Few disasters excel at getting me back on the bicycle the way hurricanes do. With gas jumped up to 80 cents in a few hours. Every station within five miles of my house had a different price per gallon. If they had gas at all. I almost wish Ike knocked our power out instead of sealing our pipeline connections to the Gulf Coast.
When stations ran dry on everything except Premium grade priced close to $5/gallon, I knew the time to start the two-wheeled commute to HealthLeaders had begun.
At six miles each way, it's hardly the two-mile jaunt from Morse and High to 5257 Sinclair. Three intersections on the route are moderately dangerous, one could be comfortably labeled as a cyclist's deathtrap. But once I pass those obstacles, I can cut onto the 3-mile bicycle path which swings close to work, and trade impatient traffic for oblivious joggers (aka, me at 5 p.m.).
The morning commute has moments of peace, but the ride home falls somewhere beyond harrowing. I even travel on roads labeled as Bike Routes, although the city cheaped out by adding some easily ignored signs instead of actual bike lanes.
From now until daylight savings kicks in and knocks the sunset to 4:30 p.m., I'm back on two wheels. I even considered fixing a sign to my backpack that says, "Say No to Price Gouging." However, it's hard for the gas stations to gouge when they have no product left.
Besides, someone on 51st Avenue North beat me to it with a cloth "Fat Cat Oil" banner, depicting a Steam Boat Itchy-style cat with a gas pump in one hand and gun holding up motorists in the other.
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