Commuting by bicycle from West Seattle; I told you so

View from the Saddle

Smugness and I told you so aren’t exactly conversation starters. It is, however, hard to not be a little smug and to remind you that I told you so when I consider the state you must be in on the mornings that you commute by car from West Seattle to points east of Harbor Island. I’m referring primarily to those of you who to go over the low bridge and across Harbor Island, not that the high bridge is any improvement. Ugly choice, that. Still, even knowing how smug and I told you soish this makes me appear, these are two characteristics that applied to me on a recent morning’s bicycle commute.

There is nothing like a bike ride from North Admiral and along the Harbor Ave. bike trail in the early morning when the air is fresh and seasoned with salt. I recently rode that route destined for downtown Seattle. The sun shone, a light breeze came from the south, and all was right in my world. I even thought of getting onto the Water Taxi as it came in for its eight o’clock sailing, but I thought better of it at the last minute. It’s fortunate that I did because my smugness would have been set aside for some other more acceptable characteristic: euphoria comes to mind.

As you may already know, the Harbor Ave. bike trail gets a bit more challenging and a lot less aesthetically pleasing as it nears Spokane St. Business traffic slows the pace, a ninety degree turn to the left creates that tension necessary to every good story, and the West Seattle high bridge creates a troll atmosphere. On this day there were no trolls, but there was a scene of despair waiting.

I rode to the junction of Spokane, West Marginal, and Delridge (I refer to this as spaghetti junction. (Can you imagine the challenge faced by the signal engineer who timed the lights? Hats off to her or him.) Here, I wait for the light to change, an endless wait. It’s during this wait that I noticed the horror story unfolding around me. There were cars and trucks backed up on Spokane and West Marginal. There was a line of mostly trucks on Spokane waiting to get across the low bridge, the bridge I was going to cross on the uncongested bike path. After the light changed for me, (Just because you once saw a bicyclist run a light doesn’t mean that all bicyclist do so.) I rode onto the low bridge, past the long line of cars and trucks. These are cars and trucks that were going places that would make the engines of commerce run.

The bike path on the south side of the low bridge is wide and smooth. It’s not impeded by cars and trucks stopped by whatever stops cars and trucks. The view over the south rail is even great. Two marinas where boats are moored in the Duwamish take the edge off the industrial area on the north side. There are days when I stop for an opened bridge and watch a barge filled with the stuff that makes Alaska work pass below. Looking north I saw the line of stopped trucks and cars. They weren’t moving while I cranked along at sixteen or so miles per hour. I went under the east end of the low bridge. The fragrance of wild roses accompanied me to a road crossing where trucks go onto one of the island’s terminals. The trucks always seem to stop for me. I pedal across a bridge from which anglers drop their lines. I looked to my right and Spokane St. where cars and trucks remained stopped. They hadn’t moved since I left spaghetti junction.

There were a half dozen or so fellow bikers on the path on this morning. We all moved along at our own pace. Some had to be at work at a given time. Some, like me, had a coffee appointment where a friend and I discuss our latest books, the state of the world and life in general.

I reached East Marginal and turn north where I saw another long line of mostly trucks going both north and south. They weren’t, however, going. I and my fellow bikers were going. We passed by stopped trucks and cars whose drivers had to be a little concerned that we on our less than impressive means of transport were getting about our business while they were going no where.

As we go into tunnel construction, things can only get worse. Think about me and the others who get to their destinations by bicycle when you’re stopped in the parking lot we call the morning commute. Think about how you might feel pedaling past this parking lot. Think about the smug and I told you so feeling you might have.

Ride safe after you start commuting by bicycle.