I’m just going to come out with it: I rode in a car today. I know… But, before you rush to judge me, the car went precisely five blocks out of its way to pick me up and we were headed to the same destination. And it was raining.
The day started out well enough. I hit up the Bike Depot for lights, another lock and a few water bottle holders, and made plans to swing by tomorrow to get my kickstand installed. I rode on to downtown, to a conference, with a rain coat on, pant straps strapped, scarf around my neck. I had a blazer packed to change into when I got there, I even had bread packed to bring to the dinner I was going to afterwards. In short, I felt very prepared.
I rode on to
the Highlands Sunnyside (my Denver friends and their demarcations…) around dinnertime in the mist, just before the rain started to come down. I tucked my bike in the garage there and thought it would pass. Four hours later, it hadn’t.
I started to re-evaluate my preparedness plan: I was wearing leather loafers with no socks, jeans and my rain jacket seemed to be soaking up water instead of repelling it. For the second night this week, I thought I’d be bunking with pals. And then I got an offer I couldn’t refuse: my mom was just down the road and called to offer up a ride. I grimaced, then agreed.
I took a poll before I left: If I am on someone’s way and heading to the same destination, am I still in line with the ethic of this experiment? Everyone thought so, but really they just felt bad for me riding in the rain.
Then, I got outside and thought, “This wouldn’t have been so bad…” I hopped aboard and shared a bucket seat with a 110-pound dog. Now that’s carpooling.