Then it happened. One morning, I woke up with terrible pain in my shoulder blade. My cycling and running days were at an end. I couldn't even turn my head. I'm an old fart. One more car.
That was seventy pounds ago. Yesterday, I started again. I rode my bike to work. I'll only be able to do this twice a week until I get in better shape. I walked hills. People still laugh. But other cyclists don't. They're in their own little zen world, listening to their breathing or the noise of a car coming behind them. It felt good to be out. One less car.
I have a heavy duty bike with racks, fenders, headlights, reflectors and Kevlar tires. I call it my BUV. Don't need to gas it up. The only fuel I need is water. One less car.
At the courthouse, where parking is at a premium and people drive for a half hour to fight over a spot, I parked right by the rotunda and chained my bike to a railing. No bike racks. A wind-sensitive fountain at our $45 million judicial palace, but no one thought of a bike rack. I washed off in the men's room, even though it offends prudish council members like asbestos lawyer Lamont McClure. He wants me barred from changing in a frickin' men's room. It might violate his Code of Civility. I can only sit on the crapper. Hey, hairballs have rights, too! That's OK. In a few weeks, when I'm fit enough to drive every day, I'll strap a Lamont McClure sign on my back, and give every driver I see the finger. One less Lamont McClure.
After work, I took an empty LANTA bus part of the way home. Thanks to visionary people like Steve Schmitt and his Coalition for Alternative Transportation, our buses come equipped with bike racks. I rode the last few miles. I was a real sore ass, but there was one less car.
I'm baaaaack. Lance Armstrong, look out! I may never race at the Velodrome, but I'll be one less car.