Traffic Life : Passionate Tales and Exit Strategies
Edited by Stephan Wehner
An Anthology
 
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116 My Ride cross the bridge spanning the canal behind my house, I see the taillight of a car, the first sign of humanity I encounter today. Silently, I speculate about its driver, cushioned in the soft upholstery of the seats and embraced by automatic climate control warmth. I wonder if he or she has the radio on and if so, tuned to which station? I pick up speed as I approach the first downhill, a low fall only two blocks from my house. It is a boost that I use to accelerate my spin and to set the pace I will try to hold until I am at work. At last I feel my stride coming on. Silver beads of mist build on the leading edges of my gloves. The tule fog hovers a few feet above the lawn of the local park as I glide past. Even now, less than a half mile from my house, I am starting to warm up. The temptation to return is now banished as I focus on gaining the bike trail another half mile ahead. I swing out onto the main drag of La Riviera Drive. Oc- casionally a vehicle passes and leaves me in the wake of its taillights and exhaust. One whiff, and the exhaust odor wipes out the sweet cottonwood smell of the nearby river for the day. I pedal past the supermarket with its delivery trucks parked alongside, and turn right onto the driveway that leads to the American River Bike Trail. There is now a little more daylight than when I set out, and in the early grayness of dawn I can make out the tree line by the river. I pedal vigorously as I reach the downhill path that con- nects with the trail. This is my first personal best of the day: can I beat my own record? I focus intently on my speedometer as I speed down the hill. I grasp the brake levers in case I encounter someone or something at the bot- tom of the slight curve below. The numbers rise swiftly and by the time I reach the bottom I am moving at double the local speed limit. Fast, but no personal best. My challenge now is to hold that speed through the first rise and use the momentum to carry me through the straightaway that lies ahead. Out of the saddle now, I pump through the rise. At the top I encounter for the first time today, another person not encapsulated in a machine, a jogger. He waves and I shout
  
Kenneth De Crescenzo 117 a morning greeting as I zoom by. In our cars we don't make that sort of personal contact. We become machine- like ourselves, passing each other's vehicles with no inten- tional cognizance of the human lives they transport. Some- how, the chrome and the leather distract us, and a fleeting chance to smile at another person, to say good morning, thank you, or a simple hello is lost to darkly tinted glass, brightly painted steel and the throaty sound of a rumbling engine. These thoughts sometimes sting my philosophical side during my morning bicycle trips. I pedal farther down the straightaway and beneath the power line crossing. I now enter my favorite part of the trail, the Enchanted Forest. It begins with a slight descending 'S'-shaped curve between rows of wild grape and blackber- ries. I gain speed at the top of the slope. At the bottom, a bit of mist hangs over the trail as it curves, this time rising to the left. I stand again to tackle the rise. At the same time I peer ahead for wind-blown branches or leaves that could pose obstacles or slippery patches. Seeing none, I continue to pump hard, breaking a real sweat now as I labor through the tree-enclosed trail. Emerging from the woodland, I notice cars backing up on the Howe Avenue Bridge. I smile to myself as I contemplate what their occupants have missed in their day. I also se- cretly rejoice in that, for if they were on the bike path with me, my trip would be harder and perhaps less enjoyable. I pass over the access road and under the bridge. I look for the homeless man who lives at the junction of the bridge and its earthen support. He lives in a hole surrounded by rocks to hide his presence. The handlebar of his bicycle shows above the rocks. It is much lighter now, and I can see the beginnings of a golden glow on the treetops as I pass the water treatment plant and enter Alumni Grove by the college. The orange paint of the Guy West Pedestrian and Bicycle Bridge takes on a deeper tone in the dawning light of the rising sun. In a single switchback, the trail climbs to the top of the levee and now my view encompasses the buildings of California State University Sacramento and the Fair Oaks Bridge about a

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