I Didn't Make the Tweed Ride on Sunday

I wanted to go to the Tweed ride on Sunday, but family matters prevented it. Instead, I played with my Uberhood and rode around the neighborhood, which I greatly prefer to anything other than the commute. Commuting - wise, my commute has gone back to mixed now that night creeps upon her catlike feet earlier and earlier. I drop into the path from my office, ride to the train station, and then hop the train for the core of my commute. I generally get off at Galatyn Park or George Bush station and ride the rest of the way home from there. It's not the full 14 or so miles, but I get a solid 7 or so in with this version of the commute.

I've been riding the rebuilt Suteki lately while I wait for someone to buy it. I have mounted fenders and a rack on it for utility, and I like this bike a lot. I find myself thinking that if I powder coat the frame and put on a chainguard, it would look pretty good...

Maybe a brighter red...

Anyway, all of this leads up to why I go to such effort to get in to work. And it is effort, aside from the actual pedaling  part. I have to make sure I have the supplies I need in case of a flat, make sure I have my ticket money, haul the bike in and out of the train on stops, and so on. Though I make bicycle commuting look as graceful as an Olympic icedancing competition, it is an effort, for sure.

However, the alternative is this.

Trapped like lemming in shiny metal boxes. 

Surrounded by steel, waiting until you get to move a few feet, letting that guy in, trying to fight your way to the other lane because no one will let you in, brakes pumping, measuring progress by inches.

This was my view at 5:45 yesterday.

This is the only way to go. 

Ahhhhhhhh.