and passed me while riding side-by-side, one over center line. It's Friday, the trail isn't crowded ... As I started onto the second overcrossing, an officer on a motorcycle approached. Motorcycle. Followed by three more. At least they had the sense to ride single file.

I took the next exit.

On Tuesday, taking the first exit wasn't enough to skirt stupidity: A cyclist was blocking the opening to the street, rolling to and fro in a trackstand.

Distracted, I missed the left turn I needed. Calculating new route ... oh, look, the next street is a “bike boulevard.” Let's see where that takes me.

Right back to the trail. [Sigh.] So, that's where that trail exit leads. Time to surrender to my fate. Clearly I was meant to use the trail today.

As I neared the final overcrossing at the end of the trail, a car horn sounded on the adjacent freeway. Traffic was flowing at the usual crawl, was there a bit of road rage brewing?

Then I looked up at the bridge. Two people were standing above the southbound lanes, displaying signs. “HONK! IF U ♥ BERNIE”

Brrng-brrng.

Pedal Power

“You need new shifters,” the Bike Doctor told me last year. I gave him a puzzled look. “You're used to it, so you don't notice.”

He was right, of course. Lately I was indeed struggling to shift onto the big ring, so I caught up with him. “Should I source the parts, or do you want to source the parts?” I asked. I had decided on SRAM. He smiled. “I have the parts. Bring it by tomorrow.”

I'd have the bike with me; it would be [today] Bike-to-Work Day.

A long train of riders followed me ... I didn't drop a single one. Which was good, because I was Mother Goose and they were my goslings. Including a pair of co-conspirators on a tandem this year, upping the game: instead of the usual self-serve, the stoker/barista dispensed the coffee and doughnut bites.

The drill is routine now. Get everyone to arrive 15 minutes before we want to start rolling, because there will be Issues. Guaranteed. Helmets that need adjustments (two of them). One tire with a slow leak, needing a tube swap. One rider who mounted his front wheel backward (quick-release skewer reversed) and who couldn't re-rig his front brake. One rider whose bike “wouldn't go;” front reflector and brake pads jammed against the rim.

Having resolved all problems, mysterious and not, we set off nearly on schedule. Our friends on the tandem led a smaller group to meet us, and after picking up a few more colleagues en route, I set a gentle pace for a record 33-odd riders. Some were making the trip for the very first time.

I gave the usual morning pep talk: ride single file, give each other enough space (especially, the tandem), and don't take chances—if we don't all make it through a green light, we'll wait for you. Then, when I have their full attention, I tell them the most important rule of all: Have fun!

This year, the Cupertino Energizer station was prepared: there were enough musette bags for all. “It's like a swarm of locusts!” they exclaimed, as we finished off their strawberries and gobbled Hobee's famous blueberry coffeecake.

The trail presented a fresh challenge today: a large, fallen tree. The city was surprisingly accommodating, with workers to warn us and cones to guide us. They waited for the bike traffic to subside before closing the trail to clear it.

Not only was every rider still smiling when we arrived at work, 18 or more miles from the start, but a record number expressed interest in the end-of-day return trip. Hopefully, I would have a working bicycle on which to lead them.

I delivered my bike to the Doctor at noon. An hour later, it was ready to ride: new shifters, new chain, brakes adjusted, freshly lubed. The ride home seemed so effortless, I repeatedly checked my gearing. I can't explain it; the gearing, of course, was completely unchanged. I needed to slow down, and sometimes to wait, for the end of our evening train: a record-breaking nine riders were following me home.

Our mischief-makers on the tandem threw down the gantlet: on a flat straightaway, they cranked it up to some 29 mph, the strongest rider in our group giving chase with a stream of colorful words in his wake.

The group—still smiling—dwindled as riders split off onto their own direct routes home. But not before one of them quizzed me about how often I ride to work. [I try for at least one day per week, often more, and sometimes all five—round-trip.] “This was easier than I expected,” he said, “I think I could do this once a week.”

One tired, but proud, leader rolled home: 44 miles and 1,020 feet of climbing for me.

Ladies and gentlemen, another successful Bike-to-Work Day!

Round Trippin'

Daylight Savings Time took effect almost two weeks ago. Which means, spring is here. Which means, enough daylight to bike home from (as well as to) work.

I was so close to bailing out this morning; my body was balking. It would be easier to tackle the difficult club ride I had in mind for tomorrow if I didn't ride today. [Or would it? I haven't been biking enough this year.]

I knew traffic would be light, which makes for a much nicer bike commute. I could shuttle home to save something for tomorrow's ride.

One of the school crossing guards I see along the way had been given the day off. In her place, the Easter Bunny. [Okay, not in full costume—just fuzzy pink bunny rabbit ears. And a basket of candy.]

I ate a jelly bean, but saved the rest of my bounty for my fellow bike commuters at work. [I bet you didn't meet the Easter Bunny on your way to work.]

On such a lovely day, how could I shuttle home? [Easy: Just load the bike and climb aboard.]

Not today.

For the day, 40 miles with 885 feet of climbing. [I skipped the gratuitous hills, but finished with a pleasant little spin through a local park.]

Leap Fog

On any given winter morning, it is so easy to decide not to ride. This morning, dense fog. Low visibility. Kinda scary. Should I? Should I not?

Oh, get out of the bed. Don the bright jacket. Switch on the flashing lights (front and rear), and just go.

After persuading my boss to try a different commute, who am I to wimp out?

Day one, last week, he arrived sweaty and sore and somewhat out of breath, but surprisingly enthusiastic. He was already hooked. Instead of stewing, alone in his car, for more than an hour, he had been relaxed and productive on a train. Followed by a few miles of biking (mostly on trails) to the office.

Anxious about the possibility of missing the evening train, which has limited availability, we talked about the importance of working out a Plan B in advance. I shared tips about riding in the rain, the advantage of slick tires (for his mountain bike), and the reason to wear padded shorts and stick with his firm saddle.

Today marked his third trip. “I can't believe I'm saying this, but I can tell that I'm going to want a longer route soon. What if I take the Bay Trail?”

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner! He's already thinking about picking up a bike more suitable for commuting. Last week, on his second train-plus-bike commute, he arrived home in less time than the trip would have taken that evening by car.

The advantage to following my timeworn route was evident this morning, when the fog was so opaque I worried that I might outpace what I could see. There's a turn up there, somewhere ... Droplets condensed and fell from my visor and rear-view mirror; my glasses were speckled with tiny dots. I looked down to see a layer of mist twinkling on my capri tights.

Hydration is not much of an issue when you can, more or less, drink the air.

Tomorrow? Lather, rinse, repeat. The forecast shows the rains will soon return, possibly spoiling any weekend rides.

A shuttle ride home tonight for me and the bike; in two weeks, daylight savings time will liberate me from the bus. (Cycling the 20 miles home in darkness is just not for me.)

Happy Trails to You

Farewell to cyclists passing me on blind curves.

Goodbye to the graffiti tags and homeless encampment.

Arrivederci to groups who block the entire trail, walking three abreast.

Toodle-oo to the joggers who abruptly stop, mid-trail, and flip a u-turn with no regard for people behind them.

Adiós to the iDiots, white wires dangling from their ears, oblivious to the world around them.

Auf wiedersehen to cyclists turning onto the trail without a glance for oncoming traffic.

To the dog-walkers with their leashes strung across the trail ... bye-bye.

When the Stevens Creek Trail was extended across a freeway a few years ago, taking it seemed like a game changer. More than four car-free miles without stoplights!

Armchair cyclists, fearful of sharing the road with cars and trucks, long for trails like this to ride. If only ... if only there were trails connecting home to office, they just might make the trip by bike instead of car—they're sure of it.

Whenever I would tell a non-cyclist that the trail was the most treacherous part of my commute, they stared at me in disbelief.

I've had more close calls on the trail than on the street. Generally, motorists are predictable and follow the rules of the road. Trails, on the other hand, are a free-for-all.

Recently the city announced some changes for the Stevens Creek Trail. A speed limit of 15 mph (which, actually, was already the case). Electric bicycles and skateboards would now be permitted.

Just what we need. Commuters on heavy motorized bikes who know nothing about cycling etiquette. Skateboarders who fly down any incline they can find, over and over again.

The speed-limit announcement implied there would be enforcement. An electronic sign, registering and recording speeds, appeared along the trail for a week or so.

Surely that wouldn't affect me? On the heavy hybrid I use for commuting, cyclists are constantly zipping past me. And I'm a courteous trail user, slowing as I approach others, ringing my bell. People wave, and smile, and thank me.

Then I looked at the data. [Uh oh.]

I'd been routinely cruising along the straights at 16-17 mph. If the trail is clear, I'm much faster coming down the bridges. The last thing I want is a slower commute. [Or a citation.]

I shuttled to work this morning, but biked home in the evening. It's been a few years since I adapted my route to take full advantage of the trail, but I can do well without most of it. In the morning, I can bypass it entirely. In the evening, the trail is the safest way to cross the freeway, expressway, and railroad tracks. Then, exit, stage right.

To my surprise, my old route was actually faster—despite getting caught by two red lights. Without having to slow down to pass every meandering body on the multi-use trail, I was able to sustain a more constant speed.

Sayonara, Stevens Creek Trail.

Change Up

One morning this week, the same cyclist passed me three times.

Wait ... how can that be?

Of the two of us, he was the stronger cyclist. But I was the cyclist following an optimized route. He never said a word, but he must have wondered what was going on. I chuckled to myself.

The downside of my optimized route is that it can get dull—same old, same old.

I became familiar with “the regulars:” people whose routines overlap with mine. In the morning, the woman walking a pair of pit bulls (who make me nervous). The guy with the rambunctious puppy. The small elderly guy with long sideburns and a mustache who stood near the center of a bridge looking at ... what? Not necessarily the trains.

Evenings are less routine, though I would often see an elderly woman in a saffron-colored sari and her husband, out for a stroll. A large woman in a wheelchair near a convalescent center, parked on the sidewalk, reading a book. Sometimes a colleague might come along and chat before dashing away.

I've been wondering whether I should change the route to ease the boredom. But every time I study the map, I stick with my route. It's pretty safe, and quiet, and direct. Now and then, something unexpected spices it up.

This week a friend got up early, rode to my house, then returned with me along my commute route—just for fun. Two weeks ago my older road bike made for a fast trip; the Bike Doctor would be on campus, and it needed a little TLC. [New brake cables, as it turned out. So that's why it wasn't stopping very well ...]

One evening I passed a helmet-less guy in a long-sleeved white jersey, stopping irregularly to pick up trash. This week, a guy wearing an orange safety vest, a human face mask strapped to the back of his helmet. A woman struggling with a jammed chain, hands covered in grease. [I stopped to help.]

Late afternoon took me to the central part of the campus for an unexpected meeting. I had biked to work specifically to avoid the traffic meltdown that ensues when there's a major event at the nearby concert venue, but now I would land in the thick of it. I really didn't want to be on the road until I was well clear of the concert traffic.

The map confirmed my hunch: I could roll straight onto a different creek trail, follow it east to pick up the Bay Trail, loop around and catch the trail I needed to head home.

Variety is the spice of life.

Back to Work

Why bike to work?

My first commute of the year was chilly: 34°F when I rolled out this morning. On dark winter evenings, I close my eyes and escape with a podcast on a commuter shuttle—preferably an episode that will make me laugh and forgive the ridiculous amount of time it takes to get home. Tonight, there were a stunning 11 traffic accidents (and attendant backups) in the local area. Eleven. No mitigating circumstances, like rain or fog. Just the usual: A plague of bad drivers.

Rhinoviruses and rainy weather conspired to keep me off the bike for most of December, but 2014 was nonetheless a record year for commuting by bicycle. It was the year I found fewer and fewer excuses not to bike.

In all, I pedaled about 5,720 miles—over 3,600 miles biking to (and usually, from) the office. More than 300 incidental miles, mostly on my folding bike, traveling to and from the shuttle and between buildings on the campus. The rest? Recreational miles.

Oh, and I climbed up a few hills along the way. (241,000 feet, give or take.)

Stayin' Alive, Take Two

The first thing I noted about riding my trusty little Strida in the rain was that the fenders were less than effective. The rear fender's mud flap was lost some time ago, but tonight I was getting sprayed from the front. [Upon later inspection, it appears that the pliable plastic fender is somewhat warped to one side.]

I regretted not biking to work yesterday, when the threatened rain never quite made it over the coastal hills. Given that the roads were wet this morning, I opted to ride the commuter shuttle instead of making a mess of the commute bike. With a 50% chance of evening rain, I took a chance and chose the Strida over striding to the bus stop.

I lost the bet. [Ah, well. Once you're wet, you're wet.] It's only 1.6 miles.

I could shave the trip to 1.2 miles, but that requires biking on a busy local thoroughfare: mostly two lanes in each direction, separated by a median. The problem with that route are all the distractions. My bike is well-lit, but I'm a small fish swimming in a sea of bright lights: signs for businesses, traffic signals, pedestrian signals, street lights, vehicle lights.

The longer route is safer: it passes mostly through residential neighborhoods. In the darkness, I stand out: reflectors on wheels, pedals, and rear rack, reflective sidewalls on my tires, a reflective stripe down the front of the bike, reflective stripes on my messenger bag. Of course, none of that counts until some light source bounces back. So, I have a blinking white light on my handlebar. Two more blazing lights will encourage you to avert your gaze: a blinking red taillight (35 lumens) mounted on the rear rack, and a powerful headlight mounted on my helmet. Motorists give me a lot of space, at night. If they see me.

I watched the car heading through the church's parking lot, toward the exit. In self-defense, I slowed my pace and focused. I was the only moving thing on the street. In the bike lane.

She's not looking.

She's not looking.

She's not going to stop.

This is how cyclists die.

The driver pulled out directly across my path, making a left turn while staring exclusively to her right. She didn't even glance to her left until she was into the street, shocked [I can only imagine] by 400 lumens in her face. At close range.

Disc brakes, in the rain, for the win. They stopped the bike.

After I took a deep breath and resumed pedaling, I heard:

I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.

She had stopped her car down the street and lowered the window to call out an apology.

I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry that the State of California saw fit to award you a driver's license.

101

Not the freeway (U.S. Highway 101).

Not an academic course number (though “Commuting 101” would fit).

Number of trips to the office by bicycle this year, as of today: 101.

Most trips involved returning home by bicycle, but since we reverted to Standard Time I rely on a commuter shuttle for most of the evening trip. [Less than two miles in the dark, versus twenty.]

Most trips are routine, but there have been some memorable moments in those 3,500 miles.

In the past few weeks, I surprised a covey of California quail crossing a road: one ran, the others actually took flight!

I have ridden from sunshine into ground fog so thick I couldn't see either end of a bridge from its center.

When I take the scenic morning route through the park, I can expect to thread my way through a flock of coots.

I had a close call with an idiot on a heavy electric bike who rounded a corner at speed into the bike lane. He didn't even glance to his left, much less heed the stop sign. [At the next traffic light, I gave him a piece of my mind.]

My Squirrel Scare Tactic elicited a “Nice trick!” compliment from a nearby cyclist. “Tsssss!” I hiss, loudly. This reliably sends the pesky rodent running, at warp speed, in the opposite direction. [Try it!]

For those increasingly common electrified pests ... an AirZound, perhaps?

Extreme Commuting

July was a banner month. With the exception of one day (when, sadly, I needed my car), I commuted by bicycle on every day that I worked: 18 days, in all.

Along the way, I crossed paths with three cyclists I know. One ride buddy went out of her way to join me on the morning commute, just for fun.

I rode in my first green bike lane, which popped up this week on a busy, freshly-repaved thoroughfare.

I saw deer and bunnies, and so many birds—including the low-flying Canada geese that barely cleared my head tonight.

I discovered the namesake memorial to fallen soldiers at a community park, and watched some scouts learning to handle the American flag.

I smiled and said “Good morning!” to lots of solo walkers, and paused to wave to the engineer running a beloved steam locomotive through a local park.

I swept up broken glass, alerted maintenance crews to graffiti and spent firecrackers, and reported the occasional wayward gbike that had left the Google campus.

I wore out the rear tire on my commute bike, down to the threads, after some 7,900 miles over 7 years. The front tire carries less weight and is still going strong. (Continental Sport Contact, if you were wondering).

I realized that a shadow cast by the rail on our soaring bike bridge is a sundial, of sorts. The days are unmistakably growing shorter.

I burned an estimated 28,000 Calories, which I offset with pancakes, French toast, bacon, and plenty of dark chocolate. (OK, yogurt and fresh fruit, too.)

Factoring in some recreational excursions, I managed a 7-day streak of daily rides totaling 219 miles.

Counting all rides, I tallied 239 miles in my best calendar week. For the month: 902 miles, with more than 27,000 feet of climbing.

I spent about 77 hours bicycling. Sure beats sitting in traffic.

The Broom Wagon

Years ago, on the other coast, my co-workers and I would enjoy lunch al fresco during the warmer months. We had our favorite places: a magnolia-rimmed plaza with a huge fountain, a tree-shaded lawn, even the local cemetery. We would always leave a place cleaner than we found it—removing litter that had been thoughtlessly tossed by others.

As I climbed the ramp to the second bike/pedestrian bridge on my route on Monday, a wide swath of shattered glass glistened in the morning sun. There was no way to ride around it. [Lovely.]

I meant to alert the town's Public Works Department, but that slipped my mind until I faced my second trip through the field of glass on my way home. After picking a half-dozen fragments out of my tires, I filled out their online form.

I meant to pack a small broom on Tuesday morning, but forgot. I grimaced on my third trip through the glass. The Public Works folks dispatched a crew to sweep up, and I was relieved that I would have a clean ride home. [Not.]

In sweeping the ramp, they managed to disperse the glass over a wider area (and remove little or none of it).

On Wednesday morning, I tucked a well-worn whisk broom under my cargo net (a recent acquisition). I parked my bike on the ramp and proceeded to sweep both sides of the path, from the center line to the edge. Shards of clear glass were scattered over some 15 feet of the ramp.

Five passing cyclists thanked me.

You're a very good person!

One pedestrian was impressed and stopped to chat.

It was a slow, tedious job with my little broom, but my calculation had been more selfish than selfless. Spend 20 minutes to sweep the bridge once, or spend time every day picking glass out of my tires (or worse). Dealing with just one punctured tube would take more time.

I remembered to send some polite feedback to the Public Works Department. They needed to know that their clean-up attempt was not only ineffective—it made matters worse. And I wanted to make sure they didn't re-distribute the glass the next time they swept the bridge.

They got the memo. On my way home, the glass was gone, gone, gone!

Bike Go Fast

Weight matters.

Instead of the workhorse, I rode the racehorse today: unladen carbon-fiber road bike instead of steel frame hybrid with its rack and bag. The comparison? Night and day. Think sports car vs. minivan.

My typical pace heading to the office lately has been 12.4 mph on the hybrid. On the road bike today? 14.4 mph. My average heart rate was a tad higher. [The bike made me do it.]


There was a reason for commuting on the road bike, and that reason was The Bike Doctor.

I think it's important to support our local bike shops. Over the years, I have entrusted my bikes to the mechanics at seven different shops, including four in the town where I live. [Two of those are no longer in business.] Even at a single shop, the quality of the work has been uneven—a good mechanic works on the bike during one visit, a not-so-good mechanic handles it the next time.

My last visit to a shop in town went like this: I wheel the road bike into the shop first thing on a Saturday morning; it needs a new chain. Best case: they'll install it while I wait, or at least on the same day. Reality: They tell me it won't be ready till Monday. [Sigh.] “Is it slipping?” they ask. “Sometimes,” I reply. A mechanic mounts it on a stand, spins rapidly through the gears, and announces that I need a new cassette. [$$$] “Let's start with the chain,” I reply dryly.

And that was the last time I will bring my bike to that shop for service.

I did not need a new cassette. I did not wear the chain to the point of damaging the cassette. When I did get the bike back, it was badly tuned and occasionally the chain jammed when I up-shifted the front dérailleur. Was that a deliberate misadjustment to send me back to the shop, thinking I needed that new cassette? Or just bad wrenching?

The Bike Doctor is a local bike shop (in a sense). His shop is a truck (low overhead). He visits various corporate campuses in the Bay Area on a regular schedule; he also makes house calls. You schedule an appointment, he fixes your bike, and you get it back within hours (not days). He is a good mechanic, he's honest, and his prices are fair.

And that is why I pedaled the road bike to the office today. Its dérailleur cables were two years old, and I would prefer not to suffer another snapped-cable incident. “Ah yes, Shimano cables will do that.” He understood.

He was on the phone delivering the bad news to another customer when I picked up my bike. The chain on that bike had worn the teeth on the cassette so severely that he marveled it would work at all. He showed me the effect—on some rings, the teeth were barely nubs.

I hopped on my well-tuned bicycle, shifted with my new cables and returned to my building, a happy customer.

Low Maintenance

People pass me along the multi-use trail on every commute. I'm used to that. One day last week, I spied a very capable rider in my rear view mirror, sitting on my wheel. Drafting me at 15 mph is so not worth it. Was he angling to flirt with me? He looked age-appropriate.

It was my bicycle that he was ogling. “Your bike is a classic!” he said. “Great for commuting,” I replied. Then he sped off.

A good bicycle can last a lifetime. Some parts will wear out and need to be replaced, but even a neglected bike will transport its rider from point A to point B for years. I spotted this vintage machine on a rack at the office recently. I'd wager that most of those parts are original, from the plastic bar grips to the rust-speckled brake levers and wheel rims. The drive train, however, was well-lubricated—that's key.

My classic bike, a Trek 720 “hybrid” circa 1992, has had an easy life. I racked up a few miles (very few) before moving to the west coast. I had its fossilized brake pads replaced in 2002 and rode the short course in the Tour of Napa—its most ambitious outing to that point. When I started cycling in earnest in 2005, I quickly realized I needed a lighter-weight road bike to stay with the pack on club rides.

I dusted off the hybrid in 2006 when I began to dabble in bicycle commuting. I swapped its (original) knobby tires for slicks in 2007. Sometimes it would occur to me to wipe down the frame and lubricate its chain ... once a year, maybe. Last year, I treated it to its first service since 2002. I watched the Bike Doctor measure the chain for wear; it wasn't due.

One year and more than 2,000 miles later, the chain would occasionally slip. My chain tool found the links within spec. The Bike Doctor's chain tool found the links (just barely) within spec. “It's time,” I said. He was not convinced. “It's the original chain,” I told him. He did not believe me. “The bike has upwards of 8,000 miles on it.” I know how improbable that sounds. But I have no record of replacing the chain. I have racked up more than 8,000 miles commuting to my current workplace, and the bike was serviced only once during that time.

He humored me. “You won't get 8,000 miles out of this chain,” he joked. “That's okay,” I smiled.

What a workhorse.

Stayin' Alive

Today was the sort of day that keeps my non-cycling friends, and even some non-roadie friends, off the roads.

Years ago, I observed the day-by-day antics of a small brood of mallards at a sheltered little pond in an office park. One day, Mama Duck swam to the edge of the pond and climbed up the rocky bank, a line of ducklings trailing behind. Save one. Said duckling turned around to find an empty pond; much panicked quacking ensued. The size of the brood dwindled over time. Did the aforementioned duckling survive? [Doubtful.]

I allowed myself a later start this morning; this being a holiday week, traffic has been lighter. Unfortunately, the Stupid People also get a later start.

Either that, or I failed to get the memo that today was Right Hook Day. I thought I would illustrate this post with one of the many images provided to cyclists about the hazards of the right hook, but they are all crafted to teach the cyclist how to avoid this crash by not hugging the curb at an intersection.

At 8:12 a.m., I was approaching an intersection where the road widens into two lanes. Two or three cars were already stopped; the traffic signal was red. Since I would be going straight, I abandoned the bike lane for the center of the road, staying to the left of the right-turn lane. This is exactly where I needed to be to avoid the dreaded right hook—which happens when a vehicle turns right in front of a cyclist who is proceeding straight.

Twenty yards from the intersection, a multi-ton truck from a local lumber yard overtook me on the left. But he was not lining up to make a left turn, or even to go straight. His right turn signal was flashing. I was able to stop safely and let the stupidity unfold. He crossed in front of me—into the right-turn lane—and made his turn.

What might I do differently, in the future? Tough call. I could move farther left, to take the full lane for straight-through traffic; but that would likely aggravate any drivers headed that way.

The next bit of stupidity was a dog-walker on a multi-use path. The ill-trained dog was wandering back and forth across the trail. “Brring brring!” went my bell. The dog, at the end of his leash strung across the path, turned around; the owner did not. Anticipating trouble, I had ample time to stop. But not without making a deliberate impression on the human: my mis-aligned brake pads generated a loud, exaggerated screech. That got the human's attention. He even apologized.

The most dangerous incident would unfold on my return commute, a few miles from home. I made eye contact with the guy in an SUV on a side street; he would not pull out in front of me. A sedan was approaching from the opposite direction, its left turn signal flashing. I was wearing a bright orange jersey, a bright flashing white light mounted on my handlebar. [Always assume you are invisible.] I slowed my pace. The driver, a white-haired elderly woman, turned left onto the side street without even slowing down. This hazard is known as the Left Cross. I still needed to brake, but gently. The guy in the SUV shook his head at the stupidity.

Having had much more than the usual commuting excitement, I looked forward to the serenity of the county park. I passed through the side gate and started down the hill. I saw the white SUV heading out of the parking area to my left. I guessed, correctly, that the driver would pull out without looking to her right. I calculated, correctly, that I had sufficient speed to stay clear. And I predicted, correctly, that I would make a vivid impression when I flew through her field of vision. She stayed far, far behind me after that.

Don't be that duckling.