My ride used to look like this:


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It went like this:
My ride begins to the shuddering growl of the garage door opening and the cool air of the sunset.  I strap on the helmet, slide my sleek sunglasses over my face, hook my cinched down pannier onto the rack, swing my leg over the bike and press the button to close the door behind me.  It’s chilly to begin, and I climb slowly up Irving, the rising sun shining brightly in my face.


Going down 41st avenue into the park the air gets suddenly cooler – much cooler.  It’s sort of a lovely little dip, feeling the cool air and knowing that in a mile or so you’ll come out into the warm air again. I cut left towards the polo fields and in a low gear I climb the long hill, standing up in my pedals and feeling good to be using my legs and moving about early in the morning. Past the polo field, often home to a few joggers, and on to the lawn speedway where I’m almost always alone and moving fast while the ground is flat. Then there’s the deceptively steep incline that just keeps going as you reach JFK and, finally, the waterfall on the left.  Here it gets much warmer, and now my body is totally awake and warm and pumping blood fast. I often stop to take off the jacket, and if I’m not wearing it, I’m usually grateful right about here.  

The road flattens and the cars and maybe other bikers join me as I pass the DeYoung museum and filter down to Fell street. There’s a beautiful old 5-series BMW that’s always parked on the side of the road next to the museum and it looks very well cared for and shiny. Upwards past the strange, coppery DeYoung tower the warmth really hits you – just as suddenly as it had left.  I cross Stanyan, then accelerate into my highest gear and the crazy busy panhandle, weaving through joggers and passing dog-walkers, eyeing the Masonic signal and pushing it to catch the light, then warily skate through – down, across, then up the other side.  Out of the panhandle, turning right I push it to catch the signal and make a left on Oak, or miss it, and pull up short in the right-hand side of the left lane, straddling my bike and pulling out the water for a quick sip, other bikers pulling up beside and around me.  Then jetting down Oak, preferably in a pack, alternately passing slowed cars on the right, or pumping to keep up behind traffic.  Easing left a bit, raising the left hand to signal, making a sharp right on Scott, careful to avoid the manhole cover.  Then left on Page, sometimes a scary turn in and of itself, and up the gradual slope towards downtown, passing long queues of cars on long down slopes, riding the brakes, barreling the wrong way down the usually empty left lane, glad not to be in a car or one of the slow creaking buses that makes a hair-raising, jerky right-hand turn onto Page.  Then up to Gough, slowing slightly and usually cutting across through the red light if traffic is light.  Past a lovely brick building for sale and POP (pilates on page), some bums on the wide right-hand sidewalk, and up to Market.  Wait for the peds to start crossing, work your way out into the funny tweener intersection, then finally straight across Market, sharply cutting the muni tracks and bending left to come up to Van Ness.  Usually stop here, things are really popping now.  The funny cut-off and isolated All-Star cafe is open to the left, the big ugly Bank of America / Muni Customer Service building is across the way, and the Market Street grind has begun in earnest.  From there it’s a series of hectic streets, waiting at stoplights and watching the bold on fixies lead the way into intersections.  

Through the Tenderloin you don’t want to stop and you ignore the shouts and yells of poor, crazy, drunken urchins, and you don’t envy the police officers starting their morning rounds and you smell the pungent savory greasy meat from the Donut World restaurant on the right.  Sometimes cabs will cut sharply in front of cyclists and in a pack, commuter cyclists put up a fight.  I’ve seen cab windows hit hard, obscenities exchanged, shouts of “door!” and even older cyclists admonishing younger cyclists for entering the intersection early.  In one such exchange the seasoned pro called out the young hotshot who had to take out one of his earbuds to hear the reprimand “wait for the light!  Most accidents occur from entering the intersection early, you know”, to which the young man nodded cynically and proceeded to take off early before the light turned green.  The older man waited for the signal then frantically pedaled to catch the young man and show him that he wasn’t getting ahead by jumping the signals.  People are so righteous in their indignation, especially if they’ve been at something for awhile.  



The Ferry Building clocktower beckons from the end of Market street, and as it clarifies and draws near the streets count down to fourth then third and the ride is over.  I cut left across Market at the Montgomery crosswalk and cheekily coast on my bike up onto the sidewalk and half-way to the next crosswalk before dismounting next to the short Mexican handing out Examiners.  Then I hurriedly walk my bike and expertly navigate foot traffic to the building entrance where I unstrap my helmet, setting it on the ground and dropping in my sunglasses, then gloves, then folding my neon vest and throwing it in followed by my red taillight.  Out comes the water bottle and the bike seat and after locking up, from the yellow pannier I pull my peruvian shoulder bag, draping it over my shoulder then stuffing the pannier to the brim with the upturned helmet, water bottle, and bike seat.  All then held at waist height like a big yellow tower that precedes me through the revolving doors and into the lobby, to work.