There are three routes available between my home and home. The most friendly one features a mile-long stretch of Lake Mendota shoreline. It is especially enjoyable to scan the lake surface and horizon to view loons resting on their annual migrations, rowing teams, storm-driven waves creating lovely ice forms on overhanging branches, and clusters of sailboats, each in their season. For the past five years, however, most of these routes have been closed or obstructed for long periods due to the boomtown construction cycle Madison is in. I also use a wide variety of routes to patronize a wide range of businesses and attend all manner of events. There is a hardware store, Madison's Farmers' Market, the West Madison Little League field (more than 50% via a car-free path), a library, three natural food stores, a library, two bakeries, school events, civic meeting places, the University of Wisconsin and various other destinations, all within a 3 to 25 minute pedal of home.
In the past, there had been a sizable number of ill-tempered, arrogant, rude and impatient motorists along my route, especially in the University area along the street past my home. This street is a city-designated bike route. At first, I tried the peaceful "teachable moment" approach to helping these motorists understand they needed to change their attitudes and behaviors about sharing our streets with legally-operating bicyclists. This often didn't work, and my patient message was treated with scorn and contempt. Finally, I switched to the Atilla the Hun approach, raging my indignation at how their carelessness threatened my life and therefore the well being of my family. Most motorized commuters have been pretty well behaved the past few years, even though there is significant turnover due to the ebb and flow of students in and out of nearby rental housing. Another use of our local paved bike trails that I enjoy on both our Southwest Path (one miles from home) and on the Capital City Trail (to which I usually drive with my teenage son), is rollerskiing. In 1978 I lived in northern Idaho and saw an add for a device called "The BikePacker." It was touted as a great way to bike with your external frame backpack to a backpacking trailhead. I purchased one, attached it to my 37-pound steel Schwinn Varsity bike, loaded it up, and headed for an area I thought would be good for an overnight hiking trip. The weight of my pack seemed to raise the center of gravity of my bike to an uncomfortable level, but i adapted to that as I cranked along a recreational access gravel road. However, after I turned onto a narrower road that led to a trout stream, that road began to increase noticeably in steepness. After the road pitch increased a other degree or two, I suddenly lost control of my bike and could not steer. For a split second I wondered if the handlebar stem had worked loose from the jarring ride on gravel. But I looked down at the ground to see that my front wheel had risen off the road surface. I quickly leaned forward to get the wheel back down. From that moment on, though, I no longer had a favorable view of the "BikePacker." In the mid-1970s', I lived for 3 years in Breckenridge. CO and enjoyed cross-country ski racing. One of my favorite summer conditioning activities was to cycle up to the top of Hoosier Pass, and then roll back down the considerable switchbacks to the Blue River Valley. One day I did not have to get back to my evening shift at the bakery my parents and I owned. I delighted in continuing south over the pass, into the small former mining town on the other side. Doing both those passes on a heavy bike in one day was a very energizing experience! I also loved to carry my backpack by bike up to lake trailheads, for an afternoon of trout fishing. My heavy Schwinn was one of many forerunners to present-day mountain bikes. In the past, there had been a sizable number of ill-tempered, arrogant, rude and impatient motorists along my route, especially in the University area along the street past my home. This street is a city-designated bike route. At first, I tried the peaceful "teachable moment" approach to helping these motorists understand they needed to change their attitudes and behaviors about sharing our streets with legally-operating bicyclists. This often didn't work, and my patient message was treated with scorn and contempt. Finally, I switched to the Atilla the Hun approach, raging my indignation at how their carelessness threatened my life and therefore the well-being of my family. Most motorized commuters have been pretty well-behaved the past few years, even though there is significant turn-over due to the ebb and flow of students in and out of nearby rental housing. However, my two sons both have developed asthma, and all signs point to a causative role from our living 200 meters from a major roadway (60,000+ vehicles per day). So, while I weigh our options for relocation from a neighborhood that is in all other ways ideal, I feel a great deal of contempt on my own part for the fact that most of these people are driving alone and making no attempt to reduce the impact on my children's and my own health.
My earliest venture into bike commuting was as a 16-year-old. My parents pushed me off my butt to get a summer job at Honey Bear Farm. This was a shopping boutique and restaurant on the northwest shore of Powers Lake, in Kenosha County, WI. At the time it was owned by Julia Kraft of Chicago cheese fortune, and frequented by radio commentator Paul Harvey and other high-profile folks. My home was on the southeast shore, and my parents quickly grew weary of shuttling me to work and back. Once in awhile I was able to ride-share with a waitress who owned a car, but our schedules seldom matched. I had not been much interested in learning to drive, so had no license yet, and could not afford a car as I was scraping quarters together to pay for college. I needed a cheap and reliable way to get to work. I had always gotten around for short distances on my bike, from going 5 blocks to the beach, to going to 3 or 4 miles to visit friends. I decided I should expand my range. With my white shirt on, bow tie in the pocket, and black pant legs rolled up, I made what a first seemed like an epic 7-mile journey to the restaurant where, six days a week, I bussed tables and tried awkwardly to flirt with the several cute teenage waitresses there, all of whom were older than me. Since traffic was pretty low, the experience was very nice. I noticed tennis courts, boat houses, and people I had not paid much attention to when being driven there. I loved hearing the birds sing in early summer, and smelling the delicious aromas of the relatively clean, tree-lined lake. I was hooked on bike commuting! Even after I got my license at 17 and my parents granted me permission to use the car at times, I rode my bike whenever the weather was even half hospitable. On some summer days, storms built up while I served water, cleared salad bowls, chatted with the dishwasher, and eagerly looked over the waitresses' shoulders while they counted out my 15% percent of the tips. Some of those evenings as I pedaled toward home, a storm would crash buckets of fat, cool rain drops onto my then-unhelmeted head. Rather than worry about getting wet or hit by lightning, I thought of the dollar bills soaking up water in my pocket, splashed through deep puddles on the road, and reveled in my two-wheeled freedom!