My new place in the transportation food chain

I was stopped at a red light - right foot on the curb, back straight, dorky helmet that looks like a plum pit on my head.

From my perch on the old-timey bike, I looked around and could see right into the driver's seat area of the two cars stopped beside me, without the driver seeing me looking.

Both drivers had a mug of coffee within reach, assorted receipts about the console and a gut hanging forlornly over the seatbelt.

Automakers ought to invent a wider "vanity" belt that girdles instead of pinching the fat into something resembling a homemade airbag.

As I do every fair-weather morning, I turned off the road and onto the Lakeshore bike path and headed west toward the office.

Before I started biking to work, I was the driver that hated bicyclists, their undeserved sense of road entitlement, the hypocrisy with which they run a red light at one intersection then at the next hector a driver for turning into their path. I thought they should be relegated to the sidewalk, where they could menace strolling geriatrics instead of fouling up motorists' march to work.

Now that I bike to work, you'd think I would be claiming to see how the other half lives, swearing allegiance to hard-done-by cyclists and ready for war on bully drivers.

Instead, I have merely refocused my road rage down the transportation food chain: Rollerbladers.

I was behind a blader, watching his silly long stride out and back, like he's doing a speed skating warm-up lap at the Olympics. Taking up the whole bike lane. And looking ridiculous.

Before I attempted using the oncoming lane to overtake the blader, I had to look over my shoulder for the speed-bikers - those militant twits with the tight shorts, shoes that clip on the pedal and no mercy for beginners on old-timey bikes. You swerve into the path of one of those and prepare for a sanctimonious earful.

Past the blader, I moved to a part of the bike path that veers away from the road and into a weed-filled neverland near GO train tracks.

Cue the loud timpani drums and ominous chords of the next Law & Order episode. This is exactly the kind of place to happen on a corpse. Right downtown but out of sight. Cars whipping by on the highway overhead.

I half expected to see a detective in trenchcoat leaning over something in the unkempt grass. But on this morning, before it was too late, I got a mouthful of death stench and a few bugs.

Off to the left, a dead skunk, bloated on its back and mouth teeming with flies.

Finally, I got to work.

Something I'll never understand, though: How I can spend 20 minutes pedaling but not especially exerting myself, heading into a lakefront wind that chills to the bone, and still end up soaked with sweat by the time I get to my cubicle.

Comments

[Newdaddy]

"Something I'll never understand, though: How I can spend 20 minutes pedaling but not especially exerting myself, heading into a lakefront wind that chills to the bone, and still end up soaked with sweat by the time I get to my cubicle"

I think it has to do with sweat and condensation. As your outer layer of skin cools the sweat doesn't dissipate as readily. You probably need a shirt that does a better job of getting the moisture away from the skin.