Riding Bikes

I’m 45 years old and I ride a bike to work.

Perhaps I should clarify: I ride a bike to the bus stop, then ride the bus to the train station, then ride the train most of the way to Los Angeles, the ride my bike the rest of the way to my office.

That means most mornings you’ll find me flashing along the nearly deserted pre-dawn streets of our town with nothing but the silky sound of well-tuned gears to mark my passing – an overweight blur in chinos and an old silver helmet, an ancient leather briefcase slung over one shoulder and onto my back like a messenger bag.

I love it.

There’s something extraordinary about bicycles. They may be the single most efficient machine man has yet created. A decent bike can enable a middle-aged guy like me to cruise along at 20 miles per hour for hour after hour – on something like one-quarter of one horsepower.

I got my first bike for Christmas when I was six years old. It was a Schwinn Stingray with burnt-orange metal flake paint and a long, white banana seat. I spent all Christmas day teaching myself to ride on the frozen street in front of my home. For the next ten years, it took me everywhere: school, swim practice, Saturday matinees at the old Scera Theater, milkshakes at the old Hi Spot drive in. That old bike was both transportation and recreation.

It was freedom.

The old Stingray has given way to a succession of bikes — most recently a sleek Cannondale – but riding still has that joy, that freedom.

So tonight you’ll find me flashing through the relative calm of post-dusk suburbia, whirring gears and an ancient briefcase, on my way home.