Morning Commute
Why would anyone want to use a car to get to work when it’s mostly stuck in traffic? Danielle wondered. She unlocked her Street Master bike located inside the secured bike locker she had convinced the management to install in a ground-floor storage room in her apartment building.
In preparation for her morning commute, she inserted her wireless earbuds, secured the strap on the bright red helmet, adjusted the wrap-around mirrored goggles, and pulled on a pair of extra-long, black, leather riding gloves. Riding a bicycle has become a serious self-defense exercise, she thought as she zipped up her leather riding suit with knee-high black boots. Being safe on a bike required all the equipment riders could make, buy, borrow, or steal to protect themselves against ever more common road rage.
As an experienced extreme-biking athlete, the daily commute was easy compared to rides like the Colorado Biker Grand Prix or the 350km Gravel Fest. Weaving through rush hour traffic could be tricky and included regular close calls as she maneuvered through traffic. So far, nothing more serious than a few bruises and colorful scrapes were the result.
About a year ago, she had splurged and commissioned a local artist to create a personal crest, which she had embroidered on the back of her leather biking jacket. It was a shiny golden key with a skeleton head upon a pile of deep red rose petals. Collecting old keys had become a hobby of hers and this symbol reminded her of her father’s favorite band from the old days, the Grateful Dead. As she prepared to mount her trusty “steed” she started one of her favorite riding songs, Throwing Stones. She smiled at the words, which seemed increasingly appropriate.
A peaceful place, or so it looks from space
A closer look reveals the human race
Full of hope, full of grace, is the human face
But afraid we may lay our home to waste.
She tightened the shoulder strap of the leather pouch, which contained her work clothes, swung her long leg over the seat of the modified Cannondale, stepped on the pedal, and looked out into the light traffic as she headed out. Thank you, Rosy, she thought silently in appreciation of her rose-red cross-trainer.
While the distance from her apartment to the office was only a few miles, she knew the potential hazards were many. The customized bike had everything required for a daily commute in often heavy traffic surrounded by unpredictable drivers. Rosy was outfitted with shatterproof rear-view mirrors, a heavy-duty front and rear suspension system, and the latest variable speed rear gear assembly for both on and off-street commuting.
For added safety, Danielle had outfitted the bike with a compact big rig air horn, sparkling silver streamers, which dangled from the upturned handlebars, and extra bright front and rear flashing lights. Just recently, she added a noiseless carbon fiber belt drive system and wrap- around- fenders to keep her relatively dry during the increasingly unpredictable weather.
One of the best aspects of the morning ride was the workout and occasional adrenaline-filled obstacle course she often faced. She just considered her rides to be her own Ninja Warrior challenge.
The Highlands Historic District where she had lived for the past four years was located only a few miles north of downtown in an eclectic part of the city that still held a fair amount of personality. Many of the row homes, first built in the last part of the twentieth century, badly needed repairs and a new coat of paint, at a minimum. But a growing number had been abandoned and were boarded up waiting for the property owners to tear them down. The neighborhood was filled with a mixture of folks either just getting by and dreamed of moving out when they finally got their big break, or younger residents who were already on their way up the ladder of success.
The “hood” was a mixture of residential buildings and included a mixture of multi-story town homes and apartment buildings along with small retail outlets such as an occasional corner store or gas station. As she peddled by her neighborhood Stop and Go, she glanced at the sign for today’s prices.
Wow, $7.99 a gallon. Another new high, she thought.
She headed west on 32nd Avenue towards Zuni. Because she was so familiar with her morning commute, riding was virtually automatic, which allowed her to reflect on broader issues. This morning she pondered on the economics of transportation. The combination of soaring gas prices, the degradation of many streets and bridges, and the skyrocketing cost of auto insurance and repairs, had made her decision to not own a car quite easy.
As she turned south onto Zuni, the lyrics blasting through her earbuds blended seamlessly with her surroundings as the chorus kicked in.
So, the kids, they dance, they shake their bones
And the politicians throwing stones
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
As usual, both sides of the street were lined with parked automobiles. Some were still in running order, but many sat abandoned and converted into makeshift homeless shelters. Still others had been stripped of all reusable parts and transformed into art objects or filled with dirt and used as planters or small vegetable gardens.
As she passed 29th Ave., a powerful gust of wind hit her from the side. She swerved into the middle lane in an attempt to remain in control and received a blaring honk from a nearby motorist. The winds were definitely getting more unpredictable. Historically, strong winds used to happen primarily in the fall, but now, high winds could blow anytime of the year.
Over the past few years, climate related disasters across the nation had racked up multiple billion-dollar insurance claims. This included several of the most destructive tornadoes ever recorded as well as record breaking hurricanes, which had turned hundreds of square miles of Gulf coastline back into swamps, bayous, and mangroves.
The Federal Government had become seriously handicapped when it came to providing much needed resources and when it did arrive it rarely was at a scale needed. In many places, the damages were not repaired, so entire communities, more often than not, laid in ruins long after the weather disaster had come and gone.
Hurricane Katrina had been a serious wakeup call for many. Governments increasingly were not able to afford to repair cities after mega disasters. On the other hand, she thought it was telling that nature had returned parts of lower New Orleans to bogs and marshes where squatters and survivalists had moved in.
As she neared Speer, she noticed the burned-out shell of the Wells Fargo bank building. Instead of rebuilding, the corporate decision-makers just wrote it off and pulled out of the neighborhood. It disgusted her that C-level strategists consistently chose profits over the needs of their customers.
At that moment the words to the song thrumming in her ears seemed especially appropriate.
The future's here, we are it, we are on our own
On our own, on our own, we are on our own
As she crossed the multi-lane road towards the southbound entrance to the Interstate, a military sized black SUV turned right, in front of her. The oblivious driver looked to be yelling into his phone and never even looked in her direction. She slammed on her brakes but realized it was not going to stop her in time. Instead, she continued toward the vehicle, and at the last moment pulled up hard to raise her bike up and bounce on his hood and then down the other side while blaring her “big-rig” air horn. The startled driver was surprised by her move and the deafening sound of the air-horn. He looked up just in time to see his car headed straight for the steel onramp barriers, which had emerged across the highway entrance. The deafening crash sent glass and metal parts flying in all directions while the driver was consumed by his inflated air bag.
Karma can be a wonderful thing she mused as she rode past the totaled vehicle and down the ramp into the morning parking lot on Interstate 25.
As the adrenalin began to subside, she flew past hundreds of aggravated drivers as she made her way through the sea of cars. She hummed along, while Phil and Jerry played in her ears.
