Ride to Work
He could see a sliver of dawn glow to his left as he started down the steps to the driveway. The stars were paling, though the sky was still too dark to see anything beyond the pools of streetlight. The Sea World tower was visible down in the bay. He knew the farthest lights were on Point Loma, and where the lights stopped on his right was the ocean, five miles away. It was nice to live up on a hill, to be able to see so much from the front porch.
As quietly as possible, he slowly raised the garage door, slid out the metallic green Schwinn Varsity, and then lowered the door.
Climbing on the bike, he looked uphill and down. No cars, no one in sight. Cool, he thought. He took two strokes out into the street and turned right, down the hill. Dropping into his highest gear, he took more pedals until he was freewheeling. Tucking down to the handlebars, he smiled as the wind tore at him, bike slightly wobbling, tires humming, tear ducts streaming from the speed.
He sat up and touched the brakes at the corner, tucking again as the hill swooped down, then up – not even a need to pedal – and the final drop to the boulevard. As he approached the intersection, he looked quickly to the left, braked hard to counter the corner, and turned right, a hairpin from the downhill onto the boulevard. No traffic, so he kept as much speed as possible and the turn took him out into the left lane before he straightened out. It’s so fun to ride in the fast lane, he thought, as he glanced behind to make sure no cars were visible.
Down to Balboa Ave, left turn against the light – no traffic visible. Check the alley after the railroad overpass to make sure no cop is sitting there.
Just five minutes away from home and already settling in for the six mile commute to work. The traffic on Garnet is almost non-existent, except for the couple of cars turning into the Duncan Donut shop and a few surfers in beaters heading to the beach also. The vacuum truck is sweeping the parking lot at the PB Shopping Center.
The sky continues to brighten. The smell of the salt air grows stronger as he reaches Mission Boulevard, a short block from the beach. As always, this is a wonderful moment of anticipation, just before he turns onto the boardwalk. How’s the surf? No wind, so it’s probably glassy. The surf sounds aren’t too loud, probably not too big, but it’s not quiet, so there must be some surf. Should be about an hour before high tide.
He slides up the ramp onto the boardwalk and heads south. Past the bike rentals, the dingy taverns, the cramped pastel beachfront rental houses with postage stamp courtyards. Check each alley as he passes to avoid any early morning strollers. A constant watch on the surf. Waist high slick swells pitch out and he imagines fast takeoffs, quick turns, trimming and tucking under the lip, finally kicking out as the beach break closes out. Fun!
He picks up the pace as he gets more excited about getting out. Reaching Santa Clara Ave, he turns left, recrosses Mission Boulevard – quick glances left and right and through the stop sign – and out onto Santa Clara Point. The bay is absolutely still, mirroring the rising sun and pale clouds. Moored sailboats swing gently, pointing east as the tide moves into the cove.
When he reaches the sailing facility, he brakes to a stop at the chain link fence enclosing the boatyard. Fishing the keys out of his pocket, he quickly unlocks the gate, pushes the bike inside. He then unlocks the door to the boathouse, strips and slips on his faded red Katins, pulls down the beat up Olympic longboard from behind the sails hanging down from the rafters. Retracing his steps, locking up behind him, he begins a jog back to the beach.
Morning Routine
After the surf session, he trots back to work. He dries off, slips on a t-shirt, the bottom will get wet from the swimsuit, but it’ll dry by the time classes start.
