The Spotted Roan

My bicycle is an ancient DiamondBack "Expert" frame. The original finish is fire-engine red with black speckles. Streaks and splotches of white and yellow paint give it a "banged-up" look. The yellow paint was an accidental discharge of road-marking paint while I "arrowed" a cycling route. The white is Rustoleum®, used to repaint after I buffed off minor rust spots with a wire brush. My bike, the original spotted roan.

It's a beautiful mess, and it gets me where I need or want to go. It will be doing more of that now, too.

Today, I'm seeing it across a train aisle. I'm sitting on a "jump seat," a fold-down bench. The bike is leaning on the wall, gently secured by the right "down-bar" hooked inside a hand-hold that happens to be the right height. I rode eleven miles from North Attleboro to Norfolk to get to the station from which this train departed. Another station is closer, but that line's schedule is not as good for me.

I'm sitting here as nonchalant as can be, clad in my winter spandex. No, that's not a pretty picture if you know me. It's not a pretty picture if you don't know me. I'm almost 45, and tend to pack the pounds on my belly. I'm probably going to reverse that trend this year, but right now the lady in this vestibule is studiously reading to avoid eye-contact.

I'm on my way to the main office of the Registry of Motor Vehicles to surrender my driver's license and auto registration. I will also seek a "Cinderella" license while there, but have little hope it will be granted. In any event, I'm told that I will have to wait at least six months for a hearing, longer for a decision.

In August of 2002, I drove negligently. I tried to get through a gap in a long line of motorcycles. I miscalculated, badly, and did not see a motorcyclist. He struck the rear of my car, lost control, flipped, and was severely injured. He died within the hour. The loss of license is one of the numerous results of my deadly negligence. "There ain't no such thing as a free lunch." The cost of such negligence is as high as it should be.

So I sit in this train, resting from the first leg of my ride. The second leg will be in Boston, going from the Ruggles Station to downtown Boston. I am testing the waters, seeing what it will be like. Then I'll get another train back, and ride eleven miles home. Home is more downhill, making the last third of the test a little easier.

And then again, this isn't a test: I am a bicycle/mass transit commuter now.

I'm not at all depressed. I'd whistle a tune if I wasn't busy tap-typing this. I'm not as stressed as I've been for a long time, waiting for this to come through. I have been "on hold" for two years. I can finally assume that I will change my habits. I will learn to function in new ways. It feels entirely "right" to rely on muscle and mass transit. We humans shouldn't wait to be forced to be more responsible to ourselves, our environment, our children's future. I will make the best of this, whatever comes.

To be fair, it's a sunny, unseasonably warm January day. I've got eleven miles worth of endorphins making my eyeballs all rosy and pink on the inside. I may not be so "Zen" the first time I have to do this in the spring rains. I'll take the endorphin rush for now, though.

Meanwhile, I admire the ratty "spotted roan" bicycle that creeps forward against the wall as the train slows down for its next stop.