Euphoriphobia

Feeling good scares me.

Not at the time, it just feels good. Great, even. But the anticipation of going out there again makes me want to hide under the bed.

It was 30 degrees F the day I rode to work, December 27. I saw the sun rise over frost-covered hills, buffalo and antelope* grazing in the stillness; they like the cold. Imagine my surprise to find that I do, too.

And it must be said, I loved the look on the faces of the truck drivers about to start their shift when I rode up. And of co-workers who asked what happened to my car. (Nothing, yet.) My face felt tingly and my toes numb for some time, but all day I was transported. I felt like I'd been away somewhere and returned to find my surroundings altered in some way - the light, the air I breathed, the blood flowing within me.

And after work, of course, I rode home. I don't remember the last time I rode twenty-five miles in a single day. But I did that day, to my own surprise as much as anyone's. (I left open the option to catch the bus the last leg, but then missed that turn - a happy accident.)

So what happened a few days, and again another few days, later? Similar circumstances, new knowledge of the trip's feasibility - why did I dread the ride even more? Why was I secretly glad when the weather was "too wet"? Why is it harder, instead of easier, to ride at all even now, almost a month later?

And why did I wait until that euphoria was a dim memory, almost second-hand, before writing about it?


*There's an exotic game preserve along the route.

Fighting Weekly Amnesia

All y'all who had "six weeks, tops" in the How Long Will This Last pool, don't spend those winnings yet.

Every weekend I have the same epiphany: when I ride my bike, I'm a different - and far happier - person. Just wheeling it out of the garage to pump up the tires gives me hope. A five minute spin around the block puts a smile on my face. A sunny, invigorating winter's afternoon around town? Euphoria. (The After-Christmas South Austin Hot Beverage Tour has the makings of a new tradition.) A simple dinner (tonight: apple and cheese crostini) is a feast, and I sleep the untroubled sleep of the innocent.

And by Monday afternoon, those memories have slipped away.

Fortunately, events have conspired to bring a break in this pattern within reach. Tomorrow's workday starts an hour later than usual; the weather, while cold, will be dry (so they say); and traffic may still be light.

Tomorrow I shall ride to work.

I haven't done so since June (a different job, a different home), when I had the #3 bus line as backup. From here, the end of the bus line is only one-third of the way to work. The rest is on narrow country roads, and at that hour it will still be dark. But I have blinking lights and a lime-green safety vest, along with long underwear and wool gloves.

Wish me luck.

Rides pragmatic and therapeutic

You know how it is: you've been out running errands - or even just having fun - all day, and now you're home, settling in and ready for dinner. Except in all that running around, you forgot a major ingredient, plus a couple of items you'll need tomorrow. So in spite of wet hair and gathering dusk and quickly falling temperatures, out you go again. But instead of a ten-minute drive, it's a half-hour on a bike.

Yeah, I cratered. My almost-driving-free weekend ended about 5 p.m. Sunday with a trip to the supermarket. I'd have made it if they carried stewmeat at the corner store.

Riding to the current job is still a long way off - but at least the job is still in the "current" column. Saturday I did some route-scouting to the halfway point, which is always fun. This point is also the closest possible bus stop to the worksite, an important landmark for any future trips into town straight after work - an option made poignantly more feasible after other events of the day.

Besides the data gathered, the ride Saturday was primarily to blow off steam and get out of the suddenly-lonely house. My sister had just left minutes before, taking with her my war-buddy from the trenches of a long campaign: my cat Boze, whom I inherited from my late dad. She's been with me for six years and through four moves, including the initial exile from her previous hilltop fiefdom that was the only world she'd known. My current living arrangement became untenable for the old girl, so off she goes to the north. My sister has two cats of her own, so she's suddenly become single mom to a blended household of aging felines. Boze is in the best possible hands, but I miss her.

I hope I can get out of bed tomorrow morning without her yelling to be fed.

Not even cycling can ease the pain of shopping for women's clothes.

The Small Town within the City

Today was a very good day, biking in perfect biking weather. Rode up to my former and still favorite neighborhood, the disgustingly charming Clarksville, pretty much just for the joy of riding. Had a light lunch of amazing corn chowder at Cipollina and picked up a few ingredients for King Ranch Chicken at the Fresh Plus, which is too cool for a website. It was there I spotted and said hello to one of my Texas literary-liberal heroes, Gary Cartwright, a close friend of the legendary late Governor Ann Richards. On the way back, I paused to listen to some guy playing the saxophone on the Pfluger Bridge. All told, about fifteen miles of meandering, no bus or car. Austin may not be the best city in the country for biking (although it kicks the rest of the state's ass), but biking is the best way to experience it.

Clarksville, also known as Old West Austin and Castle Hill, is living Austin history, in its people and environs. Houses date from 1880's limestone through Victorians to craftsman bungalows and a few remaining shotgun houses (now priced in the middle six figures). Oh, and a castle, from which the eastern portion gets the name Castle Hill. From the top of the hill you can see the Capitol or fireworks over Lady Bird Lake, or coast the eight blocks to the heart of downtown. In the heart of the neighborhood is a small-town Main Street (actually West Lynn) with a market (complete with butcher counter), drugstore with soda fountain, and several charming cafes and shops. The Shoal Creek Greenbelt borders this neighborhood and runs through Pease Park, site of Eeyore's Birthday Party. Sorry, I tend to lapse into docent mode from time to time.

Sadly, the rest of the week was car-bound. I keep meaning to bike the route to work on my day off, but - it's my day off, y'know? And nothing else of note is out that way (Creedmoor, anyone?). I did run one brief errand to the drug store a mile away Tuesday afternoon, a short trip that worked wonders on my mood. (The store remains anonymous due to its generic chainity, unlike Clarksville's longstanding and locally owned Nau's, pictured above.)

Whenever I bike into town, I feel like an exiled rebel sneaking across enemy lines. Like the love child of Col. Hogan and Capt. Mal Reynolds.

Toasted Mini-Rant

Seriously, how do y'all put up with this crap? And WHY? Crawling down the "free"way, nose to ass, cars to the horizon, an hour or more every morning, another every night. Day after day after day, the remaining days of your short, sweet life stretching out, inching along, just like that river of cars. And to what purpose? To work to afford the bigass rolling self-affirmer, with its bitchin' stereo and PrØnStar Instant Friend so you'll never feel as alone as you really are and will remain unto the end of your days in your rolling prison cell!

{Ahem} Sorry. Still adjusting to commuting.

Obstacles, Internal and External

This week: drove to work Monday-Friday, plus several other trips. Saturday ran a few errands by bike, Sunday bought produce and yarn at the HOPE Farmer's Market - in this case the singular possessive is actually correct since there was only one farm represented. Some other cool artsy stuff, but they should really just call it the HOPE Market.

I also cruised around to more artists' studios and was blown away by Fisterra; between the art (left, byJennifer Chenoweth), the lovely garden, the lovingly restored old house, and the chicken posole, I all but wept. Bussed the uphill part back home, and later used the car to get the cat food I'd forgotten. Bottom line: forty-eight hours carless, seven days bikeless. Yeesh.

So, the commute. It's only twelve miles, twenty minutes by car, an hour by bike (according to Google Maps). BUT: no bus service, narrow, shoulderless country roads, 7 a.m. arrival time (so biking in pitch black). I had my choice of start times and took the one that got me home earliest; the others would have also had biking drawbacks, either more traffic or the same dark trip reversed and at the end of the day. Maybe I'll ride the route on the Thanksgiving holiday just to say I did. (The temp assignment ends Friday but may be extended or made permanent.)

As for the after-work errands, mostly they were trips to the store on the way home and could have been done by bike, if I'd been on one in the first place. I did have one evening of extreme running-around that would have been difficult-to-impossible without a car.

Besides the daunting externals, there are the wearying internals. After last Saturday's long mosey, I was very tired Sunday, the kind of tired that leads to injuries if unheeded. Definitely need to work on endurance and just daily saddle time (if they can do it in Minneapolis, surely I can in Austin.)

And the mental struggle? Being at a new job consumed most of my psychic energy this week, as it should. The best cure for that is a long-term stable employment. At least this job has a very regular schedule; it just starts too dang early.