Ride Home 4/4: Marcus Camby, M.D.

Wednesday evening and I rode home in a suit. A black suit and a green tie and bike shoes. Was it cycle chic? [shrugging]. Was it kind of uncomfortable and a little bit hot? Yeah, I guess. Was I greeted at the door with "um, do you realize how expensive dry cleaning is?" Pretty much. In conclusion, it's not really a great idea to ride home in a suit when you can ride home in other clothes, clothes which rested in my bag beneath a glass container which previously held pesto covered spaghetti, at least seven copies of the Washington City Paper, a u-lock and a chocolate croissant that was given to me late in the day by a former coworker. It looked like this:

I used to get really anxious about carrying a lot of stuff in my bag, thinking that the weight would dramatically impact my ride home. I don't worry as much any more, mostly because I realize now that carrying a lot of stuff doesn't really matter. You might just go a little slower, but in all likelihood, it mostly won't matter. You can't beat the system. It takes how long it takes. I watch people on bikes and in cars and on foot trying to short circuit it every single day, but there's really only so much you can do. Run one red light and you'll hit the next. Speed, but then you'll get stuck behind someone trying to parallel park. Try to turn right on red and you can't complete it because someone's crossing the street. I don't know if bike commuting has made me anything but resigned to the fact that all trips regress to a mean and there's nothing to get too stressed over.
I've never transported a whole pizza by bicycle. This is a gap in my resume.
I took Q, but then I took 15th for some reason and it was slow and predictable and I passed many people who looked earnest and dedicated to the enterprise of biking home.  The man in front of me spun a low gear at a high rate and he looked especially earnest. He had a brocaded leather belt.
I love convertibles (cars, not sofas), mostly because I can listen to the blue tooth conversations of the persons inside. Some guy in a red Mercedes really, really, really loved someone, but I don't know if it was eros or agape. And someone else couldn't talk right now. Thus concludes the first annual, "what people were talking about while driving" TFTS gimmick.
Man, there are a lot of tourists here. Spend liberally.
On Penn, I wound up behind two other bicyclists, both of whom were on singlespeeds, who found the need to talk to each other when stopped at a red light, even though they were perfect strangers. I didn't know which one was Cousin Larry. Anyway, it makes me happy that DC is the kind of place were two bicycling strangers can and do still talk to each other for no apparent reason. What a friendly, genteel town. And if bicyclists, the surliest of the bunch, can do it, maybe that means there's hope for everyone. So, next time your stuck in Beltway traffic, go for it and let me know what happens. (Disclaimer: not liable for anything that happens)
I bounded up the Hill and briskly made my way home and really appreciated the warmth and the night and the other bicyclists and the lack of annoyances and the ample space and the trees and the temperatures and the whole thing.