When I moved off campus for my sophomore year of college, I knew that riding a bike to and from school would be the best option for transportation. I had my beloved VW Beetle, but being familiar with the limited parking spaces and hefty permit prices that my university charges, driving was not appearing to be the optimal choice. There was also the bus, but it only ran once at the top of every hour; meaning that to make it to my 8 a.m. shift at the library on time, I’d have to be ready and waiting at the nearest stop at 7 a.m. My chipper, idealistic self considered it, but was immediately shut down by the inner id who violently hit the snooze button a minimum of ten times each morning. And so, biking it was.
The previous year, I had ordered a minimalistic, no-frills matte white bike off of Amazon. I’d barely ridden it anywhere yet; being a freshman in the dorms had offered easy access to everywhere I needed to go on foot. For most of the time it had been in my possession, it had been chained to the community bike racks, where it sat lonely and gathering dust. Now, it would be what I relied upon daily for a timely trip to and from school.
On the first morning of my second year, I fumbled with the lock on our storage shed and hauled my new carriage out into the foggy morning air. I awkwardly maneuvered it through the narrow alley along side the house and around the rusted fence door. Taking a deep breath, I took a moment to study this two-wheeled contraption that I was so unfamiliar with.
I had, as I usually do with most things, spent a great deal of time imagining what my new life as a cycling commuter would be like. I pictured flying through the country side at a brisk, easy speed, admiring serene cow pastures and feeling the wind whip at my face. I figured that biking would allow me great opportunities for reflection with the help of exercise-induced endorphins.
What I definitely did not imagine was the large pile of, ahem – dog feces that someone had so kindly forgotten to remove from our lawn, which I haphazardly drove through that gloomy August morning. Nor did I anticipate the tears that would be forced from my eyes because of the relentless gusts of wind pummeling into my face, making me appear to be a very sad cyclist indeed. That first morning introduced me to many of the more unpleasant aspects of commuting via bicycle, including the cars that pass precariously close, and the excruciatingly steep hill that my spindly legs on a one-speed had no chance of making it up in one go.
I felt slightly discouraged after finally – finally – arriving at my destination. Would it be this difficult every day? I wasn’t sure I could endure the grueling nature of man-powered travel. Purchasing a parking pass, even despite the overpriced fee, was sounding significantly more appealing now.
Later that day, after my last class finished late in the evening, I took my time walking to the bike racks; I was not too eager to have a repeat of earlier events. As it turned out, the hill that had caused me so much trouble before was a breeze to descend. Out past the 101 toward the ocean, the sun had settled in toward the horizon behind a haze of clouds, coloring the sky a brilliant yellow. I nearly forgot to use hand signals to mark a left turn as I admired the golden hour scenery.
On the way home, I took note of many little treasures that I had somehow missed the first time around, such as an abandoned railroad lined with tall feathery pampas grass, and Queen Anne’s lace weaving itself around and through a barbed wire fence.
Biking to school, as most difficult things do, became easier with time. I’m even starting to enjoy it, the good and the bad and the in-between too. I’ve yet to make it up that hill in one go, though. I guess that’s my next goal in my new adventures as a cyclist.
