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I step out of the house somewhere between 7:25 and 7:35, carrying my gym bag (which contains my clothes and lunch), my purse, and my commuter cup. I filled it with coffee slush today instead of water, which felt incredibly decadent. I go open the garage, take out my keys, and unlock Baby from the rack in the back. I wheel it out and park it on the driveway. My purse goes in one of the panniers, and my gym bag gets bungee cord strapped on top.
I go to the shelf to one side and don my gear: a helmet with a reflecting mirror clipped to the visor, a neon-orange safety vest with reflective tape, and bike gloves with gel pads. I put a reflective strap around my right pant leg. (OMG I look like a dork!) My cell phone has a radio; I insert the cable with the ear buds and tune it to the Minnesota Public Radio (KCMP) Morning Show. To the soothing sounds of Dale Connolly and Jim Ed Poole, I close the garage door and glide away.
Down the alley and out into the street. The streets are quiet, although I might see an occasional car passing by or someone out working in the garden or walking a dog. A few sprinklers might be going. I turn left at 24th Avenue and head north.
At the corner of 38th, I take note of the latest price hike at the corner gas station and smirk. No gasoline for me today! If I'm running a little late, I turn right and head to the light rail station at 38th street and Hiawatha. I usually gauge this by whether I've reached 38th street before or after Jim Ed Poole does the sports report (generally at 7:40 a.m.) If he's already done the sports report, I usually take the rail. But today, I'm going to be riding all the way in, so I continue straight on 24th Avenue.
There are a few elm trees left which have escaped Dutch elm disease, and their graceful branches intertwine above the street, like the vault of a gothic cathedral. There are maples, too, and this morning their seeds helicoptering down caught the slanting morning sun, flashing gold as they gently fell. Like the golden rain in which Zeus visited Danaë, I thought. Beautiful. There are a few hills, and I puff as I strain to get the bike up the incline. I'm still not in the cardio shape necessary to take the hills without any slowing down.
At 32nd, I turn right. Now I cross the light rail tracks and then turn left down Hiawatha. This is a major traffic artery, with the light rail running alongside. I coast down the hill and then, regretfully, I usually have to come to a stop and wait at the light for awhile before I can cross Lake Street. There's a light rail station across the street, but the tracks are elevated, so to get to it you have to go a level up. I've never gotten on the rail at this point. There's frequently a cop car idling there. I will often see more pedestrians, too. The light rail rumbles overhead, light reflecting off its windows to play along the embankment across the road to my right.
Once across the street, I get back on the bike and labor back up the hill. Once I reach the top, I sigh in relief. That's my last hill to conquer on the way to work; from here on it's straight sailing. I keep a sharp eye out for small shards of glass on the pavement. I got a flat tire here once.
I pass underneath the Midtown Greenway bicycle/pedestrian bridge. I could use it to cross Hiawatha, but I generally don't, in order to avoid laboring up the slope (I'm lazy); I wait and cross Hiawatha at the light at 26th instead. The light rail itself has also crossed Hiawatha, between Lake Street and 26th, and once I cross the light rail tracks again, it runs along, again, directly to my left. I see lots of bicyclists now, whizzing up and down the Midtown Greenway bridge and the bike trail.
The sky overhead me is pure blue, with only an occasional wisp of cloud. And that seems fitting. It reminds me of how, supposedly, Persian rug makers purposely introduce a flaw into each carpet: it is not right that anything should be too perfect. Wildflowers bloom on the bank to my right. Faster bicyclists pass me by, nodding in greeting. I pass light industrial warehouses and the Metro Transit center. I pass the Franklin light rail station and cross on the bridge over Franklin Avenue. Over to my right is a collection of friendly bars: Whiskey Junction, the Joint, the Cabooze. Now I'm getting closer to the West Bank of the University, and I start seeing a lot of Somali immigrants. The women wear long sleeved blouses and long skirts, and their head scarves over that, falling to their knees or lower. Elderly Hmong men and women walk slowly up and down the bike trail here.
I pass the Cedar Riverside light rail station. I dump speed again to turn down the little jog at the Bedlam Theater. There's a City Pages dump at the corner here; on Thursdays that's where I stop and pick up my copy, shoving it under the criss-crossed bungee cords that hold my gym bag in place. I cross the street and head down the last stretch of the bike lane that runs along the light rail tracks.
A fenced in field with electric transformers stands in front of the bulk of the Metrodome. I cross the bridge over the disused spur of road that leads to the downed 35W bridge. The trucks and cars of the workers working on the new bridge are parked hodge-podge here, interspersed with construction pallets and Bobcats. To my right is the wildly multicolored Valspar paint building. I pass it and turn right down 11th Avenue, leaving the Hiawatha bike lane behind. Two blocks later and I pause at the light at Washington Avenue. The light is short so I always have to wait. One block to 2nd Street and I turn left.
Past Gold Medal Park. The blue Guthrie Theatre is ahead, with the "Gold Medal Flour" sign atop the Mill City Museum beyond it. Tyrone Guthrie looks impassively at me from the enormous mural at the entrance of the Guthrie as I pass. Past the Spoonriver Restaurant (my source for OMG so delicious sheep's milk ginger yogurt) and the Mill City Museum.
I turn up my street and head into the parking ramp. I guide Baby to the bicycle racks, lock it up, remove the front wheel, and collect my purse, commuter cup, gym bag, and bungee cords and take it all with me, giving Baby an affection pat as I go.
Another work day has begun.
I go to the shelf to one side and don my gear: a helmet with a reflecting mirror clipped to the visor, a neon-orange safety vest with reflective tape, and bike gloves with gel pads. I put a reflective strap around my right pant leg. (OMG I look like a dork!) My cell phone has a radio; I insert the cable with the ear buds and tune it to the Minnesota Public Radio (KCMP) Morning Show. To the soothing sounds of Dale Connolly and Jim Ed Poole, I close the garage door and glide away.
Down the alley and out into the street. The streets are quiet, although I might see an occasional car passing by or someone out working in the garden or walking a dog. A few sprinklers might be going. I turn left at 24th Avenue and head north.
At the corner of 38th, I take note of the latest price hike at the corner gas station and smirk. No gasoline for me today! If I'm running a little late, I turn right and head to the light rail station at 38th street and Hiawatha. I usually gauge this by whether I've reached 38th street before or after Jim Ed Poole does the sports report (generally at 7:40 a.m.) If he's already done the sports report, I usually take the rail. But today, I'm going to be riding all the way in, so I continue straight on 24th Avenue.
There are a few elm trees left which have escaped Dutch elm disease, and their graceful branches intertwine above the street, like the vault of a gothic cathedral. There are maples, too, and this morning their seeds helicoptering down caught the slanting morning sun, flashing gold as they gently fell. Like the golden rain in which Zeus visited Danaë, I thought. Beautiful. There are a few hills, and I puff as I strain to get the bike up the incline. I'm still not in the cardio shape necessary to take the hills without any slowing down.
At 32nd, I turn right. Now I cross the light rail tracks and then turn left down Hiawatha. This is a major traffic artery, with the light rail running alongside. I coast down the hill and then, regretfully, I usually have to come to a stop and wait at the light for awhile before I can cross Lake Street. There's a light rail station across the street, but the tracks are elevated, so to get to it you have to go a level up. I've never gotten on the rail at this point. There's frequently a cop car idling there. I will often see more pedestrians, too. The light rail rumbles overhead, light reflecting off its windows to play along the embankment across the road to my right.
Once across the street, I get back on the bike and labor back up the hill. Once I reach the top, I sigh in relief. That's my last hill to conquer on the way to work; from here on it's straight sailing. I keep a sharp eye out for small shards of glass on the pavement. I got a flat tire here once.
I pass underneath the Midtown Greenway bicycle/pedestrian bridge. I could use it to cross Hiawatha, but I generally don't, in order to avoid laboring up the slope (I'm lazy); I wait and cross Hiawatha at the light at 26th instead. The light rail itself has also crossed Hiawatha, between Lake Street and 26th, and once I cross the light rail tracks again, it runs along, again, directly to my left. I see lots of bicyclists now, whizzing up and down the Midtown Greenway bridge and the bike trail.
The sky overhead me is pure blue, with only an occasional wisp of cloud. And that seems fitting. It reminds me of how, supposedly, Persian rug makers purposely introduce a flaw into each carpet: it is not right that anything should be too perfect. Wildflowers bloom on the bank to my right. Faster bicyclists pass me by, nodding in greeting. I pass light industrial warehouses and the Metro Transit center. I pass the Franklin light rail station and cross on the bridge over Franklin Avenue. Over to my right is a collection of friendly bars: Whiskey Junction, the Joint, the Cabooze. Now I'm getting closer to the West Bank of the University, and I start seeing a lot of Somali immigrants. The women wear long sleeved blouses and long skirts, and their head scarves over that, falling to their knees or lower. Elderly Hmong men and women walk slowly up and down the bike trail here.
I pass the Cedar Riverside light rail station. I dump speed again to turn down the little jog at the Bedlam Theater. There's a City Pages dump at the corner here; on Thursdays that's where I stop and pick up my copy, shoving it under the criss-crossed bungee cords that hold my gym bag in place. I cross the street and head down the last stretch of the bike lane that runs along the light rail tracks.
A fenced in field with electric transformers stands in front of the bulk of the Metrodome. I cross the bridge over the disused spur of road that leads to the downed 35W bridge. The trucks and cars of the workers working on the new bridge are parked hodge-podge here, interspersed with construction pallets and Bobcats. To my right is the wildly multicolored Valspar paint building. I pass it and turn right down 11th Avenue, leaving the Hiawatha bike lane behind. Two blocks later and I pause at the light at Washington Avenue. The light is short so I always have to wait. One block to 2nd Street and I turn left.
Past Gold Medal Park. The blue Guthrie Theatre is ahead, with the "Gold Medal Flour" sign atop the Mill City Museum beyond it. Tyrone Guthrie looks impassively at me from the enormous mural at the entrance of the Guthrie as I pass. Past the Spoonriver Restaurant (my source for OMG so delicious sheep's milk ginger yogurt) and the Mill City Museum.
I turn up my street and head into the parking ramp. I guide Baby to the bicycle racks, lock it up, remove the front wheel, and collect my purse, commuter cup, gym bag, and bungee cords and take it all with me, giving Baby an affection pat as I go.
Another work day has begun.
