Riding in the moonlight

First I'll tell you about the good. As darkness settled on the district, some hundred and change bike riders stood near the coolest bike store I've found- BicycleSpace. Some were decked out in their finest, those were the sponsoring dandies and quaintrelles, while others were in light or bright colors. A trumpet played us out and we rolled out into the coming darkness with tail lights blinking. With my neon orange shirt flapping in the wind, I joined in this evening parade of bicycles. We nearly took over the streets as we made our way to Truckeroo. Truckeroo was a gathering of food trucks and a musical act. A new idea in DC summer nightlife and one that I support. We wound through the streets waving and ringing bells as we traveled. As we dipped down around RFK stadium, I looked back over my shoulder to see the mass of cyclists, white lights blinking against the dark sky. There was a powerful connected feeling in our celebration of cycles- the moon and the two-wheeled variety.

When we arrived near Truckeroo, we darted up an empty parking garage winding up, up, and up, until we reached the top with an overlook at Nationals stadium and Truckeroo. We could see the trucks lining the outside of the venue and the people were lined up and packed in the center. It was like a human whoopie pie. Or what I imagine a whoopie pie to be, since like many of the food items, the whoopie pie was sold out.

The not so good: The ride itself was full of fun, but cruising through intersections and asking drivers to wait patiently with a wave struck me as presumptuous and worse. I continue to battle with my place on the roads and this group-think takes over the world seemed like a step in the wrong direction. How can I complain about cars crowding me during the day if at night I and my lightly-dressed cohorts act as though the roads are ours? When I think of sharing the roads I think of simultaneous co-existence, not an agreement where bikes take over the roads at night and cars take them on during the day.

The interesting: This ride gave me bike and clothing envy. I don't know that I need to be a dandy on a fixie, but I'm tempted. I feel like this month I've started to explore a world where competition is not the focus. I seem to be stumbling on social clubs and considering ideas that are about creating and sharing instead of competing. We'll see where that takes me.

Dear driver,

I'm sorry about our exchange today. I think we both said some things in a tone we didn't mean. The words were ok, like when I said, "Please go ahead, you don't have a stop sign," except without the "Please", oh, or the "go ahead." Or when you said, "Your hand was out, like you were turning." You were correct, I was signaling a left turn, but I didn't want to make it directly in front of your moving vehicle.

I think we were both trying to respectfully share the road and avoid collision. For this, I am grateful. I thought about you as I rode away and I'm thinking about you now. I thought about the venom in our words and wondered if I should turn around and say, "We were right. We were both right."

I hope you'll accept this letter instead and not run me over next time either.

Hugs and kisses,
Dave

Inheriting a car for a month

Giving up my car several years ago was a triumph of public transportation and good sense. I've made the most of it for many years. I've biked, grabbed rides from gracious friends, taken the Metro, participated in car-sharing, and perhaps stayed a little closer to home. Last month after C went down with a broken leg, her car suddenly became very available. I couldn't resist its lure. As the temperatures hovered just above freezing and the Ultimate practices hovered just before bed time, I borrowed the car on a regular basis. At 8 o'clock at night and beyond, the car was a treat to warmly whisk me to practice and home again.

Unfortunately, it wasn't all evening back street driving. Clare also asked me to drive her a few places. Those adventures didn't go as well. The hour was usually day time and the traffic was thicker than I like my milkshakes. I don't have a great sense of direction anyway, but having a passenger who would rather be driving only made my misdirection seem more severe. All my reasons for choosing to be mostly car-less came rushing back. I think what Sartre really meant was, Hell is other people- in cars. In this city there are just too many cars vying for too little space. Then they want to park too.

It has been a great relief to return to my bike. Yes, I often feel that I'm going to be crushed under the weight of a giant unfeeling steel and plexiglass box on wheels, but at least I'm going to go out with a sense of freedom and control.

Part II
Although Clare has reclaimed her car, this experience has made me realize that in the world of car-less, I no longer fully count. I'm not pure. I do have more access than before. I live in a household with a car. At some point in my life, I think this blurring of the line would have bothered me greatly. Now, I acknowledge it, but I'm going to go about my business. Also, I think I'll go for a bike ride.

Bike sharing

On the surface there seems no reason why I'd need to participate in a bike sharing program in my own town. I've had some success sharing abroad, but a year or two ago when Smartbikes came to DC, I had no use for them. I've got a bike (or two) that I can ride, so I couldn't justify becoming a member of the bike sharing community. The model Smartbikes was using didn't make sense to me either. They wanted a membership fee like Zipcar uses so they could issue a card for using their bikes. I understand why a person can't just walk up, swipe a credit card, and drive, but the same logic doesn't apply for a bike.

Recently, Capital Bikeshare has come to town. They've come to town in a big way, too. While I've only seen two Smartbike locations, I can rattle off at least five Capital Bikeshare racks. Capital Bikeshare has a member fee too, but they get it right because they also have a 24-membership fee of $5. Tourists and those as indecisive as me can take advantage without commitment. Grabbing a bike to get to and from a location in trips of less than 30 minutes keeps that fee at $5. That's more than a bus ride, but getting pretty close to a Metro ride. A little extra time costs more money, but it's a reasonable amount. These bikes aren't meant for all day touring, but they are great for short jaunts.

I chose to test them out because I didn't want to leave my bike locked out in the open all day this past Saturday. I had to be at CUA before the Metro was running. I had limited options, so it seemed like a good excuse for a test. The bikes have three speeds and for city riding third gear was passable. There were a few flat spots on the Metropolitan Branch Trail where I could have used a bigger gear, but it wasn't bad. The seat is oddly lumpy, but not as uncomfortable as it looks. I missed my toe clips a bit, but I suspect I'm in the minority on that. The system is simple to use. The charges are reasonable and now I'm considering adding a bike share membership for the year to my legion of transportation options.

Ah, big city life.

It all works out

The following anecdotes are connected, but I cannot prove it. That sounds far more compelling than it is. There aren't many moments when I wish I had a car, but Saturday I had one of those moments. Arriving by Metro at a Virginia high school, I discovered that I was actually supposed to be playing Ultimate at a Maryland middle school. Without a car, I had no hope of switching states to make even part of the game. I was stranded without Ultimate. Also, I forgot my public transit reading material. All of this, to quote some surfer dude, bummed me out.

In order to make up for missed Ultimate, I began to search for a suitable running replacement on Sunday morning. I found one, not too far away, but decided that the price and the early schedule did not suit me well, so I went about my normal schedule. As I awaited Sunday scrimmage with Habit, a sign went up on the wall behind me. It was a sign for a 5k. It was a sign for a 5k that started in 20 minutes. This late advertisement was perfect for me, but did suggest some level of disorganization.

Scrimmage time and race time supposedly coincided. I stood around waiting for players for the scrimmage and then decided that I could run a 5k and probably be ready for scrimmage when warm-ups concluded. My guess turned out to be a little off, but I went to enter the race. I expected a $5 race and was instead told that the entry fee was $25. Whoa, I said with a $10 bill in my hand. I don't need to race that much I thought as I backed up from the table. With a look to the left and right, the official decided that $10 were better than $0 and I was entered in the race. I was then asked if I'd be in the under 15, 15-21, or 21 and above category. I looked at the choices on the page and asked, "Do you want my age?"

"No, your time," was the reply

I'm no slouch when it comes to a 5k, but if anybody showed up on this Sunday morning to run under 15 minutes, they should really consider a return to division one college athletics. I picked the middle category and began to wonder what I was getting in to. I was getting in to laps on the track. That was ok, at least it was until they said that we'd be running 14 laps. I did some calculating in my head. I admit it wasn't sophisticated, but 5k is 5000 meters. It's an actual distance not a cute name for a run. The 14 laps on a track would each be 400 meters long. That would yield 5600 meters. This was no 5k. Still ok, but a little annoying since the track was probably marked with a 5k starting mark, it being a track and all.

We lined up on the starting line. No one was interested in lane 1, so I took it figuring that I wouldn't be too far off the lead. I tried to determine if passing slower runners should occur on the inside or the outside, but the race "official" could only tell me to use good running etiquette. That was really no help at all.

We heard go and we ran. For the first 400-800 meters, I led and tried to control my pace to be right at 6 minutes per mile. I heard footsteps and wondered how long they would be present. Soon they died off as I held my pace. It was almost right at 6 minutes at the mile. I was responsibly counting my laps which turned out to be fortunate when the "official" asked me what lap I was on. I focused harder on not losing track of my laps after that. I kept clicking through at slightly under 6 minutes per mile pace and as I felt comfortable began to speed up a bit. Round and round and round I went. I kicked it in as best I could the last two laps, ran 20:15, shook a couple of hands, and then walked away to be present at Ultimate practice. It was strangely disconnected and satisfying.

As I was leaving, someone called out to me, "Come get your prize." They seemed unsure about something, so I assumed it was a joke, but no, there was a prize. Someday soon, I'll bowl for free. The spoils. The spoils.

Cars are hard and I am soft

As the temperature hovers around perfect while the sun shines just enough to warm skin, the bike lanes fill up like lemonade glasses. Biking in the city has been an ongoing challenge. It's a push and pull of safety, expediency, mob mentality, and fear. My principles are tested and reformed daily. I've nearly settled on a few to guide me, but even those tend to favor the familiar routes. I've started to realize the places where it's better if I turn right on red so I can cross lanes to make a left in the next block. Illegal? After 7 AM it is, but if I don't jump the light I get angry drivers bearing down on me. I've started to realize where I can time the lights and keep my momentum and where I might as well just follow behind a car because it's not going to change my ability to get to my destination any faster. With fuller bike lanes, the laws of traffic and sharing space within the bike lane become more challenging, but the laws of the road are still important to keep close to the gear shift.

Yesterday as I was skirting around a line of cars on the right who were stopped at a stoplight that would soon turn green, I rediscovered a little something about cars. They are hard. There was no bike lane, so I was riding in the space between car and curb. Should I have been there? It's where I'd be if traffic was moving, so I think yes. I passed two cars as the light was turning green. The third car, the one in front at the light, chose that moment to turn right just as I pulled up next to it. I felt it happening and managed to turn right as well. My turn wasn't sharp enough and my arm slapped against the side mirror. As I was pushed farther to my right, the side mirror made a satisfying BOING back into place. I circled quickly on to the sidewalk in shock. I hadn't fallen and I had nothing more than a racing heart and a light scratch on my arm.

I took some deep breaths as the driver and I apologized to one another. I don't think it was either person's fault. She should have had her turn signal on and I should have been more careful shooting that gap. Ok, but rattled, I did what the old adage says to and got back on my horse. I was a little jumpy, but pretty alert. I rode to work, out to dinner, home, and I'm headed out again today.

I'm taking my chances and I'm hoping that all my collisions are as mild because cars are huge and can crush me and the not-so-gentle reminder of that was a bit harrowing. Back to the streets...

Inspiration from the sky

In a rush this afternoon I agreed to meet a friend and her mother for dinner in Baltimore. I'm a little disappointed that I didn't think to take the train, but I was in a hurry, so I got a Zipcar. The rain had been sprinkling all day and I thought nothing of it. I'm such a novice when it comes to DC driving. I should know by now that if a guy riding a bike sweats and that perspiration hits the ground, traffic comes to a halt. When the clouds perspire, it's much worse. I fought my way to B'more and arrived about 15 minutes beyond the predicted arrival time window. It took me an hour and a half to get there and I was giving myself an hour to get home. I should have listened to the voice in my head that asked for more time on the zipcar, but I ignored it with a zippedy-do-da sense of optimism. That optimism shriveled up like a prune in a Phoenix when the rain beat my windshield and traffic came to a halt.

Desperate, I knew I needed to extend my reservation, but I was stuck in the middle of the road. We moved slightly or I might have knocked on someone's window and asked for a phone. I had to find a pay phone. Yes, those still exist. The thirty minute window to find a pay phone shrank to fifteen before I saw a sign for an Exxon at the next exit. Traffic crawled along as the minutes of the digital clock re-pixelated ever closer to the end of my reservation. With time slipping away, I pulled into the Exxon and scanned the station. I found the phone, pulled into a parking space, leapt from the car and grabbed the phone hoping for a dial tone. The Zipcar phone number has a "Z" and the phone did not. I ran back to the car where I'd seen the actual digits I needed to call and dragged them over to the phone. I dialed again. It was 10:59. My reservation ended at 11:00. I was punching buttons almost frantically trying to extend the reservation when the sky lit up and a great clap of thunder gave me a start. I nearly dropped the phone. The rain came down harder. I extended the reservation, hung up in my growing wetness and headed out. Hi-Ho Zipcar, away.

Zippedy-doo-whaaaat?

My karma must be a bit out of whack. Today was some kind of odd. I had an immediate need for a Zipcar this morning. Zipcar allows me to rent cars by the hour and is usually near public transportation or high-traffic areas. Weekends are usually busy, but in three years I've always been able to find a car somewhat close to where I need it. I was able to find a car, but when I went to make a reservation, I found that I could not. For some reason, my credit card information was messed up. That took some time and phone calls to get solved. There were no cars in my vicinity, so I had to Metro a stop to find the Honda Fit I'd reserved. The morning was already an ordeal for other reasons, but When I started the Fit, I got nothing. After another phone call, the Zipcar rep decided the best course of action was to transfer my reservation from the Fit to a Mini Cooper. That's ok, except that the Fit had 5 seats and the Mini did not. We squeezed, like clowns, in a sporty little car and headed to our destination.

All was well, except for some cramped muscles and spaces and we made it to our destination. Hours passed and then I went to start the Mini I inserted the round fob, pushed down the brake, and pressed the "start" engine button. Nothing happened. I couldn't believe it. I checked the brake, the fob, the shifter, the windshield wiper, and the radio. I tried again. Still nothing. Disbelieving I called the zip folks again. At first the help was confused as he thought we were moving. I said, no, we were very much sitting still in a parking lot with the engine off. He went through a series of locking and unlocking of the doors remotely, which was odd and somehow both frightening and comforting. We are so close to flying cars, I know it! Eventually, the zip help was convinced that I should try the fob, brake, button press again. I did and the Mini came to life.

Karma corrected? Perhaps.

four on the floor, one on the bus?

Today marks the first time I have taken the bus from home to work and then back again at the end of the day. Sometimes it feels like the rain is winning.

Tonight marks the first time I have driven a manual transmission vehicle in quite some time. I thought I was going to get a shot of re-living my early years (read 15.5 to about 28.5) in Iceland, but that rug was pulled out from under me by the rental agency. I had another shot a few weeks ago, but a series of car-borrowing events later put me behind the wheel of yet another automatic transmission machine. Tonight, through the generosity of others, I got my chance.

I will grant that Taylor Swift's song "You belong to me" may have contributed to my sense of nostalgia, but I still felt a ripple when I sat down in the driver's seat, depressed the clutch, put my right hand on the stick shift and was whisked away to another time and place. I felt the heartache of my late teens seep through the transmission and enter my body through my hand. I couldn't find a girlfriend, I wasn't sure of my place in the world, the rain made me sad and lonely. I released the stick and breathed back into my thirties. It's a more confident place, though perhaps not as far removed from those days as I like to pretend. As I maneuvered in and out of parallel parking spots, another wave of nostalgia came over me, this time in a surge of valet-instilled confidence. I was the sort of parking machine that women and men alike adored and under-tipped. I could park your big boat of a Lincoln towncar or pull around your late 90s T-bird, no sweat. I'm versatile that way. Manual, automatic, past, present- it's all here. Baby.

Scared of the curb

I don't know how people rage against the machine every day. I am exhausted from my bike rides in the city lately. There's nowhere for me to hide. I was honked at and yelled at over the weekend. The honking provoked me to have a stare in a rearview mirror and then have a conversation where neither party heard a thing through closed windows. The holler to "ride on the sidewalk" prompted a deep angry shout of, "I'm on the road and I belong on the road." I don't know if I've ever shouted with such fury.

The problem lies in my route, but no route from my new home is without traffic. There are cars everywhere. As I ride, I also find that my moral superiority has slipped away and I find that I am particularly concerned about how drivers view not just me, but all bicyclists. I now better understand why some cyclists choose to don neon gear and have flags waving on the backs of their bikes. They are trying to convince one more driver to see them and then hopefully share the road with them without comment. It's a battle and if it didn't rock so much to get to work in 15 minutes with awakened heart and lungs, I'm not sure I could fight it.

The price of stupidity is high

The easy "rental" of a Zipcar has been my pal on numerous occasions over the last two years. Cars have always been stocked and ready to go at most any time I had a need. Today was no different. Just ten minutes before I was to head out the door, I reached for my wallet and found that the all important key to my Zipcar success was missing. I searched through my wallet and my pockets but never found the card that opens the doors and lets me go about my merry car-free existence. Flummoxed and approaching the point of no return, I searched to see if a bus would get me to my off-site work destination. No dice. At best, I would be 20 minutes late. I darted out the door and headed for the taxi stand. There was no frantic arm waving, just heavy breath hanging in the air.

The taxi got me to my destination for less than I had expected to pay, but factor in the already-reserved zipcar and my trip was a hefty 8 dollars a mile. Ouch.

I found my card in a pocket of another jacket when I got home. The card was jammed back into my wallet for another ride some other day.

Tarheel country

Big Ed's at the City Market was not exactly my intended lunch time destination. I got off a plane and set off with my daypack full, running shoes poking out of the water bottle carriers. I wore my green safari/fatigue/sport coat and my red cap. The sun south of here was hotter than I expected. The bus ride longer. Then, I didn't factor in the extra loop through the airport. Public transit isn't the answer other places. I arrived downtown, wandered to the city market, and stumbled onto Big Ed's. Corn bread, country ham, food was the way to get acclimated.

I had the afternoon to myself. Completely. No one but me knew where I was. Even I didn't know where I was going. I was carless, bikeless, and now not so keen on the bus. I walked. I walked through historic Oakwood where the porches of my dreams framed house after house. I longed for sweet tea and quiet company, but only kept the latter. I wandered on the outskirts of a cemetery, past the dead of Raleigh, on my way back to the capitol. I had loose plan, but I didn't know the scale of my map or when I'd left it. My watch had broken and so I told time in foot pains and hunger pangs. I toured the history museum, closed according to the information booth lady, where I found a 1920s pharmacy sans soda jerk and the North Carolina Sports Hall of Fame sans Air Jordan. Still thirsty, still curious, I walked on to an avenue speckled with bars not ready to open. Not knowing quite how I would get to my hotel for the night, I continued to walk. On foot, I found my bus route into town and stopped at LocoPop. It was all I could expect from a shop just outside the campus of NC State. Part ice cream shop that served only popsicles and part art gallery that catered only to elementary art school classes, I chewed through a mango-papaya pop and rested.

Renewed by the popsicle, I carried on through campus, but no longer felt quite so at home as I have in years past. As I neared the highway, I began to except that my nomadic, public transit fueled dreams were coming to a close. Stumbling on a pay phone in between the dilapidated Pizza America and the crusty car repair joint, I called for a cab. It took some leafing through an attached phone book, but I was pleased to note that the entire world had not passed me by. After my quiet afternoon as a big city adventurer, I had to wonder if in fact I was actually gaining.

Life without car

I'd like to pretend that I never want or need a car, ever. I can't. Usually, I fill the need with a Zipcar or a gracious friend, but sometimes even that doesn't make sense. So, when both my bikes were crippled by rear flat tires it took me a full week to find the energy to get to a bike shop. Finally, on Friday with tires and tubes draped over my shoulder like a Project Runway design gone sour, I ran to the nearest bike shop. It was satisfying, but a 10-minute car trip was instead a bit of sweaty pavement-pounding ordeal. It's one of the few times that I've truly missed my car. I feel guilty that I have let that trip become an ordeal. Even as I'm proud of the end result, I'm disappointed at the laziness that rests somewhere inside.

Lazy or not, as I balked at the cost of two new tires and two new tubes, I felt pretty good that I haven't been to a car repair shop in quite some time. Something tells me that fan belts, oil filters, and other mechanic-speak would bring me balking to my knees.

A spectacular failure with urban highlights
Today was bike to work day. Due to certain circumstances, not only did my bike remain in the dark corners of the basement, but I actually ended up on the roads driving a car home from work today. I think this marks the second time in five years that I have driven home from work and it could not have come on a more inappropriate day. While my behavior mostly makes me want to pull down a bike helmet and hide my eyes in shame, and while the traffic did make me consider leaving the comforts of my hybrid-for-the-evening to take a lead pipe to someone's shins, I did have two noteworthy urban moments.

First, after a nervous search for a zipcar, I got to experience my first ever car hand-off. I wandered around wondering where the zipcar could be. As I turned down the alley, I saw it pull in. A woman exited, we waved, and I entered. It was car-sharing at it's finest.

Later, as I searched for more than 10 minutes for a parking space (nothing for the urban vets, but not pleasing to me) I finally found a place to park illegally near where I wanted to park legally. As soon as I had shimmied into the spot, a car across the street vacated a legal spot. Magically the road cleared, I pulled out of my illegal spot, made a U-turn, and parallel parked on the other side of the street. That was pretty satisfying.

Hippies, use front entrance

Yesterday, I had my first zipcar experience. Zipcar is a form of car sharing, but it is not like slugging. I wasn't on the side of the road hitching from designated slots, nor did I have any direct contact with other humans as a result of my sharing. No. My arrangements were all made online without talking to a soul. There are rules, but they are less about direct human interaction. It wasn't slugging, and it wasn't hitchhiking.

I did a little hitchhiking a few years ago. It was something that I needed to do. I know the world is a big scary place, but sometimes it's not. I admit I wasn't hitching across the country or even particularly far down the road, but I was on my way and my thumb was my ticket there. That ride wasn't exhilarating. A non-descript station wagon and a couple that seemed nice enough picked me up. They looked like maybe they made their own clothes or sometimes ate cold beans from a tin can. They were nice. We didn't talk much.

It wasn't like that. It was more like being a valet and driving off in a really clean car and returning it before the owners came out of the casino. I never did that, but it was like that. Or like my hitchhiking experience if I replace the couple with nobody and replace the station wagon with a Scion.

Cars are located in designated spots around the city. I made a reservation for one nearby. I decided my adventure would last no more than 2.5 hours, at which time I would return the car to the same spot. The automated service confirmed my intentions and even emailed me a reminder message, so I wouldn't forget to drive.

I didn't forget and found a little silver Scion parked where it claimed to be. I pulled out my card and scanned the windshield. The car unlocked and I climbed in. I fiddled with the XM radio and adjusted the seat. Within minutes, I didn't feel much. I was driving. Driving was a lot like I remembered. I've kept my mind sharp over the last two weeks, but it turns out driving hasn't changed all that much, even in a shared car. Traffic does not disappear. The street lights don't all turn green. I actually found the car sharing to be a less mind-altering experience than using an in-car navigation system. I was still driving, most of the dials were in the same place, and so were the pedals. For the most part there were a few knuckleheads on the road and as always an astounding number of people. Although, there were advertisements all over the car, I saw no indication that anyone cared. As best I could tell, everyone remained as self-absorbed as they had before. Including me.

My trip was not eventful, which is really how it should be. I had moments when I worried that I'd forget what kind of car I was driving, but that's not really a fear relegated to car sharers. I experienced a sadness when my radio stations were not preset and I couldn't even remember what station I used to listen to. The dismount wasn't perfect. There's something very odd about driving half a mile to park the car. The half mile walk back home was not trouble, but it's quite different from just shutting all the car doors or closing up the garage. As I trotted home, pride washed over me, because I knew that at that very moment someone else could be picking up the car to make a trip of their own. Even though I spoke with no one it made me feel a little closer to the city to know that we're driving the same car.

Wheels of fortune

I knew there would be challenges. I just didn't think they would come so quickly.

Way back in November, one Mr. Briguy posted about An Inconvenient Truth. He said "see this movie" and he said it in all caps. I know Briguy, and he doesn't raise his letters unless he really means it. And don't even get me started on the extra-emphasis-inducing punctuation. He ended his post with one of my favorite quotes, "You must be the change you want to see in the world."

I am susceptible to suggestion, I admit it. And so I could have rushed out to rent An Inconvenient Truth, but this was more than a nudge toward Hollywood Video. This was a push down the path of putting down Lucille. She served me well, the old girl. Without the fullness of my convinctions, I could only manage to reveal bits and pieces of my struggle. I knew what was right, but there's so much of America wrapped up in car ownership. It's freedom, it's power, it's status, and in so many places it's a way of life. The only way out. The only way in. The only way to the store and school and anywhere. But this is not one of those places. I have an opportunity to be the change I want to see in the world and I am taking it.

It took most of December to find a satisfactory way to let go of the little red Saturn that took me on dates, took me to the middles of nowheres to play Ultimate, took me back and forth on the highway and brought me here. She wasn't well, but she wasn't dead. Earlier this week, they took Lucille away.

Everyday when I come home and turn the corner to walk down my drive I am a little startled to find her gone. I never drove her to the store, but my walk to the store somehow seems longer.

I was not completely unprepared for her disappearance. I orchestrated it, of course. I also signed up for zipcar almost a month ago. Their quick and easy rentals at locations all around should ease my struggle. As I rang in the new year, I hit the bike shops and soon bought myself a new bike, something that I can bounce off the curbs a little harder and turn to the trails with less fear of a flat tire. Bikes are good.

How good? Today was my first real test. Today I had to take public transportation and the new bike to my Sunday pick-up game. This is one of the two places I drive, now drove, on a regular basis. The Metro was farther away than I anticipated, partly due to a cruel joke- a sprawling parking lot. I made it to the game before it started and quickly forgot how I had arrived. I forgot until the darkness and the rain began to fall together. Wet and cold I made the journey home. What used to take 15 minutes now takes an hour.

I eventually watched An Inconvenient Truth and I'd like to echo Briguy and say, see this movie. There are those that don't agree with the conclusions and those that criticize the simplicity of the science. Maybe Al's wrong and maybe we'll be fine. If we're not, I'll be wondering if I could have done more. I think my grandkids might wonder the same thing.

If you can read this, your Internet is too close

As I peeled the remains of an "I'd rather be playing Ultimate" bumper sticker off my bumper, I wondered if drivers with "Honk for Jesus" stickers went through a similar range of emotions when they picked and poked at the remains of their stickers. As the tiny sticker flakes stopped peeling off in my hand, I thought about the time in Columbus when I lived by my bumper sticker. I found a place where there was too much Ultimate or at least not enough else. I'd rather be playing Ultimate, it turns out, really only works when there's actually something else to be done.

As I scraped at the sticker with a screwdriver, I was reminded of how much Ultimate has meant to me. I get confused when my weekends are without it. Nearly all my friends who don't share some connection to Mizzou are Ultimate players. Ultimate is the reason I wake up Sunday afternoon and the reason I limp to work Monday morning. I run because I like it, but I run more because it will keep me in shape for chasing discs. There's something to this Ultimate thing.

Finally, as I turned to the razor blade and I scraped away the last of "playing," I worried that maybe I'd let Ultimate become too important. Bumper sticker removal and tears don't go together. With a flick of the blade, I erased Ultimate from Lucille. She shuddered as she remembered trips to Lawrence and through Slippery Rock. Discs pulled from her trunk in places as far apart as here and Hays. "Too important?" Lucille's freshly cleaned maroon body asked. Then quietly she directed me to her gold racing stripes. I saw in the stripes what she wanted me to see. Lucille is a fine car without those stripes, but that flair makes her special.

Honk for that.

The biggest test in 16 years

Age: 16
Goal: 70% and the freedom to wake up in the middle of the night and drive to McDonald's.

The parallel parking did not go as smoothly as hoped. Chalk it up to nerves. Stopped on a large hill, the instructor informed the young driver that those with manual transmissions deserved an extra level of scrutiny, not extra credit as he had hoped. Stopped at a stoplight, a wee bit too close to the car in front. Marked for various other infractions Returned to the DMV, nervously.

Grade: 70%. Passing is passing. Freedom in the eyes of the law. Restrictions in the eyes of the parental units.

"Well I'm not bragging babe, so don't put me down"

A pink learners permit folded and crumpled at the edges sits between 15-year old boy and his parent as they wait together at the bottom of the hill in suburbia. The boy sits on the left, his hands are tightly gripping the steering wheel. With his left foot jammed on the clutch and his right poised to dart between gas and brake, he nervously prepares another go. Slowly letting out the clutch, he slams his foot on the gas and the engine revs its disapproval. Startled, the boy pulls his feet off the pedals and the car lurches to a stop again. After the neck bouncing ceases, a discussion of feathering the clutch, of feeling for that point when the depressed pedal is ready to pounce and unleash a life of cruising for Big Macs and open road, occurs. The left foot raises slowly and the right foot does not jam on the gas, it depresses the pedal inversely of the right and the car rolls to life. It sounds simple enough, though the boy doesn't really know anyone else going through this ordeal. Automatic transmissions, the go-karts of the adult world are what his friends ride. The boy does not have that option. It's either manual in the little red Saturn or the mini-van. If he can just get this now, freedom awaits. Freedom to avoid steep hills, especially at the light on Troost where he imagines the cars lined up behind him and honking as he struggles to find that point on the clutch under pressure, but freedom all the same. This will not be the last day of practice, but the neck snapping, car lurching cannot go on forever.

Roads. Where we're going...

My car is like a time machine. Sit inside and be transported to the land of Rock Radio '84, Summer Radio '97, and the greatest mix tape to ever be jammed down in that little area on the door that should have the maps, yes I do mean- I can streak for miles and miles.

I sit in my car, the car in which I took my driver's test, the car in which I took my prom date, the car which canvassed the Midwest on a paintbrush called I-70, and I travel the highways and byways of now. Only with the tapes, and the growing smells, it starts to feel like another time. A moldier, oldier time. A time when the end of high school was closer than the ten year reunion.

My car is a time machine.

Yesterday, I traveled to the future. Despite my best efforts to cling to the moldy and the oldy, I went to the future. I know this because in the future gas prices are $3.19 per gallon.

The future looks grim.