I wake up at 5, shocked that morning has arrived with such urgency. I fumble around for my cell phone which doubles as my alarm clock in a desire to simplify my life. I hit the snooze button (yes, cell phone alarm clocks have those, too), not once, but at least twice. A soft voice in my head urges me on; be out the door by 5:30. Most days, I listen to this gentle prodding and ungracefully throw the blankets to the side where they sit in beige mounds until I bury myself in them again at night. I have to plan ahead: backpack, work clothes, workout clothes, extra socks, makeup, Treo, lunch, layers and more layers. I hope it hasn’t gotten too cold overnight and that there is a 0% chance of precipitation- is that possible? After adding more layers than a good lasagna, I grab my pack and head downstairs where my sleek, silvery bike waits anxiously.

I unlock her and begin to press buttons lighting my front and back. Between the lights and the geek reflectors remaining on my wheels, I hope the cars will see me as I ride the streets of Boston in the morning darkness. I round the corner onto Mass. Ave (because we never say the full name here) and begin to chase the No. 1 bus. I usually pass it first as it is picking up the morning commuters. I slide by, smiling, feeling the ultimate sense of freedom that comes from riding a bike through the city and knowing I will arrive in half the time that it will take the passengers to reach their final destinations. I weave around the potholes on the nearly deserted early morning streets and listen for the heavy breathing of the bus as it preys upon my neck like a hungry lover. It passes me and pulls over at another stop. I ride safely through the red lights and gain distance, my goal is to get over the bridge and into Boston before the bus passes me again.

I reach the bridge and a gust of wind hits me, nearly knocking me off my single speed superstar. I pedal hard and the cold wind begins to make me tear. I vow to create an eyeball warmer for cyclists in my next lifetime. While I am on the bridge, I take in the Boston skyline with the Prudential tower disappearing into the low-lying clouds, the Zakim Bridge majestically rising in the distance to my left, and the glowing Citgo sign to my right. I manage to make it across Boylston Street before I hear the bus behind me. I concentrate on avoiding the pock marks and staying as close to the right as possible. This is where the game of leap frog begins. He stops at Symphony, I pass. He passes at Northeastern. I maneuver a red light to get ahead, my eyes playing ping pong tracking the cars entering the intersection. I try to make it to the medical center before he catches me again. I cut left and have the road to myself. I revel in my independence and marvel at my own strength for just a few moments before saying a quick prayer that my sweaty clothes will dry before I have to play another game of cat and mouse with the No. 1 on the way home.

(I wrote this in my head on my way to work one cold winter morning a few months ago and thought you might enjoy it!)