Living about twenty seconds from the Beach Bike Path, I've only recently begun to ride my bike for neighborhood errands. When the yoga studio around the corner moved its classes to Fred Segals in Santa Monica, my two minute walk to class was replaced by a fifteen minute drive. This was not progress.
But the exercise gods work in mysterious ways. Weeks ago, while I dutifully worked through my asanas, my car was smacked in the rear by a Fred Segal patron (or at least parking lot user) who did not even stop to write an apologizing note. Deciding (in an unlikely moment of car vanity) that I needed a new bumper, I was suddenly car-less for a week. Turns out that biking to yoga, if I don't drift into bike-dreaming, is almost as fast as driving and infinitely more enjoyable.
I was thus, more or less ready, with re-newed biking confidence, to consider biking to Disney Hall to buy a senior rush ticket to Beethoven's Missa Solemnis. This madness was the result of really wanting to hear the Beethoven, coupled with concern that downtown might be difficult to negotiate with a car as it was the day of the fourth Ciclavia, when many streets were closed to automotive traffic.
A little internet research led me to a group ride, leaving from Bikerowave, a bike repair collective on Venice Boulevard. It was not nearly as difficult as anticipated. The group was neither too fast nor too slow, the route was not too hilly, (I never had to stop and walk), and before I knew it, we were sailing through Hancock Park, joining thousands of other bikers biking past Lafayette Park, MacArthur Park, Langer's, and on to downtown (the same route I'd driven with Dan the day before). As verification, here's a video , with a four second rear view of me, dressed as above, black helmet, black pants, taupe shirt, just before the one minute mark -- I don't look like the spiffy biker of my imagination--but there it is.
I left the group to head towards Disney Hall, waited for the box office to open, where for twenty dollars, the computer randomly presented me one of the best seats in the house. Hoping for a pre-concert snack, I roamed a bit through car-free downtown and Little Tokyo, but my morning peanut butter and jelly sandwich, augmented by the bag of sun chips I'd found in the cupboard seemed to do the lunch trick. All lunch spots and trucks were so jammed, I postponed eating, locked my bike to a very lonely bike rack under the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion and proceeded to the concert. Oh--I was obnoxiously pleased with myself. As I showed my ticket to the usher, he uttered his obligatory line, "You know, there will be no intermission in the program," to which I had to respond. "Thank you, do you know that I biked here from Venice Beach?"
If possible, the concert was more exhilarating than the bike ride. Ciclavia was over. The streets had been returned to the vehicles. I had thought I might take the bus home, but instead biked myself through Koreatown to the beginnings of the bike lane on Venice (just west of Crenshaw). The wind was now against me, the air was cooler and this time I was riding alone, but it still was a thrill of sorts. Lisa had called at some point and when I returned her call post-concert, she invited me to stop for dinner on my way home. Nonetheless, hunger struck somewhere around la Brea, just as a taco truck was opening in a gas station, providing just the snack I needed to propel me back to Venice.
But the exercise gods work in mysterious ways. Weeks ago, while I dutifully worked through my asanas, my car was smacked in the rear by a Fred Segal patron (or at least parking lot user) who did not even stop to write an apologizing note. Deciding (in an unlikely moment of car vanity) that I needed a new bumper, I was suddenly car-less for a week. Turns out that biking to yoga, if I don't drift into bike-dreaming, is almost as fast as driving and infinitely more enjoyable.
I was thus, more or less ready, with re-newed biking confidence, to consider biking to Disney Hall to buy a senior rush ticket to Beethoven's Missa Solemnis. This madness was the result of really wanting to hear the Beethoven, coupled with concern that downtown might be difficult to negotiate with a car as it was the day of the fourth Ciclavia, when many streets were closed to automotive traffic.
Every part of this plan was cause for concern (or at least a touch of anxiety). Could I manage the ride? What about traffic? How long would any of it take? Would there be tickets? What would I eat? What in my limited wardrobe would work for both biking and concert? Could I find anyone to accompany me--that would be someone at least 65 (eligible for senior rush)--though a student would also fit the bill--and willing to bike at least fifteen miles (there was always the possibility of returning by bus--though it did seem daunting to figure out how to get my bike attached to the front (does someone do it for you--the driver? Would the other passengers get annoyed?
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| Getting ready to buy senior rush ticket (anonymous, 2012) |
I left the group to head towards Disney Hall, waited for the box office to open, where for twenty dollars, the computer randomly presented me one of the best seats in the house. Hoping for a pre-concert snack, I roamed a bit through car-free downtown and Little Tokyo, but my morning peanut butter and jelly sandwich, augmented by the bag of sun chips I'd found in the cupboard seemed to do the lunch trick. All lunch spots and trucks were so jammed, I postponed eating, locked my bike to a very lonely bike rack under the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion and proceeded to the concert. Oh--I was obnoxiously pleased with myself. As I showed my ticket to the usher, he uttered his obligatory line, "You know, there will be no intermission in the program," to which I had to respond. "Thank you, do you know that I biked here from Venice Beach?"
If possible, the concert was more exhilarating than the bike ride. Ciclavia was over. The streets had been returned to the vehicles. I had thought I might take the bus home, but instead biked myself through Koreatown to the beginnings of the bike lane on Venice (just west of Crenshaw). The wind was now against me, the air was cooler and this time I was riding alone, but it still was a thrill of sorts. Lisa had called at some point and when I returned her call post-concert, she invited me to stop for dinner on my way home. Nonetheless, hunger struck somewhere around la Brea, just as a taco truck was opening in a gas station, providing just the snack I needed to propel me back to Venice.
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