Grunting, I reach over and slap it. Silent, again.
"I don't want to," I think to myself.
"Un-huh," I respond.
And so it begins—a ten minute conversation, a debate, really. Spirited. Passionate. All with my eyes closed.
Should I Stay, or Should I Go?
It's Thursday morning—bike commute day. It's the one day each week that logistics are not a barrier to riding. Normally I vegetate (or write this blog) on a commuter bus (like right now). But Thursdays are glorious!
It's such an opportunity! Decent mileage (~25 miles each way), varied terrain, a plethora of cyclist-assault vehicles (read: traffic). What's not to like?
Well, a lot, actually. Especially on this morning.
I'm tired.
And the pillow feels good.
And the ceiling fan is bathing me with luscious, cool air.
And my pillow really feels good.
And it's 0454 in the morning!
And it's already 80 degrees with 90% humidity!
...And the debate continues.
Schizophrenic?
Doesn't everyone talk to themselves—silently? Don't we all have inner dialogues?
I do—constantly. Hell, you're reading a manifestation of that habit. Who's the audience for this blog? Seriously, for whom do I write?
0458..the debate continues...
I need sleep. I need a workout. I haven't slept well in two days. I had two days of low-or-no workout—I missed my normal Two-a-Day Tuesday (I only led spin class) and I completely missed running Wednesday (it was 100 degrees in DC).
Sleep? Workout. Sleep. Workout! SLEEP! Workout.
0500, My feet hit the floor. I enter the bathroom. I pull on socks. I start to pull on bibs. I knock on Mother Nature's door. She answers.
As I sit there, eyes closed, swaying from fatigue, the debate continues.
Sleep. Dress. Sleeeeeep. Dress!
And it hits me: the moment of clarity; the why.
Like a beam of sunlight, the answer is revealed. The decision? So obvious, so clear, so absolute that the entire process now seems a farce—an exercise in cliché.
It's time to ride.
Why?
Because if I don't, I will be so pissed off at myself that I will be an insufferable bastard all day!
And no one...no one! Especially me!...will want to be anywhere near my smoldering glower, my feral snarl, or my vicious bite.
And if I ride, I may suffer, I may pant and wheeze and groan and complain. But come the shining of the sun and the bustle of my urban morning, I'll be happy.
So that's why I ride.
Epilogue
Friday morning.
0515...The alarm blares.
Grunting, I reach over and slap it. Silent, again.
My bike was stolen this morning, and I am bitter. It's challenging my ability to make lemonade from lemons.
We bid you "adieu"...
This is not be my usual style of post....I had planned to blog today about my one man revolution to improve the surliness of cyclists in Rock Creek park (it is going to involve waving and saying a cheerful "hello", despite the grousing, grumbling, and grumpiness I see every time I ride through there). it might have been humorous.
It certainty would have been entertaining.
Now I get to blog about my experience of a stolen bicycle.
Just the Facts, Man
I rode my morning commute route into DC, pulled up in front of the YMCA on Rhode Island Avenue, and dutifully locked my bike to one of the many permanent racks there. I had a cable lock, and I looped it through both wheels and my seat. I then looped it through the rack.
The scene of the crime...
Inside I went, seeking a shower and a few conversations about my new role as a spin class instructor. Cleansed and informed, I went back outside to mount my steed for the short (two block) trip to the office.
I walked to the rack...and nada.
Mere vapor where my bike should have been.
"Shite."
Someone else was unlocking her bike as I cursed. I told her my bike had just been stolen. She was shocked.
I then walked the ten paces over to the welcome table the Y has set up for the Day Camp kids. Five young men and women were there. No one saw anything. And who could blame them? A score or more cyclists lock their bikes in the mornings. Cyclists are so much background noise to them.
...but not your bike...
Inside, better information, one of the gentlemen who works at the Y said that he had seen someone sitting near the bike (that turned out to have been mine). He looked "suspicious". He was described as a tall, thin, black man with a grey floppy hat. (Aside: the person doing the describing is from the Caribbean, and he used the term "black". My generation can be a bit confused about the use of the terms "African American" and "Black". That's a subject for a different blog on a different day. Fortunately, it is not my description.)
Y employee looked him over, but couldn't see what he was doing. He filed the experience away, and was distressed to learn that my now-stolen bike was the bike that the suspect was sitting near. No one else saw anything else.
What to Do? (Metropolitan Police Oddnesses)
My conversations with the folks at the Y informed me that there have been at least four bikes stolen from there this summer. So, I figured that I should file a police report.
I wonder if any of these lot will help crack the case...
I called the general DC police number and was given another number to file a report. That number linked me into the 911 system. Odd, it was't an emergency. And I did not dial 911.
No worries, I was told. So I gave the basic information to the dispatcher, who told me I would get a call to file the report by phone.
Less than an hour later, I received a phone call from a heavily-accented male. Very heavily accented. An accent from the Indian sub-continent. Odd, I thought. I don't imagine that there are many heavily-accented Indians in the Metropolitan Police Department.
I gave my report. When he heard that I had a potential witness, he suggested that he dispatch a unit to the scene of the crime to take a statement. "Cool," I thought. At least it will be official.
Long story longer, the officer was on scene prior to my arrival. he had already interviewed Y employee, and he informed me that there was very little he could do. He also set the expectation that it was unlikely that I would ever recover the stolen item.
Fair enough. At least I have done my due diligence in the matter.
The Aftermath
Bike, gone. No expectations of finding it again. As a member of my team wrote me: "your donation to the community, while unwitting, is appreciated none the less". I'll be sure to claim it on my taxes.
Insurance will cover part of the cost to replace, so I'm not going to let this get me too down.
I'm certainly not going to let this keep me from the commute. The solution? Ride directly to work and lock the bike in the garage. Walk to the gym to de-louse. Move along. Time to focus. I have a ton of parts sitting around, squirreled away over the years. And I really want a cyclocross bike.
To achieve my training goals I need to ride 200+ miles per week. If I average 17 mph for that total, I need to find nearly 12 hours of riding (NOT sitting at stop lights, waiting for ride partners, or dealing with mechanical issues) each week.
Where will I get the time?
I'm Insane
What if I ride into Washington?
That's insanity!*
Or, is it?
*That was a shameless excuse for embedding an Oingo Boingo tune...I'm feeling the vibe today!
A Plan Forms
Kiril, the Mad Ukrainian, is a cyclist I know from the Tuesday night Race Pace group ride. He recently moved to Columbia and took a job in Silver Spring. He scoped, scouted, and secured a route from Burtonsville into Silver Spring, and he swore that it was doable and (relatively) safe.
I planned to ride my 29er, not my road bike. I didn't want to risk destroying my precious BMC on a commute. Another bonus is that it weighs roughly 437 pounds more than the BMC, so it would provide additional resistance. Make. Me. Strong. Like. Bull.
The ride starts at the Burtonsville Park & Ride, so we avoid Route 29. (I rode the stretch from my house to Burtonsville once, and I'll never do it again. There's something, er, unsettling about being passed by trucks going 75 mph at 0530. I was really, really hoping that they had had just enough coffee to be awake but not enough to be jittery. Pucker factor = 10+. Not again.)
I live at 27th and Military [Saint Johns College HS] it is the top entrance to the park within the District. I commute thru [sic] the park to downtown daily, Mon - Fri bikers are rude and inconsiderate to be on the roadway, and alot [sic] of us harried commuters let them know it! It is a WORK - COMMUTER route, we the taxpayers have spent millions on bike paths that run from Maryland all the way to East Potomac Park but the "purists" would rather clog up the roadway at 10mph, cyclists should realize that they too, are required to obey ALL traffic laws, impedeing [sic] traffic is a violation!
I personally cannot stand these arrogant people who think that because they ride bikes they are special, and above the law, well you are not!
Now that I have vented this out this morning, I must add, on weekends, and, holidays, I let the little egos ride the open road and feel like the big kids. Without a horn honk or a mean word.
All-righty then!
Looks like I would do what I do best: make it up as I go along.
Set a Course for Adventure...
My first trip downtown was beautiful (except for the aforementioned jag down 29....yyeech!): a chill in the air, but no bite to it; little traffic, and what was there was not aggressive; and I saw several deer along Sligo Creek Parkway.
Nice!
When I got into Silver Spring a roadie came up to me at a stoplight. Orbea Orca. Matching purple tires. Sweet.
Since I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do at this point, I asked her if she was heading into Rock Creek Park, and if so, would she mind if I followed her. The map confused the hell out of me, and I always trust in local knowledge.
She was amenable, and off we went, dodging through the movable labyrinth of downtown Silver Spring, with buses, cars, trucks, pedestrians, and small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri.
We survived and chatted. It turns out that she is Washington DC cycling royalty. Evelyn is a major force with Artemis Racing. She was commuting to her day job at the Washington Hospital Center and was more than happy to ride the park with me. She was on a recovery day, so my 29er pace was welcome!
With Evelyn as my guide, the big, bad wolves of Rock Creek never appeared. Happily, I saw deer, not angry headlights. And it's all downhill! This commute was turning out to be OK after all!
Ok, it's not all downhill. The climb out of the park is a burner. Then it is rollers down to 14th Street and its bike lane.
The transition from parkland to urban riding was easy, and I found myself time trialling (well, as much as I can on a 29er) down to Rhode Island Avenue and the Y, where a much-needed shower awaited.
Er, Maybe I Should Have Chosen a Different Day
Genius-boy (me) chose to start commuting on the first 100-degree day of the year.
When I rolled out from the office at a little after 1500, the tarmac was baking, the air was heavy, and I was wearing black. I had soaked my jersey in cold water before leaving, to mitigate some of the heat, and I would be starting the ride through Rock Creek park, so there would be plenty of shade. I was cautious, but not overly concerned.
The ride home is a wholly different creature from the morning ride, but it is entirely doable.
Two water bottles, two hours, and once low-speed close call later, I was home. Navigating downtown Silver Spring is a bitch. There's no other word for it. It's attitudinal, moody, passive-aggressive, and unpleasant to be around. But once through it, all is well. Mercifully, Randolph Road has a sidewalk that is as wide as a road lane, and New Hampshire has a bike lane that is sufficient for the quick run up its flank.
That commute is 50 miles round trip. It helps me achieve my goals.
