Biking the Bull City and Beyond

Some people think I’m a damn fool for biking to work. If you’d asked me five years ago, I would have agreed myself. I remember advising a newcomer, a young Frenchwoman, that it was too dangerous to bike from our neighborhood – there were no bike lanes, too many cars, and too few bikers. She was blonde, charming, and vivacious and I had to be the old futz to discourage her.

Since then the city has built bike trails, bike lanes, and put up “Share the Road” signs. The centerpiece of these efforts is the American Tobacco Trail, a converted rail line that extends from the ballpark downtown to our neighborhood in the suburbs, a distance of 7 miles. One Sunday afternoon I was having a leisurely ride on the ATT and stopped to cross Martin Luther King Parkway. The wide, landscaped avenue practically beckoned towards Research Triangle Park, where I work; a distance of about 3 miles. A light came on. I just might be able to piece together a safe route to work.

The next day I drove in via MLK to check it out. MLK went for a mile or so and dead-ended at a construction zone at the intersection of Highway 55. The median ended, the road narrowed, and the bike lanes all but disappeared under a row of New Jersey barricades. Not good. From here it was left onto Highway 55, an immediate right onto Cornwallis, and another couple of miles into RTP. I checked my odometer when I arrived - it was just over 7 miles.

After work, I retraced the route on my bike. At the end of MLK I cautiously entered the “chute”, keeping to the far right. Not only was the lane narrow, it was littered with coarse gravel and an occasional shard of broken glass. Unfortunately there was no good alternative; I would have to navigate this bottleneck into RTP. A bit later I branched off on Old Cornwallis, a little-used side road that ran parallel to the main road. I followed it through a wooded area and past an old farmhouse with outbuildings and what once must have been a pasture or tobacco field. I pondered what life was like for the men who once worked the land with mules and plows.

At the end of Old Cornwallis I got onto the RTP walking trails and in a few minutes I arrived at my workplace. I checked my watch - it had taken 45 minutes. It was late April and I was ready for a challenge, so I decided to try it.

For safety reasons, I resolved to get an early start to get a jump on traffic. So I got up early the next morning, suited up in nylon warm-ups, strapped on a backpack full of work clothes, and hit the trail.

Getting out of the neighborhood was the first challenge – the walking trails are hilly and there are dog walkers and joggers. As I approached I slowed and gently called out as I squeezed by. If there’s one thing I hate as a pedestrian it’s when a biker zooms up behind and barks out orders like a drill sergeant. As if I have to hop to because some type-A on a bicycle is in a hurry.

I came to the parking lot of an apartment complex where I was once scolded for cutting through a front yard to get to the walking trail. The old woman must have seen me coming. I kept walking and didn’t look back, but her barrage made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. She kept at it well after I had passed. I definitely made her day.

This morning I wasn’t cutting through anyone’s yard, but I was about to use the neighborhood footpath that led to the bike trail. I was relieved to pass without incident, and once on the trail I settled into a steady cadence. The wind in my face was cool and moist, and the wooded trail was tranquil, a pleasant contrast to the daily angst of I-40. Why had I waited so long to start this?

A few minutes later I stopped at the dreaded chute to wait for a lull in traffic. When the coast was clear I took off at top speed, keeping as far right as I could without getting too close to the concrete barriers. At the end of the chute the lane split and I crossed into the middle lane to make a left at the intersection. Before making the move, I listened for following traffic, heard nothing, and turned to look back. As I did the bike veered left – a potentially dangerous move. I thought of my German friend and his helmet mirror; I would need one of those.

At the light I followed the cars making a left onto Highway 55, rode the shoulder a short distance to the convenience store, cut across the parking lot, and steered onto the shoulder of Cornwallis, crowded with early commuters. I stopped at the intersection and waited for the light; then crossed and made a right onto Old Cornwallis. I took a breath. From here on it would be smooth sailing.

As I entered my office building I came face to face with one of the managers. There I was, dressed in nylon warm-ups, backpack, and helmet. She looked at me, said hello, and left it at that – no “Well, what have we here?” or “Starting a new fashion trend, are we?”

Maybe this wasn’t such a big deal.

At quitting time, as I pedaled across the sloping parking lot, I met up with my friend Doug in his sports car. As I slid forward to dismount, my crotch met the top tube before my feet touched. Ouch! I teetered back and forth on tiptoes, tentatively maintaining my balance.

Doug saw it all. “Right there’s why I don’t ride bikes.” I had resigned myself to the rigors of biking and a certain amount of discomfort, but this was definitely not what I had in mind.

The next day Doug looked me over with eyes that questioned my sanity and cautioned me to be careful. He wasn’t the only one concerned. When my mom found out she immediately asked me to stop and when I declined she considered disowning me. I flashed on the old B. B. King tune, “Nobody Loves Me But My Mother (And She Might Be Jivin' Too)”. Mom is 90 years old, lucid, living alone, and still driving. I think she was secretly glad to hear of my biking; it enabled us to reach a tacit truce - she wouldn’t complain about my biking if I wouldn’t complain about her driving.

When Mom met Dad his Army unit was on bivouac outside her hometown in rural South Carolina, preparing for deployment in North Africa. He attended a Coke social at her home and later borrowed her bike so he could come back to visit. Dad could ride a girl’s bike backwards, sitting back against the handlebars and backpedaling. I’m certain he wouldn’t have done such a thing to impress Mom …

One of the few pictures we have of Dad as a kid shows him at the age of 10 or so, wearing short pants and some sort of knit hat, straddling a bicycle much too large for him, flashing a big smile. It brings back memories of my 12^th birthday when I got a brand new red Western Flyer with chrome wheels and handlebars. It was a beauty. Dad made sure we took good care of our bikes and brought them into the garage at night. He’s gone now, but thanks to him I still have my shiny Western Flyer. His spirit rolls on, mostly in a forward direction.

As a college student I began to appreciate biking as the best way to avoid boring, sweaty hikes to class. A friend opened a bike shop in town and helped me pick out a 10-speed Eddy Merckx racer with drop-down handlebars. It had several decals –Tour de France, Giro d’Italia, and a mug-shot of Merckx, which I removed, wondering who would plaster his face on every bike he sold.

II. 200 Bikers, 22 Days, 2200 Miles

The Tour de France began shortly after I started bike commuting. I’d never watched it before, but this time I was a bona fide biker myself, and 2004 was a special Tour. Lance Armstrong was going for a record-setting 6^thvictory. I wanted to see it live; I wanted to understand the race and the riders - one in particular.

The Tour has been around since 1903, the year of the Wright Brothers’ first flight. For 3 weeks races are held each day, with only two days off. The course varies each year and sometimes goes into neighboring countries. A typical race, or stage, is 120 miles and takes 5 hours, more or less, depending on the terrain. That’s an average speed of about 24 mph. At the end, the biker with the lowest cumulative time wins. It’s possible to win without winning any stages.

At the beginning of each stage there were aerial views of the route and computer graphics to illustrate the topography. The race itself was quite a spectacle - a swarm of bikes, motorcycles, and vans, weaving through a gauntlet of frenetic spectators. I couldn’t decide who was in the greatest peril.

Each competing rider has 8 teammates who are there to assist in various ways. One way is to bring food and drink; another is to take turns in front when the team is riding together. Lance’s 2004 team, US Postal, had riders from the US, Spain, Russia, Czech Republic, and Columbia. Each team has a van that follows along with cycling’s equivalent of a pit crew: the driver, the mechanic, and the coach; or as the Europeans say, the director. They carry food, drink, and spare parts.

I’ve always been skeptical of the benefits of drafting for cyclists, but it must help - all the teams do it. To get an idea how important it can be, consider that the world speed record for a bicycle is 167 mph, set on the Bonneville Salt Flats by 49 year-old Fred Rompelberg following in the slipstream of a specially designed vehicle.

The rules have evolved over the years and can be a bit perplexing to the uninitiated, like myself. To prevent chaos, all riders who cross the finish line in a group get the same times. In 2001 the lead riders were delayed a few minutes by a passing train, which according to the rules, can happen and must be tolerated. In this case, despite the rule, the judges imposed a delay on the other riders to even things up.

Some of the stages are in the mountains. I've always wondered what it is like to race downhill. What is the strategy? How fast do they go? Is it super-dangerous? Well, according to Rob Rowan, the president of Cycle Disciple, a website devoted to professional cycling, the basic strategy is similar to other road races. The rider approaches the turn on the outside, then cuts across the inside in as straight a line as he can manage. As he comes out of the turn he accelerates to “pull” into the straightaway. Riders can get up to speeds of 50 miles per hour. Most injuries are from sliding off the road and falling down the mountain.

There are frequent accidents. In 1951 the Dutchman Wim van Est was having a terrific first Tour, sporting the leader’s yellow jersey after 12 stages. A flatlander from Holland, he had never ridden in mountains until stage 13 in the Pyrenees. He stuck with the leaders for the first big climb and, at the top, got a flat tire and lost 3 minutes. On the descent he followed an experienced racer, but slid off the road and tumbled 30 yards downhill. Unhurt, he scrambled back up and continued. Rounding another hairpin turn, braking hard, he got another blowout and fell again, this time 50 yards, miraculously without serious injury. A photographer captured the moment – a clearly distraught van Est sitting on the ground, bleeding from the shins. Helped back up to the road, he started to saddle up again when his manager interceded. He was taken to a hospital, treated for minor abrasions, and released.

Then there was Eugene “Cri-cri” Christophe, a Frenchman who broke his front fork in a collision with a car during the 6^th stage in the Pyrenees in 1913. In those days, the riders were not allowed any outside help. So what did he do? He walked the bike 9 miles downhill to a village blacksmith shop where he made the repairs himself. He finished the race but was penalized 1 minute for having a neighborhood boy pump the bellows. Outside help was not allowed.

Nowadays an estimated 15 million fans line the route for the best free show in Europe. For the most part, there are no barriers to restrain spectators from taunting, obstructing, or otherwise harassing the riders. It’s not uncommon to see a fan running alongside a rider. Mostly this is comical, but not always. This year, as Lance approached victory, he was spat upon and forced to dodge spectators. Even worse, Eddy Merckx was on his way to winning his 6^th Tour when a spectator attacked with fisticuffs and kept him from surpassing all who had come before.

Most racers are acutely aware of the boundary between aerobic and anaerobic activity and carefully ration the latter. Merckx was called the creature because he seemed to go all out all the time. On one occasion, after winning a mountain stage, he had to be given oxygen. Michel Mondarain was the opposite. Cool and calm, he trained specifically for the Tour, and was closely monitored by trainers. They called him ET, the extra-terrestrial, for his consistent performance that won him 5 consecutive Tours.

Perhaps the worst year was 1998, when there was evidence of widespread use of performance enhancing drugs. Some riders used transfusions of their own blood. One director admitted distributing drugs to his team and was promptly disqualified. A few other teams quit in protest. In the end less than half the riders finished, and those who did were relieved it was over. The winner that year, Marco Pantani, with shaved head, earring, and bandana, was nicknamed il Pirata, and would face allegations of drug use for the rest of his life. Six years later the jaunty Italian, beloved by his countrymen, died alone of a heroin overdose at the age of 34 in a rented room overlooking the Adriatic.

In 1999 Lance came along to redeem the troubled race. He had undergone treatment for testicular cancer, which had spread throughout his body into his lungs and brain. Given a 50% chance of survival, Lance astounded his medical team by continuing to train during chemotherapy, then entering and winning the Tour. And doing it again and again and again…

III. Day Trippin’

Riding home one afternoon, I pictured myself wearing the yellow jersey as I coasted down the tree-lined Boulevard des Champs Elysees, raising my arms in a victory salute at the Arc de Triomph. I would be gracious, singing praises to Lance, Eddy, Michel, Greg, and Marco. About this time I heard a loud, “On your left”, and moved over just in time for an inline skater to surge past. You’d be surprised how fast some of those guys can go.

In the early mornings lots of critters were out and about. Squirrels bounced around, rustling leaves and pine straw, and occasionally a rabbit would dart out and zig-zag into the bush. I could hear birds chirping and sometimes frogs and cicadas. Once I came upon a doe and her fawn loping across the path in the soft morning light.

Along the trail the trees are mostly pines and the ground is matted with pine straw. The state tree is the pine, from which tar, pitch, and turpentine were extracted in colonial times. It is said that the name “tarheel” came from bantering among Confederate troops about a battle in which North Carolina troops stood and fought as others retreated.

When pine pollen falls, it coats the ground like a dusting of snow. On the asphalt trail there were erratic tracks; one that puzzled me was as wide as a car tire but had no parallel track. I wondered what sort of vehicle it was until I realized it was an animal, probably a rabbit.

Each morning when I went out for the newspaper I made a mental note of the weather and contemplated what to wear. Usually I would start out bundled up and within a few minutes, break sweat. Here’s what typically happened:

I stop, straddling the bike. I release the handlebars to remove my backpack. While my arms are flailing around, the front wheel turns sideways, rolls backwards, and the bike flops to the ground. It may seem odd that a bike can fall to the ground as you straddle it, but it has happened to me several times. I curse, set the pack down, pull my jacket over my helmet, knocking the mirror off kilter. Cursing again, I remove the helmet, adjust the mirror, and put the helmet back on. I stuff the jacket in my pack, slip the pack back on, pick up the bike, step up on the pedal, and I’m off again. Easy as pie.

The mirror was designed to mount on eyeglasses or a helmet. I couldn’t mount it on my glasses since they were wire frames. So I got out a magnifying glass, studied the instructions, applied double-sided tape, and carefully pressed the mounting bracket on the side of my helmet. It held for about a week. By that time I had become dependent on the mirror, especially at the chute.

I stuck the darn thing back on repeatedly but it always came loose. One day as I was about to leave work I impulsively jammed a big paper clip over the bracket. Surprisingly, it held for a few days. What finally worked best was to clamp it onto plastic goggles, the type sold for home improvement projects.

In the afternoons there is a stretch of the trail where the sun is directly behind and the mirror flashes in my eyes. After months of this it dawned on me that I could reach up and rotate the mirror to avoid this. I’m glad this wasn’t some sort of IQ test.

My workplace is ideal for biking. It’s centrally located, accessible from walking trails, and has showers, a cafeteria, and a bank teller machine. Our attire is informal and we can usually dial in to remote meetings. If I’m required to attend, I can usually catch a ride with a coworker. Most mornings I walk to my cubicle in biking clothes without passing anyone; it’s located in an inconspicuous spot across from a large open room dubbed the “launch pad” – where several groups of consultants endured the waning days of their contracts.

I kept a gym bag in the shower room adjoining a bathroom near my cubicle. I learned to arrange my sweaty clothes on hangars and pegs for maximum drying during the day. There were at least two others sharing the facilities.

It wasn’t easy to get up the mojo to rise early and hit the trail. Some mornings I had to give myself a pep talk. I though of Lance; if he could come back from advanced testicular cancer and win the Tour 5 times, I should be able to get up in the morning and ride a few miles to work.

The wooded sections of the trail just outside my neighborhood were by far the best part of the trip. At that point I was warmed up and ready to cruise on the smooth, flat asphalt. There were people I would see regularly; a young couple, probably married; a middle aged couple, not married; a young woman with an older woman, perhaps her mom, and assorted dog walkers and joggers. The merriest group was two or three older men, one with a cane, who walked almost every day. Further along, at the Industrial Park, there was a man who carried a baseball bat. I once heard someone mention him as a threat, but he seemed friendly to me. I’m not suggesting he was headed for a little batting practice at the park, but I suspect he carries the bat for dogs. Years ago a dog nipped my ankle as I rode by, a little yappy dog. I slammed on my brakes so hard my front wheel contorted like a potato chip. I was incensed. I shouted and threw the bike down and chased the little mutt through his yard and into his house.

I occasionally rode with a retired airline pilot from Boston named Bob. Few other bikers wanted to chat, even briefly. They probably had phone messages to review, emails to read and write, managers to schmooze - important stuff.

Which brings up one of my pet peeves; everybody on the trail seems to be faster than me and wants to prove it. I’ve been passed by an 8-year-old girl, a man on a kid’s bike with a banana seat, and the skater I mentioned already. I’m surprised a runner or walker hasn’t passed me. After the pass I usually pick up the pace and try to keep up. I tried that with the skater, thinking perhaps I could regain the lead, but I couldn’t. He was a man on a mission.

In the mornings I stop at the light at Fayetteville Road where the trail emerges from the woods into the full morning sun. After pressing the pedestrian button I zone out for a moment and listen for the electronic chirps. In the warm months I sometimes hear unscripted chirps –rascally birds trying to get me in trouble.

Sometimes my goggles fog up. As I pedal off I push them down my nose a bit and dip my head to let air flow through. I cut through the Industrial Park to MLK, where I ride the sidewalks, carefully avoiding patches of wet clay that seeps from the hillside. If it gets in my knobby tires, I’ll be wearing it later.

I pass apartment buildings and driveways and navigate around cars waiting to pull out. At the chute, I pause for a lull in traffic. When I get to the intersection I’m panting, and if I’m lucky the exhaust fumes aren’t too bad. I wait for the light, and as the car ahead pulls out I pedal for all I’m worth. Sometimes, to my surprise, the front wheel comes up off the ground for a few microseconds. Technically this may not be considered a wheelie, but at my age, it’s close enough. I’m counting it.

I ride the shoulder of highway 55 for another hundred yards and duck into the parking lot of “On the Run”. Music blares from loudspeakers as truck drivers, utility workers, and landscape crews pump gas and caffeinate in preparation for the day ahead. I picked up my theme song here, “Stayin’ Alive”.

Next comes Cornwallis and Old Cornwallis, where I suck in a few lungfulls of clean air before reentering the rat race. It can get a little dicey at the end of Old Cornwallis where FedEx trucks pass on their way to a distribution center.

When I arrive, I chain my bike to railing on the ground floor of the parking deck. The chain is the type of chain used in children’s swing sets. Don’t tell anyone, but in lieu of a lock I use a loop of coat hanger wire. I was confident that no one would manage to figure this out, but during the summer a crew of painters came along. On the day they painted the railing I found it “locked” it in a different location.

Had I been more serious about security, I may have chosen a heavy-duty U-lock. Up until recently many of these were based on a “tubular cylinder” design. In 1992 a British journalist published an article claiming that this type of lock can be picked using a Bic pen. In 2004 - that’s twelve years later - an American biker wrote about this in an Internet bike forum. Several websites promptly appeared with videos demonstrating how easy it was. The manufacturer announced a recall, but what’s interesting is that they had continued to make the flawed locks for twelve years after the vulnerability was publicly announced. There’s a company who looks out for its customers

I was now getting an hour and a half of exercise each day, at least twice as much as before. My calf muscles tingled continuously and my butt was so sore I felt like I had just returned from a same-sex honeymoon.

A journalist from our local paper recently wrote about hiking the Appalachian Trail. One of the hardships was not being able to bathe regularly or wash clothes. Apparently a thru-hiker can get pretty rank and there’s not much to be done about it. Much as I would like to avoid this subject, it became an issue.

Personal hygiene has never been my highest priority. Why this is I cannot say, but certain family members have suggested it may be lassitude, limited intellectual capacity, or both of the above. Riding twice a day meant showering twice a day and at least two changes of clothes. Sometimes it was hard to decide whether an article of clothing could be worn again or should go in the hamper. On a few occasions I would shower, change, sit back to relax, and detect a certain scent. Typically the source was a polyester T-shirt or nylon mesh briefs sewn into hiking shorts. It wasn’t me, of course.

In mid-June we went to the mountains, Cathy, my son John, and a few his friends. The main attraction was whitewater rafting and tubing. I wore a new polyester T-shirt quite a bit. It was remarkable; it could get wet and then dry on my back. Each night I washed it by hand in the sink, but somehow I wasn’t getting the job done. Maybe I should have tried using soap. Anyway, no one noticed until the third day when it rained and we were cooped up in the car for the ride out to Bryson City. My travel companions made several observations that were most unflattering. Frankly, I think some of them would benefit from sensitivity training.

After a few weeks of biking my body became addicted to it. When I had to drive, on a rainy day or for a special meeting, I felt like I had missed something. Whenever I got into a car, going to a meeting or out to lunch, I imagined myself on a bike covering the same ground. Lunch out was particularly decadent. Not only was I whisked there effortlessly; I was indulging a sharpened appetite with mounds of savory pasta and chef’s salads. Sometimes life is very good.

I knew there would come a day when I would have to get to a distant meeting on my own. I would face a choice: the company bus which would require waiting, or bike it in my work clothes.

When the day came I chose to bike it. This entailed taking a shortcut, a walking trail through the woods. I had taken this shortcut once before many years ago. When I approached the trailhead there was new construction so I took a detour around the perimeter. At the far end, where I expected to meet the trail, there was only a power line trail. Since it was leading in the right direction, I took it. I weaved through patches of honeysuckle and briars; then occasional wet spots. On the mountain bike I was able to plow through most of it, but it was slow going and I eventually got bogged down. By this time I had gone too far to turn around. I pushed on and came to the intersection of another power line trail, turned left, and got bogged down again. My inner voice kept repeating, “You idiot!” At this point there wasn’t much to do except keep going, which I did and eureka - the trail! Finally! After a few wrong turns in unfamiliar parking lots, I was on target, about a quarter mile from my destination.

When I arrived I stopped at the men’s room to freshen up. I sprinkled cold water on my red face and removed stickers from my pants legs. When I showed up at the meeting, the first person I encountered looked me over and said, “You look like you just ran over here.” I was taken aback. “Well, did ya?” No, not exactly…

In the days ahead I thought a lot about the local trails. Biking 45 minutes each way with no radio, no CD, and no cell phone - there was plenty of time to think. I came up with a plan to extend the MLK bike lanes through a patch of woods to Old Cornwallis and into RTP. My friend Chris suggested the city might do it just to get bikes off the main roads. I wrote it up and mailed it to the City Planning Office and to the group that manages RTP. I got no response but a few months later the city announced that Cornwallis would soon get bike lanes. Shortly after that, yellow caution signs started sprouting up – share the road with bicycles. Things were looking up.

Going home one day I was cruising along in my usual mental haze when I suddenly encountered a new street crossing. What? It took a moment to realize I had passed my turnoff. “Yes!” I heard my inner voice say. “You can do this!”

I resolved to try it for one year or until I got run over by a truck, whichever came first.

IV. Crossroads

One afternoon I cruised up to the first big intersection in RTP and paused to check the light. It was green so I started across. I was about to pass in front of a red sports car when it surged ahead, saw me, and screeched to a stop. I slammed on my brakes and pitched forward. I let him go. The car behind him waited for me (thank you!). I could hear other cars accelerating – obviously the light had changed. My inner voice screamed, “Get the hell off the road!” As I crossed into the next lane, I looked left and saw a white van bearing down. The voice again, “This is it – You’re a goner!” I kept pedaling; at this point it didn’t seem to matter. Miraculously I made it to the traffic island, hopped off the bike, and turned it sideways for oncoming cars to pass, about 2 feet away. Then, shell-shocked, I walked the bike across to the other side.

I replayed the scene over and over, realizing how lucky I was to be alive and unhurt. I started thinking - maybe I did get hit by that white van. Maybe this is an alternate universe, like the children’s books that let you choose your own ending. Maybe I was acting out an alternative scenario in some game I could not begin to understand. Just why is it that some people get hit and others escape?

A few days later I pulled into the middle lane of highway 55 and waited to cross. Cars came by very fast, again just a few feet away. I was legal, waiting in the center lane to merge, but it was not a good place to be on a bicycle. I should have anticipated this.

This could not go on. I had a talk with my inner voice. We would have to be more vigilant. We would analyze each intersection and figure out the safest time to cross. We would stay out of medians. Above all, we would never again cross on a stale green!

I started reading up on bike safety and looking for safety gear. I wanted a reflective backpack, a flag, and lights. I shopped around, and couldn’t find a reflective backpack. The best I could find was orange with a reflective strip. I couldn’t find one with a slow-mo triangle. Not on the web, not in stores. I did find a flag, one of those 6 ft jobs like on a golf course. I mounted it on the rear axle - I guess that’s how you’re supposed to do it, but I wouldn’t wage large sums of money on it. The instructions were minimal, and as usual, microscopic. On my first few trips the shaft swayed back and forth, buzzing up against the knobby rear tire. A few days later I had to remove it to get the bike in Frank’s pickup, and when I replaced it, I was a bit careless and it slanted forward. That turned out to be good because my backpack then blocked the flag from swaying into the tire.

When John saw it, he said, “Now you really look like a dork!” At least I looked like something, and wasn’t invisible anymore.

I ran across an article on bike safety in a medical reference book published by Columbia University in 1985. At that time, there were an estimated 100 million Americans - about half - who rode either bikes or motorcycles, and there were a million injuries a year. Children accounted for half of those, and 90% of the others were caused by rider error. They recommended wearing a helmet, obeying all traffic rules, and riding on the right side of the road or in a bike lane if it exists. Also stay off sidewalks, ride with traffic, never against, and don’t dart in and out of traffic.

Hmmm, Columbia University, Manhattan, darting in and out of traffic – it conjures up images of bike couriers, like Kevin Bacon in the movie Quicksilver. And I thought I was living on the edge.

VII. My hero, Edward O

Last winter I heard Edward O. Wilson speak, and I haven’t been the same person since. A native of Alabama who settled in Boston, he broke the ice by saying how nice it was to be back where people don’t talk funny and where restaurants don’t serve him grits whether he orders them or not. As a boy he liked being outdoors and reading the Boy Scout manual. Once, when fishing, he got stuck in the eye by the spine of a fish and lost vision in that eye. From that point on, he sought out animals that he could easily examine with his good eye. At the age of 13 he was the first to identify fire ants in the U.S.

He went on to become the world’s foremost expert on ants. He discovered that they communicate by chemical excretions, and coined the term “pheromone”. Ants, of course, live in colonies; and an individual can be a worker, soldier, or the queen. Each assumes the role without being trained, as if pre-programmed. In the debate over nature vs. nurture, nature clearly wins out.

Wilson went on to study social behavior throughout the animal kingdom, opening up a new field of study, sociobiology. The last chapter of his groundbreaking book on the subject sparked controversy as it dealt with humans in an evolutionary context. He was accused of reviving Social Darwinism, which held that natural selection favored certain races over others, that domination by “superior” races was the natural order. Wilson made no such claim; he merely extended the scientific study of social behavior to humans.

He was criticized by some of his closest peers. On one occasion, at a meeting of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, a protester dumped a pitcher of ice water on him as his cronies chanted, “You’re all wet, you’re all wet!” Meanwhile his books won critical acclaim and two Pulitzer prizes.

After a lifetime studying nature, Wilson is concerned about the future of life on earth. Too many species are going extinct. In the history of our planet there have been five great extinction events, each caused by catastrophes like meteor strikes and volcano eruptions. We are now in the early stages of number six, this time caused by habitat destruction associated with human activity. Despite the best efforts of field biologists, most species have not yet been identified, so we don’t even know what we’re losing.

He put it this way, “Who are we to destroy the creation?”

All of this was depressing, of course, but Wilson also mentioned that there are efforts underway to buy and set aside strategic parcels of land to preserve species. I wondered what I could do as an individual.

VIII. Walk Softly and Leave a Small Footprint

Scientists like to measure things, and have devised the “ecological footprint” as the area of land required by an individual person for food, housing, energy, transportation, goods, services, and waste disposal. To estimate my footprint, I went to a website and filled out a questionnaire about energy use, transportation, food, consumer goods, and housing. At the end of the process I got this message.

“If everyone lived like you, we would need 3.9 planets.”

I was stunned. I had given the most optimistic answers I could think of, stretching the truth at times. I flashed back to protesters smashing shop windows in Seattle a few years ago at a meeting of the World Trade Organization. One of my neighbors’ sons, a college student at that time, was concerned about consumerism and the activities of the World Bank. This kid also died his hair green and spiked it up with Elmer’s glue. Was he onto something? Another worry began to surface – now I’m taking my intellectual cues from a 20-year old with hair like Woody Woodpecker.

I read on. The ideal eco-citizen is a vegetarian who lives in an apartment, preferably without electricity, and travels on foot, bicycle, or by bus. This frugal individual eats locally grown food, conserves water and energy, composts, and recycles. At the other extreme is the typical suburbanite who lives in a climate-controlled house with a groomed lawn, owns lots of appliances, consumes food and beverages from all over the world, and operates a small fleet of motor vehicles. In other words, the lifestyle I’ve always aspired to.

I picked up some surprising tidbits. Small gasoline engines pollute worse than cars. One example that was given, and I’m not making this up, is that more pollution is generated by a lawnmower in an hour than by driving a car from Washington, DC to Atlanta. All my life I’ve been dreaming for a good excuse not to cut grass – this was perfect.

The shrimp industry was singled out as a bad actor. It is estimated that as much as 80% of what is hauled aboard shrimp trawlers is by-catch, something other than shrimp. Ecologically, farm-raised shrimp are no better; most are raised in impoundments created by destroying marshes and mangrove forests.

Guilt stricken, I examined my own lifestyle.

I began with housing. I live with my wife in a single-family house on a quarter acre lot. Someday we may move into an apartment or to my parent’s home in the country, a larger single-family house on an acre of land. When it comes to lawn care, the picture improves. As my neighbors can attest, I mow only when people complain. Cathy occasionally applies lime or fertilizer, and when I’m not around, herbicide. Not me - I’d rather apply my backside to the couch.

Then there was food consumption. I reasoned that the higher up on the food chain, the more resources consumed. So I would eat less meat and, yes, less shrimp. I would start a garden.

In late September I took a grub-hoe and chopped up a patch of red clay soil in our backyard. I planted Chinese cabbage in 5 short rows and in the next few weeks I watered and weeded. The tiny sprouts came up and leafed out nicely. I was carefully pruning and thinning when word got out to the local rabbit community. They started at one end and munched their way across, like Sherman through Georgia. A hawk began to frequent our yard but by then it was too late for my cabbage crop. One thing’s for sure, bunnies and hawks aren’t going extinct on my watch.

Then there was transportation. I was driving to work alone each day. My options were car pool, bus, motorcycle, and bike. I could drive in with my wife, who works nearby, but she works part time so I would have to find my own way home. I didn’t know of anyone else to ride with, and since the drive is short, less than 10 miles, carpooling didn’t seem worthwhile.

I tried commuting by bus once. There’s a bus route through our neighborhood that passes within a half mile of my workplace. The problem was that the bus ran on a half-hour interval. This would require precise timing, and I wasn’t sure I was up to it.

Motorcycle? As much as I would like to rumble in on a Harley Fat Boy; thank you, no. I prefer my limbs arranged as they are, and despite my best attempts at altruism, I’d prefer not to be an organ donor. Someone at work rides in on a yellow-tan touring bike. It’s a real garbage wagon, with saddlebags, instrument panel, and a windshield. It took me a while to read the model name correctly; what I thought was “Goldung” was actually “Goldwing”.

The last alternative was biking. I decided to give that a try.

IX. Summertime, and the Biking is Easy

I must have picked the perfect summer to start. In the first weeks I kept expecting to get rained on, but it didn’t happen. Each morning I had to make a go-no-go decision, and I decided that if I could get to work OK, I would go for it and take my chances on the way home. This worked surprisingly well. For three months there were afternoons when the skies threatened and there was distant thunder, but it never rained enough to amount to anything. On mornings when it was raining, I drove in.

The summer mornings were cool and humid. After work, emerging from an air-conditioned basement into the heat and humidity of a piedmont NC afternoon felt surprisingly good. I got hot at times, but there was always breeze when I was riding, and as soon as I got home I would hop in the shower or head for the pool.

One morning I agreed to meet up with a British friend, Paul, who was riding in for the first time. He would be coming from downtown and we would meet on the trail at MLK. As luck would have it, it was drizzling that morning and I decided to drive in. Paul, on the other hand, chose to bike in. He overshot his turn on the trail, and rode several miles out of the way in the rain. I felt bad; this would not have happened had I been there to meet him. Paul insisted it was no problem.

The first day I got nailed by rain was at the end of the summer. I was on Old Cornwallis when it started coming down hard. I ducked under the awning at the convenience store to wait it out. A few feet away was a young man waiting for a bus. I watched him make several forays out to the shelter of a small tree, about halfway to the bus stop. I glanced over a few times to make eye contact but he ignored me. When the bus finally came it was moving fast and never slowed down. He made a run for it but it was too late. I caught his eye as he returned.

“I can’t believe he didn’t stop”.

He glanced at me and said, “Fuck! They don’t give a fuck! You’re either there or you aren’t.”

A few minutes later the rain slacked off and I saddled up and headed out, feeling sorry for the guy.

Another time I was waiting at an intersection and a flatbed truck pulled up in the left turn lane. The driver’s window was open and he reached out and gave the finger to someone across the way. I looked for the fingeree, but didn’t see anyone.

It was getting near election time and political signs began sprouting up at intersections. You’d think people would have better sense than to put signs where they obstruct the view. Two signs appeared at Cornwallis and Alston, where the view is already partly obstructed by trees. The next time I passed, without premeditation, I stopped and pulled up both signs. Those bozos may run for office, but bikers rule the roadside.

Happily there were no political signs on the Tobacco Trail

X. Trail Trials

When the Tobacco Trail first opened I was a bit reluctant to try it. After leaving our neighborhood it went through parts of town I had never seen.

We moved to Durham 20 years ago partly because of nice things we read in publications that rate places on the basis of statistics. Raleigh-Durham ranked high in education, health care, arts, and climate; and low in cost of living and crime.

It was the crime part that was worrisome. Like many southern cities, Durham has all the ingredients for crime: low incomes, unemployment, a warm climate with lots of people outdoors, and easy access to guns and ammo. According to the 2000 census, Durham is a city of almost 200,000 residents; 46% white, 44% black, and 9% Hispanic. 15% of the population has an income below the poverty line.

Durham’s overall crime rate has decreased in recent years and is now about average compared to other southern cities the same size. However, Durham stands out in the Triangle because Raleigh, Cary, and Chapel Hill have below-average crime. Durham’s mayor recently expressed dismay that the murder rate in 2004 was at a 5-year high. A few years ago crime in Durham was mostly attributed to drugs, namely crack cocaine. Recently the problem has shifted to gangs.

There have been 2 gun-related killings in our neighborhood since we moved here. One was a clerk in a convenience store and the other was a teen-age boy who broke into a home he thought was unoccupied. The homeowner appeared with a rifle and shot at the three boys as they fled.

With these facts tucked away, it was with some trepidation that I took to the new bike trail. My first few rides on the trail were tentative, exploratory, each probing a little further than the last.

Leaving our neighborhood the trail passes through another subdivision and into an industrial park. There are a few warehouse-sized buildings, wide and low-slung with exterior walls that resemble delaminated cardboard. There are either no names on the buildings, or cryptic ones, like Neckton Research or Hydro. There are vehicles parked nearby but few signs of life otherwise. Fringing the park are storage rental facilities, new apartments, and vacant lots; some wooded, some grassy with an occasional discarded can or bottle.

Past the industrial park, a spur leads off to the right, follows Riddle Road for a couple of miles and ends at the “praying hands” cemetery on Route 70. The main trail continues through the woods behind Hillside High School, then passes a residential neighborhood - backyards with kids’ basketball goals, a semi truck cab, a large barbeque grill for roasting pigs, modular storage sheds, boats covered by weathered tarps, garden tractors, pickup trucks, and construction trailers. On the other side of the trail is a ravine carpeted with kudzu, as if someone had taken a giant sprayer and sprayed everything in sight.

During the Great Depression, the Soil Conservation Service recommended kudzu to prevent erosion, and paid farmers and CCC workers to plant it. It wasn’t until 1953 that the government stopped recommending it; the USDA categorized it as a weed in 1972. A kudzu vine can grow a foot a day in the summer, and in north Georgia it is said that you have to close your windows at night to keep it from coming in.

When I first started riding on the Tobacco Trail, I was puzzled by several places where the chain-linked fence rails were mangled, kinked like soda straws. I thought perhaps I had discovered UFO landing sites. However, recently I came across a fallen tree and newly mangled fences. So much for my extraterrestrial theory.

XI. From Blackwell Street to Black Wall Street

After Hillside a spur splits off to NC Central University. The school was founded in the early 1900s by James Shepard, a young black man from Raleigh who selected Durham as the site for a school to train ministers. At that time there was a flourishing black business section in what is now the downtown loop. There were groceries, barbershops, butchers, fishmongers, drugstores, a shoe store, a haberdashery, and an undertaker. It was the home of Merchants and Farmers bank and the largest black-owned insurance company in the U.S., North Carolina Mutual Life. Booker T. Washington called Durham “The City of Negro Enterprise” and black newspapers called it the “capital of the black middle class”. Parrish Street was known as Black Wall Street.

Starting a college entailed raising money and incurring debt. There’s a tale of Shepard returning to Durham by train and disembarking one stop early to avoid creditors waiting downtown at Union Station. In 1915 the state of North Carolina stepped in and made Shepard’s school the first publicly supported, black liberal arts college in the U.S.

Where the Tobacco Trail branches to NC Central, there’s a historical marker. Not for Shepard – his marker is several miles away - but for Blind Boy Fuller, a 1930s jazz blues vocalist who grew up in Durham. Further along is Fayetteville Street, a busy place with locals milling about and lots of phone and power cables overhead. On the left is a one-story concrete block complex housing a beauty shop, a convenience store, and a peluqueria, which, judging by the sign - scissors and candy cane striped pole - is a barbershop. Across the street is a grim 3-story brick apartment building with a flat roof that looks as if the builders forgot to top it off. On the other side of the trail are grassy lots, trees, homes, and a pre-school. This is as far as I got on my first trip.

On my second trip I made it one street farther, to Otis Street. Most of the small homes in this neighborhood are well kept, but one house backing up to the trail has junk cars in the backyard. I turned around here.

On my third trip I made it all the way downtown. Past Otis Street there’s a row of 2-story homes on the left with screen porches and neat backyards. Then there’s a short stretch carved through a hill, covered with lush mats of kudzu on both sides - quite pretty, actually.

Next the trail passes over South Roxboro and continues on to Forest Hills.

XII. Trail Magic

On the next trip my neighbor, Frank, came along. He grew up in Durham and has been a middle school guidance counselor for almost 30 years. Unbeknownst to me, he had been riding the trail regularly. On this trip, he took me for a tour of Forest Hills.

Since the1920s when it was developed, Forest Hills has been one of the ritziest neighborhoods in Durham. The focal point of the neighborhood is the former country club, now a city park, where tall oaks line the streets and shade spacious, grassy, lawns. A stream runs through the center of what was once a 9-hole golf course with a swimming pool, tennis courts, and a clubhouse. Along University Drive are homes designed by architects in Colonial, Tudor, and English Cottage styles.

In recent years the neighborhood has lost some of its luster as Durham’s elite have gravitated further south and west. At the time of our ride a Forest Hills resident was in the news, accused of murdering his wife. There were no witnesses, no murder weapon, and no confession, but there was too much blood and gore for police to dismiss as an accident. The accused, Mike Peterson, was a minor celebrity who had written novels about the Vietnam War and, more recently, newspaper articles critical of city hall. Peterson had twice run for mayor, unsuccessfully. The case was televised and covered widely by the press. Prosecutors presented evidence of a similar death in Peterson’s past. In the end the jury decided to convict.

After Forest Hills the trail passes a mixed area with offices, apartments, and a strip mall. A bridge over Morehead Street leads to the trailhead at the Durham Freeway, where Blackwell Street, named for tobacco entrepreneur W.T. Blackwell, meets Jackie Robinson Street at the new Ballpark.

I once told a former Duke student about getting lost in downtown Durham. Her response was, “You haven’t been to downtown Durham if you haven’t been lost.” At the heart of Durham’s downtown is a one-way loop drive, which effectively isolates the area from the rest of the city. Within the loop are stores, restaurants, the courthouse, the civic center, a conference center, a high-rise bank, a new art center, and the renovated Carolina Theatre; but there is little activity on the streets. A homeless shelter is nearby and its residents mill about.

The most dominant features of the landscape are cavernous brick buildings once used as warehouses and factories, many with ornate brick archways, cornices, and chimneys. Some have been converted into offices, shops, and restaurants. The Brodie Duke Warehouse, built in 1878, has walls 3 feet thick at the base. The walls were recently cleaned by sandblasting with a mix of baking powder and crushed walnut shells. The end result can be quite handsome. Cathy and I recently drove by Brightleaf Square and admired the brickwork in the morning sun, the color of fresh-cut watermelon.

XIII. The Jewel of the New South

It never ceases to amaze me the extent to which tobacco shaped American history. In the 17^th century, it was the crop that made the Virginia colony a successful economic venture. Two hundred years later it was the industry that transformed Durham from a sleepy railroad stop into a prosperous factory town.