Tour De Trent Reporter Finds That Biking To Work In Spokane Has Its Ups And Downs

Traffic was a little lighter on Interstate 90 this week.

Commuters can thank me.

Taking Bike to Work Week seriously, I pumped up the tires on my hand-me-down 10-speed, packed work clothes in saddlebags and let the Nissan sit in the driveway.

I braved broken glass, potholes and a dog that wanted a piece of me.

Rain pelted my face. Sweat stung my eyes. Spray and grit from the rear tire shot up the gap between my raincoat and my back.

In the restroom at work, I used the handicap stall as a locker room, struggling to pull slacks and dress shirts over my sweaty body.

“You don’t smell too bad,” said one colleague, who meant it as a compliment.

As hardships go, riding nine miles to work - even on pockmarked, congested Trent Avenue - rates low. In the course of my job, I’ve met people with flooded or burned homes and unpronounceable diseases.

Nor am I new to cycling. There have been day trips on the Centennial Trail, weekends in the San Juan Islands, a couple of weeks in England.

But a tourist in the Cotswolds can waste a day in a castle if his legs feel like rubber.

Commuting is a bigger commitment. If a tire goes flat it must be fixed immediately, so the rider can make his 9 o’clock appointment. And he better not show up with grease on his hands.

Long-time bike commuters say they enjoy the exercise and the solitude. They arrive at work energized and use the trip home to unwind.

I felt those benefits, and the added relief of not listening to talk radio, as has become my drive-time habit.

Still, I’m not making a full-time commitment to two-wheeled transportation. I wouldn’t want another week like this one.

Monday

A good day for riding. The weather is cool and cloudy, and traffic is lighter than I expected.

To my surprise, nobody flips me an obscene gesture or swerves to hit me. Based on horror stories I’ve heard from people who gave up biking, I expected more hostility from drivers.

The ride from my home near Millwood takes just 30 minutes, as I set a healthy pace and stick to it.

For the trip home, I take the Centennial Trail and Upriver Drive, which add about three miles to my commute. I push myself hard, imagining I’m leading the Tour de France and that my sweat pants have not slipped halfway down my derriere.

A winter of inactivity and indulgent eating shows in burning legs and lungs. I’m overdressed and overweight, and sweat pours down my face.

At home, still dressed for the ride, I collapse on the bedroom floor, knees up, hands over my eyes.

“Wanna play with me, Dad?” asks my 3-year-old in her Shirley Temple voice.

She jumps, landing knees first on my chest.

“You didn’t catch me, Dad.”

Tuesday

Looking out from the open garage door, I briefly consider loading the bike on a bus that stops two blocks away.

It is raining hard, and my bike - a French racer built in the 1950s - does not have fenders. I cut a square of cardboard and strap it to the rack, hoping it will deflect most of the spray from the rear tire.

The trick doesn’t work. By the time I get to the Review Tower, there is a wet, gritty stripe up my back. My Gore-Tex jacket is soaked through, as are the sweat pants and T-shirt.

Stuffed under my desk, the clothes do not dry by the end of my shift. They are clammy and musty as I pull them on, and I start the ride cold, but warm quickly, then overheat.

Is there no comfort for the spring cyclist?

Wednesday

It is a repeat of Tuesday, only wetter. Tired of soggy sweat pants, I switch to Lycra, covering the tightfitting pants with baggy shorts for modesty’s sake.

On the way home, I spot a road-killed pigeon, blood still trickling from its beak. Its bluish feathers flutter as I and a panel truck pass at the same moment.

Life is tough for those who share the pavement with cars.

Thursday

Riding to work between showers, I dodge puddles and keep dry.

A golden retriever and rottweiler bark from the sidewalk.

I swerve to miss a black dachshund standing in the street, and it chases me half a block, its narrow head winding with the movement of the pedal. The pest wants to bite, but cannot reach my ankle and can’t catch my foot.

My spirits are buoyed by this thought: Tomorrow, I will not swerve.

Friday

It’s 6 a.m., and the clouds are broken, the temperature in the 50s.

“I’m taking the trail today,” I tell my wife. “I’ll leave early, take my time. Maybe stop at the Rocket Bakery.”

Thirty minutes later, rain is streaming off the roof, battering the tulips.

I dial 328-RIDE to learn how one uses the bike racks on Spokane Transit Authority buses. I and the bike can ride the bus to work, then I can pedal home, when it doesn’t matter if I get wet.

The racks are easy to use, the operator tells me. But first you must come downtown, watch a threeminute video and sign a waiver saying you won’t sue if the bike falls off and is crushed under the bus.

Then I’ll leave the bike at home and ride the bus both ways. The point of the experiment is not pointless suffering, after all, but learning to commute without cars.

I am walking fast to catch the bus, but am still a block from the corner when it arrives and leaves without me. Returning home, I climb into the car and turn on talk radio.

How was the ride this morning, my boss wants to know.

“I’m adapting,” I tell him.

, DataTimes ILLUSTRATION: Color photo