This morning, a colleague texted me to ask if I wanted a lift. Why would I? I've got snow pants, double layer gloves, and a fixed gear bike.
I ride my bike to work every day, and as with recycling and eating local, there's a certain self-satisfaction that comes with an eco-friendly commute. But on days like this, when the snow nearly closed the office, I'm not just smug, but nearly invisible.
On 12th Street, a man in a pickup truck waited for me to pass so he could shout, "You've got balls, girl!" I smiled back through my ski mask, pleasantly surprised that he could discern my gender despite all the layers I was wearing. Maybe he noticed my pink handlebar tape.
When I made it to the office, my bike and my person covered in snow, the editor-in-chief interrupted her own conversation to ask me if I really rode in. Oh, I did. And I made it.
The truth about my bike riding is that I'm a lousy driver. Parallel parking takes me longer than a lap around Cheesman Park. In a snowstorm on my bike, I can only fall into a pile of snow. A lot worse can happen in my two-wheel drive car.
On my ride in, I saw a dog romping in the snow. Sadly, today I don't share his good luck. Twelve inches of snow later, and Westword's offices are still open, and my ride to work is the closest I'll get to playing in the snow.
That colleague and I both made it into the office in one piece, though I beat him. How was his drive in? "Well, I just got new tires and I have four-wheel drive, so it was pretty fun." Fun indeed.
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