Doing the epic bike-to-work-route once a week seems to be working out so far. When I did it last week I didn’t feel nearly as worn down to a soggy pulp as I had the week before. This time I only slightly wanted to die and float away on a fluffy cloud, a cloud with built-in adjustable therapeutic massage function, so I suppose that’s progress. I’m told that the angry little knot of pain I feel in my lower back after about ten miles most likely means that I have to get the handlebars adjusted, and it probably does not mean that I am congenitally bike-impaired. And that is good.

The tiredness and the soreness do not outweigh the awesomeness of the trail and the river and the scruffy overgrown back roads and all the things I see on them. The week before last, I saw duck sex. I mean I was riding by and there by the side of the trail I saw a duck, and then another duck was sort of tangled up with it. It wasn’t until I’d already passed them that I realized what they were doing, and then I turned around, because how often do you get a chance to see ducks fuck? But by the time I went back it was all over, and the two of them were walking up the trail with a sort of awkward silence between them. Oh yeah, I know what that’s about, ducks.

The week before that I saw three deer diving across the trail, one after the other, like Esther Williams swimmers in formation. And last week I passed a front yard where half a dozen prom couples posed for photos, the girls lined up together in their strapless dresses.

I expected to see at least a few of the 17-year cicadas on to the trees, but it seems they didn’t really emerge around here, since I’ve only heard about sightings in the suburbs. At least I don’t have to worry about running over all their crunchy little exoskeletons.

If we manage to do most of the things we’re planning to do in the next few months, it’ll be the most summery summer I’ve had in maybe twenty years. The bike already makes me feel like I’m twelve, and when the outdoor city park pool opens for the season I’ll start doing my laps there instead of at the gym. So conceivably I could ride my bike to the pool. I think the last time I did that, compact discs didn’t exist yet, and neither did my boobs. Really, all I need now to truly recapture those days is a pair of jellies and the freakish compulsion to reapply Maybelline mascara every 35 minutes or so, because I was that kind of girl. Now, not so much.

I hope it doesn’t rain tomorrow. I know it’s going to rain tonight, because the wind is blowing and the trees are thrashing around and the neighbors’ back porch windchimes are more urgently creepy, but I hope it’s over by morning. Chris says that he heard on the forecast there’d be morning showers but I keep checking my little weather widgets from two different sources and right now both of them still show little suns in the Friday box. Okay, so one little sun has wispy clouds around it, but hey, I’ll take wisps; wisps don’t get me wet. I can ride my bike through those. I want to ride my bike to work again.

I want to ride my bike because last week in New York I ate all of 23rd Street between Seventh and Eighth. I ate stuff from seven different places on that street, not even counting the deli where I got an apple and a Diet Coke or the muffins they had in the morning at the hotel. I ate some tacos and some paella and a cupcake and some tater tots and a falafel sandwich and a barbeque sandwich and THIS THING, which is so astounding I can’t believe it even existed in the world before I ate it. And now I’m back and I want to ride my bike. I also want to ride my bike because gas costs $3.59 a gallon here, which makes riding my bike seem very clever indeed. I already took the five dollars I was planning not to spend on gas tomorrow and I put it towards a fabulously expensive Whole Foods salad bar salad, one topped with grilled veggies and tempeh chunks and caviar and shiny nickels and gift cards. And it’s waiting in the work fridge and all I have to do is point my bike in the general direction of that fridge and ride. As long as it’s not raining then.

Update: No rain. I made it here to work. HOORAY.

Total distance, one way: 11.3 miles.

Distance traveled while using the wrong gear: approximately six miles.

Animal sightings: One deer; one chipmunk; countless squirrels; six dogs. Including one with a cone around its head.

Number of times I probably could have made it across the big scary street with many swift and vroomy cars zorching by, but totally chickened out instead: 4.

How difficult pedalling up the Oakton Bridge was this time, on a scale of one to ten: 6.

How much I’d like to sleep right now, on a scale of one to ten: Uh huh.

How much I deserve some coffee cake right now, on a scale of one to MRMFF NUM NUM NUM: Six point MRMFFF.

How much coffee three yeah what ha!111!11@ ok thankyou happy fridady

We did the bike route on Sunday. We set out a little before noon and got to my office at around 1:00 pm. We stopped for water and I got on my computer to look at the map again, just to confirm that yes, we’d been at that turn, that crossing, that bridge—all the stuff I’d hovered above while playing with the Google maps satellite view, spying on Magical Bikeland for months. It really is beautiful on the trail, with winding creeks, patches of prairie, and deer staring creepily as you ride by. It felt good to be down among the trees. When we went fast it was maybe just a tiny tad like the speeder bike chase scene in Return of the Jedi (except without the Ewoks, and thank God for that).

The best part is the bridge. There’s a foot/bike bridge that goes over Oakton, one of the few places on the trail where you don’t have to dash across the road in terror. But the trade-off is that, of course, the bridge is an arc and to cross it you have to pedal uphill, though you can’t even call it a hill, just a wimpy little bunny slope. Still, when I tried this trail a couple years ago, the bunny stomped my ass. I mean I saw how easy it looked and I began to ride up the incline and it kept, you know, inclining, just as it was inclined to do, and my legs lurched on the pedals and the bike got stubborn and finally I just stopped and stumbled off the bike and walked it over. And I wasn’t surprised, because I was always finding new and exciting ways to discover my physical shortcomings, and I figured pedaling uphill was just an awesome new vista of inadequacy.

But then on Sunday we were just riding along and suddenly there was the bridge. So I downshifted and then pedalled fervently and with much grunting, and then, eventually, my ass was over that hump. And then on the way back I did it again. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised this time, since I’ve been doing weight training since the fall, but I am pleased. It was still a wobbly ride over the bridge, but Chris pointed out that the riders we passed there were wobbly, too. Maybe the only folks who can glide over that thing easily are the ones who ride around dressed like Olympic luge competitors.

But anyway, we did it. I think the total distance—round-trip, and with additional wandering around in search of lunch—was close to 25 miles.  Making the return trip in such a short time was pretty rough, but I think I can do it as a commute on Friday, which is what I’m planning on doing, weather permitting.

I like being on the map.