With rare exceptions, humans are not a graceful species. For every Kobe Bryant or Lionel Messi, there are a few million of us striving for mere competence in our athletic endeavors. Artistry in motion, if you will, is unequivocally beyond the physical abilities of all but the supremely gifted. Though repetition of any motion will eventually lead to a certain unthinking ease, I daresay few of us ever feel the way an All-Star point guard or an elite dancer looks: as though they are channeling a divine energy that permeates and unconsciously directs each minute movement, resulting in a sublime synchronization of the body’s complex machinery.

There is, of course, the possibility that not even Michael Jordan feels the way Michael Jordan looks. And undoubtedly his elegance on the court was enabled by countless hours of what one can only imagine were really brutal workouts. But who among us has observed his (or Michelle Kwan’s, or Roger Federer’s, or Pele’s, or Venus Williams’, or Ken Griffey Jr.’s) athletic feats and never felt a corresponding desire to experience some semblance of his physical grace, even transcendence?

It might seem counter-intuitive to suggest, as I’m about to, that the mechanical mediation of a bicycle can help us achieve this sensation of gracefulness. But if you think about the experience of riding up and over a hill, which begins with the surging rhythm of the climb and ends in a liberated downward flight, the suggestion might not seem so farfetched.

At its core, what’s attractive about attaining the kinetic fluidity of an athlete is the fantasy that one could somehow transcend his or her physical limitations. That our clumsy feet, gawky arms, and insufficiently flexible joints would obey the instructions of our imagination, and perform exactly as we want them to. On the openness of a soccer field or basketball court, there are so many physical possibilities that most of us are destined, seemingly, to underachieve. But within the confines of a bicycle, fulfilling our aims is eminently possible. Consider that the only real difference between the way you and Lance Armstrong ride a bike is that he does so with far more speed and endurance—the physical mechanics are essentially the same. Professional bikers might employ more efficient postures, but the overall simplicity of pedaling allows one to focus on the feeling, rather than the process. And there is so much to feel.

When I tell people that I regularly ride up to Grizzly Peak Blvd., which traces a ridge about 1500 feet above downtown Berkeley, many react with surprise. I suppose it strikes them as a difficult and painful endeavor, and to some extent it is. But what people who haven’t done it don’t realize is that the winding ascent up Euclid Avenue imposes a rhythm that, if embraced, does much to alleviate the flaring pain in your legs.

The rising and falling of my torso corresponds to the circular motion of my hips, and after the initial discomfort I begin to drift into a state akin to conscious hypnosis. Because the neurons that command my legs to push the pedals that turn the wheels fire so quickly, I begin to forget my legs altogether. It takes little imagination to maintain the sensory illusion that my neurological wiring has been re-routed to bypass my legs entirely and directly access the wheels, which now seem as responsive to my mind as the movement of my pinky finger.

The superlative pleasure of this state seems to lie precisely in the feeling of having shed some of my corporeal constraints—of having transcended them. Whereas the pounding of feet on pavement, and the uncertainty of stride, can often make running feel cumbersome and not entirely natural, the smooth spinning of my new rubber appendages grants me a sudden grace. Each wheel rolls seamlessly over the asphalt, creating a continuous sequence of revolutions that are nothing short of perfect.

What follows—the triumph at the top of the hill and the breakneck descent, during which my heart rises joyfully in me chest—are further exercises in transcendence. There are infinite destinations for the ambitious cyclist; paramount among them is this state of physical liberty, of which I never tire.

We cyclists must face crucial decision points during dire times such as these. Is it worth the risk to slovenly attempt a ride home while whiskey and beer react with curdling Irish Crème in your stomach? Or would a severe crick in your neck from passing out on your friend’s linoleum kitchen floor prove to have saved you from the possible reprimanding of an authority figure, or even the disastrous possibility of a brief encounter with an equally drunk person who decided their auto would get them home this night no matter what may present itself in their way, including you and your bicycle?

Well, let’s consider the consequences. I had heard in the past that being caught riding your bike while inebriated is comparable to a DUI, and may even affect the status of your driver’s license. With minimal internet research, I am relieved to report that in the state of California this is false. According to California Civil Code 21200.5, the maximum penalty is a fine of merely two hundred fifty dollars. However, the risks you are taking to body and mind, especially considering the other sort of people I mentioned above that presume their drunken automobiling shall cause no harm, may be exponentially greater. One must seriously consider their bicycle route before venturing out on a cold, dark night when so many bacchanalian herds are noctivaganting the roads.

From personal drunk biking experience, I recommend that you save yourself from trouble and ask your friends if it’s ok to stay the night. No matter how horrible your head may feel the next morning, it certainly beats cashing out two hundred fifty shekels, or worse.

Sláinte!

The learning process was set against the beautiful backdrop of Lake Tahoe and the surrounding alpine environment. Perhaps the grace of this natural setting encouraged my enthusiasm through the inevitable artless stages involved in harnessing enough balance to keep my rubber side down. There was a specific instance of blunder that stands out in my memory still to this day. I lumbered sideways on my pedals and collided with the hot asphalt of the road, donating some fresh blood to the ancient water systems flowing around me. As I lay with my head comfortably cuddled within the cheap yet effective foam composite helmet decked out in flamboyantly early 90’s shades of neon green and hot pink, I became aware of an oasislike phenomenon. The ground ahead appeared to be reflecting the cars, trees, and houses that lied just beyond. “Uh-oh,” I thought, “I may have really knocked something loose this time.” The adult relatives I relayed my experienced to were far from reassuring that this was a natural mirage caused by the heat, and instead denied knowledge of such phenomena, leaving me to contemplate my temporary sanity. Luckily, through careful repeated attempts at recreating the visualization, I eventually accepted that it was a normal occurrence and the adults were the crazy ones, naturally.

Uncle Jim remained the solid source of inspiration through these first troubling trials. After a mere two days of training, he suggested and organized a ride with myself and his two sons. We set out along the bicycle path that follows the meandering of the Truckee River. My young inexperienced thighs burned as I struggled up what seemed to be gargantuan slopes. I was forced to dismount and walk up a few of these slight inclines, to the dismay of my older, more cycle-seasoned cousins, but not before giving an honest effort. At the day’s end, we returned triumphantly to the cabin to share our victorious tale with rest of the family awaiting us.

I continued to hone my cycling skills throughout primary school, even being so bold as to acquire an attachable radio for my handlebars, resulting in my neighbors being subjected to attempted comprehension of the latest hot jams of the early days of 106.1 KMEL, or antipodally, the golden oldies of KFRC. I would often ride around the block, most likely singing along with Snoop Dogg or The Temptations, depending on my riding mood.

As I grew and became more comfortable and familiar with taking public transportation, I picked up my bike less frequently. Throughout middle school and high school, I barely ever rode. Of course in high school the biggest event that it seemed would ever occur in this lifetime would be the acquisition of one’s driver’s license, and I was certainly not going to be the odd man out. When I finally finished my free public education and was soon turbulently subjugated to the cruel circumstances of the “real world,” the benefits of trading in my gas and brake pedals for a pair of cycle pedals became all too apparent. I have not looked back since.

We all must start somewhere. And even when we stray, it is never too late to get off, push up the hill, and hop back on.

Thanks in part to the merciless rise of gas prices and the gradual re-urbanization of America (which means more and more people are seeking to live nearer their place of work), biking is becoming an increasingly popular method of daily commute. Here in the Bay Area, city governments and local advocacy groups are focused on augmenting the urban infrastructure—with bike lanes, bike racks, and dedicated spaces on public transportation—to encourage workers in all fields and professions to forego their cars and pedal to work. The more optimistic among us can’t help but envision a day when the streets of San Francisco or Oakland resemble, if not the brimming bike highways of Beijing, then the efficient dual lanes of Dutch cities, where bikers and drivers co-exist in relative harmony and with equal rights to the road.

This is clearly a good thing. But confining your cycling to the daily commute would mean grossly underutilizing your bike’s potential to bring you far greater rewards than saved gas money. Your bike is not only an excellent companion in the worthy pursuit of novelty and adventure, but a peerless facilitator of exploration. There is any number of reasons for this. Some are more general: the thrill of feeling the wind in your face; the way riding, unlike driving, subjects you to the varying assaults and caresses of the elements; the blurred line between terror and ecstasy one experiences on the downslope of a steep hill; the ease with which you can stop and dismount, in order to further explore. There are also more personal reasons—this list grows longer with every ride. One of mine is a canyon, cut by a stream and teeming with primeval vegetation, which lies hidden in the foothills of East Oakland. I recently discovered it—unexpectedly, during the course of a meandering bike ride—and though I am not the first to do so, the tranquility of the place on  a Sunday afternoon suggested that I am far from the last (and in the interest maintaining this seclusion, I won’t divulge its name).

The creek purls over stones and geometric hunks of concrete, ostensibly laid to help direct the flow downward, where it eventually flows into the bay. But neither the concrete, nor the graffiti that decorates it, can detract from the sense of rapture that I feel there—that I felt there, during my first afternoon spent in its lush cradle. Crossing a public park full of raucous children and their parents, I spied a dirt trail leading into the trees. In following it I came to a place where huge Bay Laurels leaned over the creek, creating the illusion of a green, sheltering tunnel. Vines hung from the tops of the trees nearly to the ground, and I was reminded immediately of Tarzan’s jungle; I was shocked to find that they held my weight, though I dared not attempt to swing across the rocky creek. I was not far from help, should I need it, and civilization, and yet I felt far removed from the city in which I had only moments before been immersed. The trail eventually disappeared, leaving me to continue onward by hiking in the streambed with my bike over my shoulder. I picked my way over the rocks and pools, stopping frequently to look around in awe at this strange and enchanting place I had not been looking for.

There are many such places to discover, each singular in its composition and mood. They are all around us, even in the densest cityscape, for some are comprised of concrete, stairwells, and rooftops, rather than damp earth and trees. One has only to give themselves the opportunity to stumble upon them; a bike ride, undertaken with an open mind and no pre-determined route, is the best method I’ve found.

So I urge you, continue to ride your bike to work—and on your way home, take a different route. You have no idea what you might find.

I would be elevating nearly 2000 feet in 7 miles of riding. I began quietly preparing myself mentally for a day which would fully test me physically. The first jump in that graph, right before the mile 1 marker, looks so nice and innocent. Au contraire, it was truly excruciating.

I parked my car at the Muir Beach overlook, pulled out my bike, and hopped on. I rode up Highway 1 for half a mile before cutting off of the asphalt onto the Coast View trail. As I struggled up the steep slope, giant Turkey Vultures ominously circled above. I supposed this was the portion of the trail where they judge whether or not they would be feasting on some lean cyclist meat that day. I paused several times for rest on the way up. Once I had caught my breath and slightly slowed my heart rate, I was able to examine the surroundings and absorb the beauty of it all. I was on a really cool singletrack rising above the highway with the vast Pacific lying peacefully to the west. San Francisco, the Bay Bridge, and Sutro Tower were visible through the morning haze to the south. I was suddenly glad it was not as sunny a day I had hoped for, for my pores were already open and steadily releasing cool, salty sweat.

It was becoming clear to me that this would be the most extreme mountain biking experience I had ever had. I am talking about the nitty gritty of the sport: teeth gritting, legs burning with lactic acid, blasting out snot rockets and not caring when they landed on my shoulder. I strove on, completely disregarding the proper breath technique of inhaling through my nostrils and instead taking in full, deep mouth breaths because “Damnit, I need oxygen!”

As I ascended through the grasslands, I approached a cool forest area. This is the type of terrain I love: moss-covered trees hanging low above the fern-lined trail. The arboreal taste of the cool air as the sun shone through breaks in the branches created an ultimate ambiance of peace.

There was still much more to see. A pretty decent portion of the ride involved biking up on a paved road, naturally filled with road cyclists. I soon returned to dirt, and before long was forging creeks, mud puddles splashing up in my face, and traversing dry creek beds filled with mini boulders. When I stopped to hydrate, it did not matter that my water container was lined with specks of mud, the water tasted amazing.

I reached the summit where the views were spectacular. Here, the curve of the planet became apparent. Bolinas Bay brightly reflected the sun’s rays, for the clouds had now cleared and the blue sky seemed eternal.

I began my descent. There were times when the rough ground was moving so fast beneath my tires that the handlebars shook violently, causing my white-knuckled hands to become numb. As the air became thicker with oxygen, every individual cilia lining my lungs and rejuvenated blood cell thanked me for the refreshment. Directly above the highway I stopped one last time to soak in the experience, inadvertently letting out a long and loud “Woo!”

Check out pictures from this ride here.

It wasn’t until we arrived at the Coliseum BART station, and exuberant shouts of “Bike party!” bounded in through the open doors, that the girl sitting nearest us realized we hadn’t been joking. “Wait, there’s really a bike party?” “Of course,” I said, waiting as seven or eight other bikers exited our car ahead of me, spilling out onto a platform already jammed with congeries of raggedy twenty- to thirty-somethings and their two-wheeled counterparts. Her incredulity morphed visibly into disappointment, presumably at having somehow missed the memo. But before I could offer any words of consolation, the threat of imprisonment by those merciless automatic doors (which I once witnessed forcibly separate a shaken tourist from his luggage) spurred my own hurried exit from the train.

In retrospect, her reaction was appropriate, whoever she was. I feel vicariously disappointed for her and anyone else that wasn’t there on Friday night, but only mildly, since the next opportunity to ride with the East Bay Bike Party is less than a month away.

Though its route changes monthly, each ride begins with the steady, murmurous congregation of riders in a pre-determined public space—in this case, the east parking lot at Coliseum BART. My friends and I chatted, happily contributing to the rising decibel level of the expanding throng. The low clouds were dense with moisture, but, except for a faint mist, they generously withheld it. The possibility of rain did little to deter local hipsters, bike enthusiasts, daredevils, and various others clad in colorful leggings and recycled N’Sync t-shirts (this month’s party was 90’s-themed), who turned out to the estimated tune of 550 participants.

A few minutes after 7:30—the scheduled departure time—a young woman clambered atop the concrete base of a lamppost and announced, via bullhorn, that the ride would soon begin. She then asked all first-timers to raise their hands (there were surprisingly few of us), before she digressing into an acapella rendition of the Fresh Prince of Bel Air rap. We would’ve followed anyone at that point; a bullhorn and set of instructions amounted to sterling credentials.

It turned out to be a pretty well-organized event. Though the route comprised a simple rectangle (up 69^th Ave. to Bancroft, south on Juana to San Leandro Boulevard and back up), each turn was nevertheless monitored by someone with an audible knowledge of the route. The first leg took us through a quintessential East Oakland neighborhood: narrow streets lined with small, single-family homes, many of them fenced off from the sidewalk and inhabited—as far as we could see—by Mexican and African-American families. I was towards the back of the pack (at least I think I was—everyone except the leaders and stragglers must have felt that they were smack in the middle), so by the time I passed, residents had been given time to come out and investigate all the commotion. I saw curious faces in the windows and groups of observers on front porches. Most wore looks of bemusement. Some shouted questions or support. No one jeered, though I had half-expected someone to take offense at our gleefully disruptive presence. In addition to the unceasing shouts of “Bike Party!”, our convoy saturated the cool air with possibly excessive amounts pop music. At least two riders towed big speakers, which subjected observers to an unexpected lesson in the Doppler Effect.

Invigorated by the chilly apparent wind, spirits were high when we reached the first of two stopping points, a small park off Bancroft Ave., next to a liquor store (purely coincidental). Though we had recently passed a small sidewalk memorial comprised of candles, flowers, and other elegiac miscellany—a reminder that this was indeed a dangerous neighborhood—the mood was anything but grim. Being in unfamiliar territory seemed to galvanize us and amplify our collective ebullience. Not to mention, it gave us all a lot to talk about.

After another stopover, this one in a vast parking lot in downtown San Leandro (here we were joined on the fringes by members of the San Leandro Police Department, which appeared to have coordinated with the leadership of EBBP), the band of merry bikers turned back towards Oakland, where the ride concluded in an afterparty at the industrial artspace known as NIMBY. I locked my bike to an abstract iron sculpture, sensing that, although one party was just beginning, the better one had ended.

So early Sunday I hopped on my bicycle and rode the ten miles to the Point. Along the way I noticed that San Pablo Avenue has undergone a transformation that I had not before noticed. From the intersection of San Pablo Dam Road and the Avenue towards Hilltop, there is now no car parking allowed on the Avenue, and instead a designated bicycle lane. I was really happy to find this, especially since I was planning on riding on this street whether or not a lane was present.

The route then led me right by the notorious Parchester Village, which literally sits across the tracks. Just past PV, I found myself at an open expanse of some awesome marsh lands and a breathtaking view of the bay, with Mt. Tamalpais commanding the sky in the distance, and the Chevron refinery reminiscent of Mordor to the left. I had reached the entrance to the Point. There is a fee for parking your car in the lot, as well as one for bringing a dog into the park, but there is no cost to ride your bike all the way there.

The Point offers some really fun, easy riding. There was a nice single-track along the edge of a cliff over the bay, wide paths through massive Eucalyptus groves, and cool trails along the border of protected wetlands. I rode out to the end of the Pt. Pinole Pier, passing along the way some fisherman admiring their freshly caught bass. From the end, I could see a massive plume of black smoke rising from across the water. Turns out it was a Naval building on fire at Mare Island. My attention then focused on a large Pelican gliding gracefully through the air, moments before diving headlong into the water and creating a tremendous splash.

I continued back along the path and found a sunny place to rest. Although the area is fairly populated with people walking dogs or out enjoying a run, and a few fellow cyclists, there are more than enough places to find some quiet seclusion. As I stood to soak up some much needed Vitamin D, I took notice of the incredible amount of activity around me within the microcosm. Wolf spiders scurried about, racing past sauntering roly polies. Mice would jet from their hiding spot under the cover of marsh grass to grab an unsuspecting bug, and then disappear just as quickly to enjoy their catch. Hummingbirds and many numerous colorful small birds freely defied gravity, bolting through the sky above me. Bees gently buzzed around my legs. I breathed deep the refreshing smell of eucalyptus, cooling my hot breath. And in the middle of this serene moment, I heard the call of a Red Tail Hawk high above, piercing the heavens.

You can check out the other pictures I took here.

As I have observed before, people tend to get power-happy when they are behind a steering wheel. They seem to regard bicyclists as pests that need to shoo out of the way. It is going to be an arduous task to create harmony between bikers and drivers. This will prove to be especially difficult if the local police do not enforce laws to increase cyclist safety. And an even worse common practice is police punishing bikers who are trying hard to follow rules in an unforgiving environment. The guy in this video demonstrates how impractical some cycling laws are when applied to real world situations:

As we can gather from the above video, it takes the cooperation of everyone on the road to keep the lanes clear for cyclists. And, far too often, this cooperation is not there. I understand the need for taxis to pull over in order to pick up riders for their fare, but in doing so and blocking the bike lanes, havoc easily ensues. This is a major problem in big metropolises and with our current design of bike lanes, it will only further perpetuate.

On that summer day, we ended up getting to the lake without incident and enjoyed a magnificent sunset. Once the evening ensued, we caught a safe ride home with a friend so we didn’t have to worry about night riding through the town.

On my way home from school one evening, I saw a cop car driving ahead along my normal route. So I figured to completely avoid the risk a confrontation, I would take the long way home. I was riding along on a busy street with almost no room between the cars and the curb. I decided to hop onto the sidewalk; there were no pedestrians present so it should not have been an issue. However, ahead on the sidewalk up a slight slope, I saw a dude riding his bike down towards me. I looked over my left shoulder for an instant to make sure I had room to drop back into the street and let him continue on the sidewalk. Boom! My front tire let out a piercing “Pop!” followed by “Sssssss.” I had barely been thrown off the seat, still standing upright with my bike in my hands. However, the other guy had been coming downhill and riding much faster than I was, resulting in him flying off his bike.

But he stood up and recovered himself pretty quickly. There were no feelings of anger between us. We examined each other’s bicycles and made sure we were not physically injured. He had a cut on his leg where his jeans ripped, but luckily that was the worst injury. Our bikes, however, took a decent amount of damage. His front rim had spokes hanging off, whereas mine was slightly bent. After satisfying ourselves with each others wellness, and both admitting fault, we said farewell and walked our separate ways.