When I’m not traveling to faraway places, I really like riding my bike. It’s become my one go-to exercise. Last summer I did a triathlon, because I’m crazy and thought it would be cool. And it was. It was exhilarating to feel like Superman after swimming half a mile, biking 12 miles, and running 3.5 miles. But I’m not sure I’ll do one again, since I really don’t like running. I trained for about three months, and running was by far the hardest part.
So yesterday I went for a bike ride, and it was beautiful: sunny and warm (at least for February). Not too much traffic. I usually see at least one other cyclist on my ride, and I did. We usually wave or at least lift a hand tiredly to each other, in some sort of spandex solidarity. Yesterday’s cyclist didn’t.
I rode through a development right near where I grew up. It was built when I was maybe 14 or so, lots of big homes with aluminum siding and little square patches of lawn and stubby little driveways. A woman, about my age, got out of her car and carried groceries into her house. I thought, wow, here’s this woman about my age, and she has this enormous, expensive house out in the suburb. And I wasn’t a bit jealous. Sure, I’d like to own a home someday. But I’d rather own a funky apartment or condo in a city, maybe in a building with some history, where I can easily bike or walk or take public transport, where I don’t live from parking spot to parking spot, where I don’t have more space than I’ll ever use. I love my apartment now, my one-mile walk to work, the ease of stopping on my way home for some fresh veggies from a little market.