Traffic Life : Passionate Tales and Exit Strategies
Edited by Stephan Wehner
An Anthology
 
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 118                       My Ride  half-mile away. The river is a perfect mirror to the sky, reflecting its early morning blues, golds and grays as well as the deep greens of the woodlands that line it. A pair of geese skims the surface as they land, leaving the v-shaped marks on the water, and I wonder if any of the people in cars on the bridge have had a chance to witness their landing, to appreciate this charming sliver of nature in our city.    I prepare for my second challenge of the ride. Passing through the bollards on the Guy West Bridge I step up my pace. I am working for my personal best in crossing this level stretch of levee. Once again, the numbers on the speedometer start to rise; however, this time they are not aided by gravity. I hear and feel my breath laboring as I pour as much energy as I can into each stroke of the pedal. The pavement speeds beneath my wheels and each campus building I pass becomes but a blur in the landscape. The bollards at the end of the levee approach and with one last glance at the speedometer, I apply my brakes to prepare for the sharp curve that will take me down off the levee and into traffic.    I skim along the edge of busy J Street in front of the college, crossing under the railroad overpass. I approach the first really dangerous part of the trip: a blind curve off ramp that I must cross. Unclipping my pedals for safety, I crane my neck to see as far as possible before dashing across the paved gulf. Even though it is a cross walk, there are no signs to warn traffic of my presence; an ill-timed move or an inattentive driver and I become another bloody statistic.    The reserved bike path along M Street offers the last refuge from traffic on the trip. For the next two miles, my route is on a residential street that is parallel to two main thoroughfares. Even though traffic is light, I have to be careful with the cross streets as cars run stop signs often enough. I must admit that I often am not too careful with them either. Still, this route offers a last chance to pass through an environment where once more I can feel civi- lized as I continue my commute. I ride by as semi-sleepy school children and workers leave their well-kept homes to
  
                   Kenneth De Crescenzo                    119  start the day. Occasionally another cyclist will join me and either we will pace each other or engage in a casual morn- ing conversation as we ride together through the waking neighborhood.    I turn onto Folsom Boulevard, merging into heavy traffic without the benefit of a bicycle lane. Now I must share the road with cars, trucks, buses and their drivers who may be less than half aware of my presence. As I merge on their right side, not immediately in their line of sight, I fear for my safety. My life now depends upon the flashing lights on my back, my vigilance, and the brilliant neon yellow of my jersey. The place where I join with motorized traffic is particularly treacherous because two lanes merge into one. I have seen many a drag race as two side-by-side motorists jockeyed to get ahead of each other, and I have wondered if they thought they were competing for the pole position at the Indianapolis 500. I pick an open spot in the traffic and pedal hard, hugging the edge of the parked cars, hoping that no inattentive driver will throw open a door into my intended path.    At the 30th Street traffic light I pull up, rest my leg on the curb and look over the occupants of the SUVs, lux- ury coupes, and lesser cars that are also waiting. Through the safety glass and sheet metal we regard each other. To their drivers and passengers I am outlandish, wearing a bright neon yellow jersey, pearl white helmet with spotlight mounted on it, black Lycra tights, and adorned with nu- merous flashing red lights. To me, they appear equally odd with their hairspray brittle coiffures, makeup, dark suits and power ties cut off from the freshness of the morning. It is so different from the joggers and cyclists on the earlier segments of the trip. No hellos, no pleasant conversations. On a good day, if I am lucky, I can elicit a nod or a brief smile.    Riding in traffic is not an easy thing for me. I know what it is like to be hit by a car. Fortunately, my car/bike en- counter caused no personal injury although it did total a ten-day-old bike. Again, fortunately, the driver's insurance covered my costs for replacement. I often think about the

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