This spring, Austin on Two Wheels held a 13 week writing contest to encourage local cyclists to write about their experiences on two wheels to inspire the rest of us to get out on our bikes. We asked Austinites to write an autobiographical story about their experience riding a bike in Austin where previously they might have done so by car. The key was riding to go someplace, not racing, training, or just for fitness.

The grand prize was a contract to write 5 more stories for us. We are pleased to announce four-time weekly winner Minor Baker as the winner of our grand prize. We’re looking forward to reading more from Minor.

Congrats to My Ride Grand Prize Winner Minor Baker

If you missed the weekly entries, here are all the winners week 1-13.

Week #1 Winner: Donuts and Bikes by Minor Baker

Week #2 Winner: Me and the Bike and the World by Amy Dolejs

Week #3 Winner: Crazy Cold Commute by Minor Baker

Week #4 Winner: 30 Days of Fun by Minor Baker

Week #5 Winner: Baby Chicks Onboard by Katie Jo Dixon

Week #6 Winner: On a Misty Morning by Russell Taylor

My Ride Week #7 Winner: A Sensory Experience by Susan Wilcox

My Ride Week #8 Winner: Friday evening pedal to the Blanton by Laura Feeney

Week #9 Winner: Meet the Heat by Russell Taylor

Week #10 Winner: Two Wheeled Roller Coaster by Susan Wilcox

Week #11: Shimano Parts and Grocery Carts by Samuel Bertron

Week #12: Doing It for the Kids….and my Sanity by Minor Baker

Week #13: Theater on Two Wheels by Katie Jo Dixon

Theater on Two Wheels

by Katie Jo Dixon, Green Wheels Studios Blog

Theatre.

That single word alone conjures tiny shudders up and down my spine at the thought of my first theatrical experience. It was during one of those shaping-who-you-are years of high-school and I attended an opera on the UT campus. My literature teacher described the theater as a cultural and learning experience. I remember ladies’ toes peaking out beneath floor length formal dresses, and gentlemen were reminiscent of penguins in black and white tuxedos. I felt under-dressed in my cotton dress and out of place without a shade of black in my clothing. I left at the end of the show confused by all of the social nuances of attending a theater performance, and bored after 2 hours of sitting in a dark auditorium.

Pre-face the word theater with bike, and the result is the antithesis of opera in an auditorium. Instead, you get Bike Noir, theater via bicycle. I didn’t wear a floor length dress (it probably would get caught in the spokes of the bicycle wheels). And I didn’t feel under-dressed or out of place cause everyone else was fashioned with bicycles too.

There were other immediate differences between theater and bicycle theater that I noticed upon arriving to show. It was outside of the drama building in the central Texas humidity. I noticed beads of sweat on the foreheads of the audience as they pedaled up.

Walking amidst the gathering crowd and bicycles scattered on the grass, a woman with a badge and a stack of papers ensured that everyone signed a release form. We had to sign a liability release to participate. I equated this to purchasing a ticket at the opera. With the purchase of a ticket I was indirectly consenting to be an audience member at the opera. I scanned the form for a glimpse of  legal words: liability, release; and with a signature I released all my claims, and I thought, “I’m sure glad I brought my helmet.”

The play began. I won’t give a break down scene for scene. Here’s what stands out in my memory of the mobile theater:

- passer-by pedestrians on foot stopping  to observe the performance and unintentionally becoming part of the play  (the actors and actresses had a canny talent for improv and for incorporating the surrounding environment, including bicycles and people, into a part of the theater piece)

- the ever-changing scenery of the theater’s backdrops as we peddled to different venues for each scene. I wasn’t dim-eyed from low lighting, and I wasn’t bored because the mobile nature of the play kept me intrigued

- a bicycle tango dance, a fight scene with a bike lock and tire levers as “deadly” weapons, and a mysterious lost and found bicycle that remained unclaimed through to the end of the play (if you’ve ever had a bike stolen in the ATX, I think you would appreciate a lost-and-found mystery bike).

My pre-conceived notion that theater had to be gotten to by car, to be enjoyed indoors, and dressed in formal attire was re-formed by bicycle theater. I could show up sweaty, in shorts and a t-shirt, and watch the show from my favorite seat: my bicycle seat.

Doing It for the Kids….and my Sanity

by Minor Baker of The Bakers in Texas blog, On Twitter @sugabakes

I want to start off and admit it has been a few weeks since I have commuted to work on the ‘ol Surly (continuing to take suggestions for a better name), I am still running errands around the neighborhood, but the 10+ mile commute, and more importantly the early rising, won out for the last couple of weeks.  “Bike to Work Week” has kicked me in the butt and reminded me to get out there and burn burritos and not gas, because I am cheap, and also have an unhealthy relationship with Tex-Mex food.

I jumped back in on Friday morning, and within the first mile I remembered why I needed to ride to work.  Actually, two powerful reminders occurred the previous day.  The first punch in face from the proverbial bike gods was the $57.25 of highly processed petroleum I pumped into my sensible (translation=fuel efficient) Honda Accord.  The angel and devil on each shoulder did not agree how that money should be spent, but they did agree continuing to drive when I had the trusty Surly parked in the stable at home was ludicrous.

The other slightly gentler reminder came earlier in the day, when I was able to get a repaired bike back to a student who couldn’t afford to replace the seat that had been stolen over a month ago.  I do want to give a give a big shout out to Marshall at the Bicycle Sports Shop on Parmer for finding a way to help me get the student back on a functioning bike without breaking the bank.  The kindness from a complete stranger wasn’t what pushed me back into the saddle on Friday morning; rather it was the look of pure joy when I brought the repaired bike back to the student.  He was running down the apartment steps before I even had the car parked.  “Thank you, thank you, Mr. Baker.  With permission from mom, he was gone in a flash, circling the large apartment complex like it was his own personal criterium.  I don’t know how many laps he completed that night, but I expect he was still looping around the apartment parking lot well past dark.

It was those two events that got me out of bed on Friday morning.  As I rolled out of the garage into the perfectly cool morning air, I remembered the most important reason for riding to work. My brain just works better and I am a happier person.  Something about riding helps clear that clutter of day–to–day life, and I am able to see old problems in a new light.  The air was just cool enough to sharpen all of the senses, so as my light punched through the dark, wooded neighborhood, I picked up a fellow commuter in the corner of my vision.  He was headed home after a long night of pest removal, but for 30 seconds we flew through the neighborhood together, in silent formation.  He disappeared as quickly as he appeared, turning south towards the Congress Avenue bridge and home.  I continued east towards the sunrise and school.  The population of Austin has exploded in the past 20 years, but on a bike you realize there are still quiet rural areas perfect for watching the sun come up.  I stopped to snap a few photos before finishing the last couple of miles.

As I coasted down the driveway and into the backdoor of the school kitchen, I was greeted by the by the early risers already preparing breakfast and lunch for the day.

“Good morning for a ride.”, they said.

I nodded and responded “Most of them are!”

The student with the newly repaired bike came and saw me on Friday morning, wanting to know if he could stop riding the bus now that his bike was fixed.  I explained that it was not up to me, but we could see what his parents said.  He also noticed my bike parked in the back of the room, “One day next week, can you ride your bike home with me?”  Mom agreed as long as he completed his work for the week, bringing out an even bigger smile than the day before and gave me one more reason to ride to work.

Shimano Parts and Grocery Carts

by Samuel Bertron

I inspect my trusty beater for air, brakes, and general drive train health. I check for rust and apply bits of bumper sticker when I find a spot. Check.

Panniers, bungees, hello-yellow vest, helmet, lock. Check.

Carefully tuck the grocery list and bags within, and roll. Check.

One-half mile of jarring caliche road follows. It’s mostly downhill, so I’m more concerned with keeping my cargo attached than with cadence or gear. I’m just holding on and bouncing. Often, a neighbor passes by, and we pull over and exchange local news or commiserate on the drought. At the end of the bumpy road, I open our mailbox: it’s 99% special offers and urgent pleas. There are some bills and the occasional letter. Then I look right and look up, and there they are, the Three B——s: a daunting,locally famous, absurdly steep, multi-segment climb. When you live in a deep and verdant valley, chances are you pay for the scenery by having to grind out of there the hilly way. My name is Sam, and I’ve got three chainrings; you got a problem with that ?

I tack up the hills as far as I can. I’m already half-loaded with pre-shopping gear, and my bike is, um, “sturdy”, a mesomorph of a frame. At some point, the trusty beater and I are trudging up the Third B—- together. We are often passed by other cyclists, sports cars, and impatient construction crews headed to Volente to build another mansion. The beater and I are a novelty roadside act, but we’re nearly to the top. We turn now and then to take a deep breath and get a little drunk on the view beside and below.

On the flats, we’re really rolling again. Everyone we saw on the hill has gone on their appointed rounds, and it’s pretty much a cavalcade of cedar and barbed wire marching past on both sides of the road. The intermittent birdsong is a musical offset to the occasional road-kill.

At three miles, we reach the suburbs. There are houses everywhere, but they are set on wide roads with smooth shoulders! Occasional Burley buggies roll behind family bikes and in front of regular joggers. Fitness apparel is the uniform of the day, but I favor loose, well-ventilated clothing, and, on a windy day it flaps like a fool’s banner. Kids cruising the sidewalks see my bright yellow vest and orange Chacos, and expect me to pull over and start making balloon animals.

Another three miles and we pass the park. If I’ve gathered any nails, screws, or random wire from the roadway, I’ll drop it off in their trash. On the way back, I’ll check out the community gardens with their adjoining, un-partitioned plots. I pedal faster when I think of such a world: tomatoes on the honor system !

A mile and a half later, we’re at Randall’s. I lock up near a familiar Huffy and wonder which employee rides to work. I’m too distracted to take off my hello-yellow vest; besides, I’ll be less likely to have a cart collision! I load the panniers and “cold bags” into the cart and cruise the aisles. I’m still red-faced in contrast to the high-viz vest, once again a novelty act in the produce section. I’m a careful shopper, because everything has to earn its weight and space on the bike. Sometimes, I’ll bundle ten pounds of ice, and carry it on the front rack. I can usually count on having at least eight or nine pounds left when I get home; it depends on the sun. Today, I’m lashing cat litter to the front, and it plays a maraca beat on the bumps.

The trip home is more leisurely. I’m less agile in traffic with my new load, and it’s a slow pull. I switch on a blinkie or two and try to avoid looking down at my speedometer. I’m patiently spinning and intermittently daydreaming. Then, before I know it, I’m coasting down, down those familiar killer hills towards home. I’m hitting thirty miles an hour and have a perma-grin going !

After a sharp left turn, I bounce back down the caliche road, cross Fisher Creek, and begin to unload groceries and ice. I can’t wait to put things away and re-fuel.

Samuel Bertron rides from and around Fisher Hollow near Cedar Park. His family is down to one car and counting…

Two Wheeled Roller Coaster

by Susan Wilcox

I remember my first roller coaster ride: I was about eight years old. My parents, who were typical struggling twentysomethings with three small children, had been bribed asked to chaperone a church youth group trip. In exchange for free amusement park admission for themselves and their children, they would merely have to wrangle look after 15 teenagers during their annual pilgrimage to King’s Island, the must-go summer destination for all Cub Scouts, school clubs, and church groups in Central Indiana.

My parents of course jumped at the chance for a mostly-free day of fun with the kiddos. We saw all the wonders that King’s Island has to offer, including the kiddy roller coaster, which my brother spotted and demanded to ride. Not to be outdone, I added my voice to the fray, and our dad agreed. About halfway up the first hill, I stared panicking: This ride was taking us too high. I wanted to get off, now. I started screaming in terror before we even went over the top and didn’t stop until the car stopped at the end. I got off, swearing never to do that again, and required an ice cream cone to recover.

So you’ll understand when I say I still don’t like things that go fast. And that includes my bicycle. We moved to Austin last summer from Lubbock, a region for which the expression “pancake-flat” may not be adequate. I’ve been totally accustomed to riding on the level, and had no way to prepare myself for riding in Austin.

Uphill, as we all know, is tough. Excruciatingly so, at times. But it’s the downhills that terrify me. The first time I took my bike to campus, I was a bit horrified at having to ride from Speedway down to San Jacinto—now, nine months later, it looks like an easy slope. But that first day, as I started down, the same terror washed over me as that day on the roller coaster. I’m pretty sure I held my breath all the way down, although I at least kept my eyes open. Once I started riding all the way to and from campus, though, there was no escaping the downhills, and I’ve started to relax and enjoy them. But the real test of my mettle came the first day I took Springdale Road.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. I’d avoid the traffic on Manor Road once the bike lane ends on 51^st Street, and only go a little way out of the way in exchange for feeling safer. Nothing can possibly go wrong, right?

I’m pretty sure, that first day coming down the hill on Springdale, that any passing pedestrian got to hear my “Aaaaaaahhhhh!” all the way down. Not quite the eight-year-old-on-a-roller-coaster scream, but as close as my adult self is allowed to get without feeling really stupid. That’s quite a hill to come down for someone who doesn’t like speed.

But I went back the next day, and the next, and the day after that. And something amazing happened—I found out that I love that hill. I smile when I come down it. I even pedal as hard as I can at the beginning to have more speed at the end. It’s the highlight of my ride home.

Maybe I should give that roller coaster a second chance.

For our contest, we want an autobiographical story about your experience riding a bike in Austin where previously you might have done so by car. Each week, Austin on Two Wheels will select a winning entry with a $50 cash prize (and bonus for established bloggers who re-post a teaser of their story on their blog.) In June, we’ll select a grand prize winner who will receive a contract to write 5 more stories for our site. Submit your story.

Meet the Heat

by Russell Taylor

When I discuss my commute, the first two questions are invariably “How far do you ride?” to which I respond “One-point-six miles each way, if Google is to be believed,”  and “Do you ride during the summer, too?” Last year, my answer was “As long as I can bear it.” As it turned out, I managed to pedal my heat-averse, AC-lovin’ self home from work all through last summer. This year the answer is “Yep, and it’s not so bad as you’d think!”

Sunk into the earth about as deep as my chest, a small parking garage is where my ride home from work begins. The access ramp at its rear provides a fun end to my morning ride as well as a sprightly start to the homeward trek. When I’m reasonably certain that nobody’s about to pull out anywhere between the bike rack and the exit, I sprint from the front of the garage to the ramp, suddenly popping up onto the quiet lane like a penguin onto an ice floe. The hot August air instantly envelops me, an electric blanket left on too long, which I immediately fling off with a few standing strokes, catching the green light up and out of the depression in which my office sits, and across the four lanes of Burnet Rd. The line of cars on the far side of the intersection yields several drivers who take note of the large white and yellow clad rider who they blame for costing them a few climate-controlled and musically-enhanced seconds while the left-turning commuters at the head of the line politely awaited my crossing.

Coasting to a stop, then hanging a left, I hear something wholly unexpected. In the summer, in a car, in Texas, the windows stay up. Precious coolness must be preserved to keep the wicked sun at bay, and the steel and glass form a bulwark against such loss. They also block out the street scene, which can be a good thing when avoiding the panhandler at the stoplight , but also prevents entertaining chance encounters. The fellow on the bus stop bench is calling to me,”Hey, do you know what time it is?” I let up on my pedals, taken back a bit, unused to be being conversed with from the sidewalk while using the road. “A quarter of six,” I call back as I ride away.

A bicycle operator is more tightly integrated with the sneaker operators than an automobile operator is. Pedestrians rarely address drivers or passengers, as that is an invasion of their enclosed space, rudely interrupting the activities in those small (and not so small) homes on wheels. A conversation between sidewalk and motorcar must be brief, as the car must be on its way, lest it block traffic with its size, and requires the rider or driver (who is on the side farthest from the sidewalk, and therefore even harder to address) to make the affirmative act of opening a window to speak and hear clearly. The bicycle is, of course, slower, so it need not come to a halt to exchange words; and if it did, it’s small enough for others  to navigate around, or even to be taken off the road entirely for a moment. The cyclist’s ears are not impeded by glass or great distance from a pedestrian’s voice, making casual speech much easier, and so more likely to occur.

Soon, the first great challenge of my homeward commute rose before me. I gathered speed and rushed down into the creekbottom, pausing once to absorb the shock of the cement seam on the small bridge, then pedaling furiously before pausing a second time to absorb the shock of scarred and broken pavement before the train tracks, followed swiftly by the tracks themselves, and then the rough patch beyond them. I had bled a good deal of speed at that point, but presently faced an incline up a hill that feels steep even in a car. I don’t get far in third, falling back to second gear while I glance in my rear-view mirror to see one car, then another slow for the tracks, then begin to climb up behind me. One by one, they pass me; some calmly, some with a roar of acceleration meant to make up for time lost looking at my butt and blinking red taillight. I reach the top of Mt Crumpit (not its real name) moving at a crawl. I have several dozen yards to recover before the next hill.

I’ve lived in this area on and off for the better part of the last decade. When I moved into my first post-college apartment on Stonehollow Dr, there was an old sign near the intersection of Gracy Farms Ln and the MoPac frontage road for a development that never got off the ground called Hobby Horse Estates. I ride on the very brief Hobby Horse Ct twice a day; since Mangia and Tacodeli now occupy the site of the old sign, this street is now the only remnant of that ‘80s real estate plan gone bust.

About halfway between the crest of Mt Crumpit and Stonehollow Dr is another old sign, this one affixed to a stout but stunted oak. NO DUMPING reads the rusting plank of steel, which goes on to threaten a fine. The funny thing is that it sits in the fenced-in corner of a regularly mowed lawn of a corporate campus, which seems an unlikely place for someone to decide to discard a broken washing machine. It’s a trace of the past, generally invisible to motorized commuters, from when the Gracys’ farm was no so distant a memory and Gracy Farms Ln was host to far fewer sari-clad Indian ladies taking evening strolls.

Each day coming home, I make a choice, and almost every time, I choose the same. Rather than power up a second steep incline to Metric Blvd, I take a somewhat longer, but more gently sloped route along Stonehollow’s southern half, enjoying the near-total solitude that comes from slowly pedaling through a quiet business park. By far the most difficult part of my daily ride, even in 95-degree heat my gradual ascent still provides enough breeze to keep me cool and focused on the road and the slowly building burn in my calves and thighs. At the top of that long hill, I speed up a bit, but soon come to rest at my favorite stop sign while traffic roars by.

After what seems like forever, I find a gap in traffic, and after a pause in the median pass-through, I cruise up the Metric Blvd bike lane and into my neighborhood. I dismount in my driveway and unbuckle my helmet. It’s only now, without my self-generated near-constant dry breeze, that I feel a trickle of sweat in the fading heat of the scorching day. There’s just enough time for a refreshing shower before dinner.

Friday Evening Pedal to the Blanton

by Laura Feeney

It is 5 pm on a Friday. I grab my bike leaning against my cubicle wall, strap my purse to the rack, throw on my helmet and roll up my pants. I am ready to ride.

Down one flight of stairs and out the front door. Through the parking lot and gate, under Mopac and into the Domain. I watch the shoppers cross the street with their packages as I ride by. South on Kramer, I see a few folks waiting for the MetroRail to head downtown using the special weekend extended service.

Metric, Parkfield, and across 183. The weather is gorgeous and the drivers friendly. I follow the confusing bike route that gets me across Anderson Lane without getting lost this time. On to Woodrow, a wonderful route to ride. Woodrow is an eclectic mix of Austin, all on one wide road with a nice bike lane. Small old houses meticulously cared for. Larger houses that aren’t. Big, modern houses with every environmental friendly upgrade imaginable belonging to Austin’s rich nestled between. Lovely xeriscaped yards, my favorite. The house with the chicken coop that we visited last year during the  Funky Chicken Coop Tour (Try it sometime!). Riding Woodrow has almost too much to gawk at and I find myself not watching the road as closely as I should.

I turn left on North Loop and ride past the vintage stores. Some random little band plays out in front of the shopping plaza. It is SXSW after all.

The turn on to Duval always surprises me. The trees cover the bike route and street sign but I remember this obstacle and find the turn. Duval has a nice smooth bike lane, old houses, and large trees that make for a peaceful ride. I make the turn by Posse East and smell the French fries.

On to San Jacinto and its smooth thoroughfare. It’s spring break so only a few students are on campus. A lonely maintenance worker drives a golf cart.

On to MLK and the Blanton Museum of Art. I am attracted there by the “Knitted Wonderland” exhibit where the trees have knitted cozies on their trunks. Being a knitter myself, I’m awed by the encompassing exhibit and the sheer number of tree trunks covered.  I get in the way of a group of skateboarders in the plaza while looking for my husband. They’re polite though and I don’t realize I’m in their way until I leave. We wander around in the trees snapping photographs and then head further south for some SXSW action.

Riding into central Austin during the spring just can’t be beat.

A Sensory Experience

by Susan Wilcox

It’s a completely different sensory experience riding a bike instead of driving a car. You might catch some of the good stuff in car, if you roll the windows down—a breeze, some fresh air, perhaps a brief wave to someone at a stoplight. But those moments are fleeting at best in the car, while on the bike the experience is continuous.

I rode my bike from my apartment to the UT campus a couple of weeks ago (about 6 miles). I had intended to take a bus, but missed it, so I decided just to cycle the whole way in, reasoning that if the next bus caught up to me, I could always get on it.

The very first hill I came across completely flattened me. I’m not sure what the issue was—it’s a hill I’ve gone up plenty of times—but I guess my momentum was off. Halfway up I gave it up and decided to walk the rest of the way. Not a good thing when I’m already running late; I got to the top of the hill wishing I had taken the bus instead of trying to cycle in.

With that kind of start, the rest of the ride could only get better. And so it did. Manor Road flattens out a bit, so my legs had time to recover from their temper tantrum, and I started enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. I came up to a stoplight and struck up a conversation with a gentleman at the bus stop; we talked about how much we love the warm weather and what a great city Austin is. I never would have had that conversation if I’d been in a car.

Only about a mile further down the road, I got some confirmation that cycling instead of taking the bus had been my best decision—there was a striping truck, painting the outer line of the bike lane on Manor Road. And behind the slow-moving truck was a line of traffic, all unable to pass because they were going uphill. Finally, one of those opportunities I dream about: I didn’t exactly zoom past the traffic, but even though I was crawling uphill, I still crawled faster than the truck. I passed them all and reached the next stoplight feeling inordinately pleased with myself.

And with that kind of confidence boost, how could I do anything but enjoy the rest of the ride? The fresh air, the nice breeze, the warm sunshine, plus all the sights, sounds, and smells that I would otherwise have missed had I not been on a bicycle, all came rushing at me along with the adrenaline. Speaking of smells: There is a Mexican restaurant on Manor Road—and someone please tell me what it is—that I desperately want to try. I haven’t been able to figure out which one it is, but it makes me hungry every time I’m near it. Some day, I want to stop in and tell them how happy they make my cycling commute, just by piping that fantastic smell outside.

I wouldn’t exchange my bicycle for anything. I’m having too much fun.

On a Misty Morning

by Russell Taylor

Four out of five weekdays, I stir myself from bed and tidily fold up my work clothes in my bike bag. Instead of donning the dress-code conforming shirt and khakis, I instead slip into a loose sweat-wicking t-shirt and shorts. No spandex for me, though; that’s a privilege, not a right, and one my chunky behind has yet to earn.

The morning is misty, not too warm, but the warmest yet this year. I greet Syphy (short for Sisyphus, as their tasks are much alike), my grey two-wheeled steed, as I wheel him out of the backyard shed and check on the tires’ pressure. I close the shed and then the gate before I step onto the driveway to don my helmet and switch on my blinkenlights. Pausing a moment after I throw my leg over the seat to listen to the stillness of the neighborhood against the muted roar of traffic on nearby Metric Blvd, I can hear the urgent blast of the Red Line’s horn. I know that if I hear it now, I’ll most likely beat it to the crossing at Gracy Farms Ln.

I coast down the drive, then pedal into second gear. Approaching Metric, I can hear the sizzling of water vapor on the high voltage lines overhead, harmless but curiously unsettling. The bike lane on the boulevard is of comfortable width, but studded with the most random of obstacles: a sippy cup, a box cutter, a dead grackle, a disrespectful squirrel. In the top of my three gears, I glance in my mirror, then look back to find smooth sailing as I glide across the main lanes to the left turn.

It’s been almost a year now, and what once seemed terrifying – riding on the road, changing lanes, climbing hills – is now merely my way to work and back. The awkward perambulations I once used to avoid such tasks are gone. I no longer cruise the sidewalk, no longer turn right to go left, no longer walk or bus my way up a hill.

I turn wide and take the right lane for myself, and the cars behind me politely pass in the left lane, as they should. The next light is green, and then I’m at the top of an unnamed hill I’ve dubbed Mt Crumpet because last summer it made me feel like Max, the Grinch’s sleigh-pulling dog, as I struggled to conquer it every afternoon. I slowly tip over into the gravity well from which I’ll have to climb on my way home and rush toward the tracks at the base of Mt Crumpet. In deference to the residents of the trackside condominiums, Capital Metro has silenced its train whistles as they approach this intersection. Therefore, there is no warning that a load of commuters is on its way to downtown or Cedar Park until the bells, lights and guard arms start going. I stand on my pedals , rumbling across the tracks at full speed even as the car next to me slows to a crawl to save suspension wear. Just as we both begin to climb the slight rise on the far side of the tracks, the familiar ding-ding-ding starts up, and I see the red flashing lights in my mirror. It’s a little exhilarating, really, although I know the train is still several seconds away. The car passes me, and I change lanes to turn left again.

The habits picked up over a year in the saddle have not all been great ones. I do look before each lane change and turn, and I honor stop lights religiously. However, the octagonal momentum thief and I have a love-hate relationship. I love it when it appears at the end of the long, slow incline that I tackle after surmounting Mt Crumpet each day, allowing me to catch my breath and rest my legs for a moment before crossing a busy intersection. I hate it when it nags me to halt when no other vehicle is anywhere in sight or earshot. I have, therefore, taken to ignoring them except in the presence of oncoming traffic, and only grudgingly slowing to a crawl at most other times. Only when confronted with multiple cars do I come to a complete stop and touch the ground with my foot.

I modulate my speed so that the few cars coming down the road have passed by the time I reach the stop sign, and I glide on through and up the rise, pulling a slower but similar trick with the next sign before pedaling up to the light at Burnet Rd. I encourage the few commuters on the two-lane street to pass me, so as to more readily trigger the sensor loops at the intersection. Soon, it’s green, and I go up and over the crown of the road, then down into the parking garage where my u-lock and cable await on the bike rack. Nine hours to rest the body and work the mind before I do it all in reverse.