The day is gorgeous, albeit a little chilly. Another two hours or so, and I’ll be on my bike, riding to distant lands and trying to get back into shape.
Distant lands? No, my standard route is still unchanged. I leave the house, a few turns left or right, and I end up on Foothill Expressway, the Peninsula’s major biking thoroughfare.
Sometimes it feels as if everybody has to ride Foothill. In the summer, the packs of bikers are such that the main highway is cramped into one single car lane, while the buzzing of chains on gears can be heard from afar.
You get into one of those packs, and you can’t get out. You’ll be enveloped, unable to rush against the flow, unable to pass or to slow down. You feel like a bee in a hive, until the next traffic light comes up and half the riders cross at red, the other half obediently waits.