by Bettina Freese

One of the reasons I moved to Asheville was to be in a small town where I could commute by bike. No more would I spend 40 minutes in the car getting to work or school, polluting the air with fumes, and road raging with the masses. The vigilante meter maids of Asheville gave me just another reason. I was ready to commute by bicycle.

After living here for four years, I have to admit that while I have spent a lot of time commuting by bike, I have spent over 75% of that time driving.

I began sorting over my excuses for driving instead of riding, and I was sorely disappointed in myself. It made me realize what a crutch my truck really is for me. One afternoon I tallied up vehicle costs: insurance, payments, taxes, tags, oil changes, inspection, tires, and mechanicals. What a money pit. The war in Iraq really brought it home: I must make a personal and direct effort to lessen our demand for oil.

Just like how they tell dieters to log their eating habits, I began logging my recent commuting habits:

Day 1

Wake up to leisurely morning of newspaper and coffee., then hop on my bike. My coffee belly begins to rumble as I climb Beaucatcher Mountain. I make it to work in 15 minutes. My stomach will burn for an hour. I am dripping with sweat and realize that I forgot to wear deodorant. My first client arrives while I am peeling off my wet socks and mopping my armpits with squirt soap and paper towels. At lunch I zip across town for lunch with my bike lock and have more than enough time. I laugh at the people in long lines of traffic and cut through parking lots and alleys.

Day 2

I read only the world news, drink only one cup of coffee, and jump on my bike. I get all green lights and make it to work in 10 minutes. Although it takes longer to prepare for work once I am there, the ride is fun and I am in a much better mood.

Day 3

It’s raining. I want to drive my truck. I have to pick up my two-year-old godchild from school, so I attach the trailer and pull it to work. When I pick him up he is excited about riding in the trailer, but is ticked about the helmet. He stops crying once we start moving and I make him scream, “WHEEEEEEE!” on the downhills. He says, “Tina ride bike” a million times that evening.

Day 4

My lower back is sore and my legs feel like rubber. It is pouring. I have to bring the kid to school and I’m giving a friend a lift to Leicester in the afternoon. She doesn’t have a car. I can’t put her in the trailer, and I can’t get home and then meet my friend in time. I take the truck.

Day 5

I feel guilty over taking the truck yesterday, so I convince myself that I must get back on the bike. I take a bag full of food because I’m half-starved midday from burning more calories. I run fewer errands and am less likely to go out in the evenings to drink beer because I don’t want to get back on my bike. I realize that this is healthy in every way.

Day 6

I miss the woods. It’s the weekend. I treat myself to a drive to Brevard for a long bike ride. I take it easy on the downhills since I’m breaking my rule of riding by myself. It’s a beautiful morning with a low mist and morning sunlight filtering through. The forest is slowly waking, shaking the dew from its leaves. Near the end of my ride, my back wheel whips out from under me on a bridge covered in forest snot. I plunge to the rocky creek bed below, breaking my ankle and tibia. I soak the ankle in the freezing creek I am lying in, and ride back to the *&#@ truck.

Day 7-60

I drive my truck.

Bettina’s first week back on the bike has left her sore, belittled and humiliated by short climbs, yet she is gratefully back in the saddle and on the mend.