Even with the switch from daylight savings time, it was already dark and almost 9pm when I started my bike ride home through Alameda, Oakland, and Berkeley. It had been a long day, but given my bike's lighting system, there was little concern. I'm not one of those ninja cyclists who dress in black and ride with minimal lighting. Given the late hour, spinning through the deserted streets of Alameda, thoughts of "What if someone tries to assault and/or rob me?" popped into my head, but no bogeymen appeared. Cruising along the Embarcadero, wedged between interstate 880 and the estuary that surrounds Coast Guard Island I heard the first distinct rumbling of the Amtrack Capitol Express. It was easy to hear, thanks to the whisper quiet belt drive on my
Proletariat. The big engine would be paralleling the bike path on my right and the blasts from its horn began to shatter the cool night air.
I took my right hand off the handlebars to plug my right ear as the train began slowing for the highway construction and the Oak Street crossing. This meant I could pull ahead. The possibility of crossing the tracks at Harrison Street before the train signals and barriers could come into play became a distinct possibility. Escaping the train's blaring horn would be a fringe benefit. Before leaving work, I had the sense I might be catching a cold. I promised myself a leisurely ride home, but I couldn't help myself. I found my pedal cadence increasing. Possessed by a new goal, I had upshifted one gear and was now
hauling ass. It was man against machine, David facing Goliath.
Looking over my right shoulder, I was clearly pulling ahead of the surreal beast. Three brilliant, blinding white lights, one of them sweeping like a search light in a circular pattern and behind the bright-as-day lights lurked the dark, menacing mass of thundering metal. Droning vibrations from the huge engine were being transmitted through the earth, along the pavement, through my bike's wheels, through the pedals, producing an odd tingling in the balls of my feet. The low, thundering rumble made the air in my lungs vibrate, but Goliath was losing, sliding further and further behind. A short downhill grade provided additional speed as I rounded the curve onto Harrison Street. The crossing signals began to sound and the gates lowered, but I was already through the crossing, my silhouette briefly illuminated by the dazzling lights. Wonder what the train's engineer thought of all this?
With the train three blocks behind me, I slid under the I-880 overpass, into downtown Oaktown. The streets here were mostly empty, too, save a few homeless souls, ranting to no one in particular. Following Telegraph Avenue into Berkeley seemed like the best choice, more heavily trafficked than Market or Adeline streets, more brightly lit than Mandala Parkway, more people, and probably safer. Telegraph was more lively and all of the traffic signals seemed to have been timed for little ol' me. A never-ending line of green lights, saluting at each intersection. Having vanquished the behemoth, my paced slowed. Several clubs with live music, booze and tattooed/pierced patrons spilling out and milling on the sidewalks appeared mirage-like on the periphery. They were a blur. I was focused on traffic, potholes, and the occasional shards of glass and strips of metal that appeared on the pavement ahead.
Veering off Telegraph Avenue onto the diagonal entrance to Shattuck Avenue, there were more cars but fewer people. Crossing Alcatraz, I glimpsed the unmistakeable flash of a bike's red LED tail light four blocks ahead. Another cyclist, another goal, my cadence increased again. Catching them didn't take long. A young woman with what, violin case strapped to her back? She nods as I pass and I utter a hoarse "'Evening." A quick jog over to Milvia Street, a designated bicycle boulevard. Now in my home territory, more relaxed, almost home. Twelve miles behind me, another four miles to go ...
