So, did you ride?

Today was Ride to Work Day. For me, every day is ride to work day. That’s one reason I took the job I have now. I thought it would be a nice change to feature the thoughts of someone who doesn’t ride to work on a daily basis, so I invited Boating Bob to share his ride with us. Take it away, Bob:

I am a reverse commuter. I live in Seattle, and commute to my job as an air traffic controller in the bucolic suburb of Auburn. The upside of being a reverse commuter, of course, is that wherever the traffic jam is, I’m going the opposite direction.

I have to work in the sticks because way back in the Cold War, the Federal Government decided to locate the 20-someodd Enroute Air Traffic Control Centers (the guys who watch the airplanes when they’re between their departure and arrival points; we play video games with your flight for a living) well away from major population centers in case the Reds dropped the Big One. As time wore on, most suburban areas grew right past our once-remote facilities, and now I work right in the middle of Ward & June Cleaverland.

This would be all well and good if split-level tract homes and planned subdivisions appealed to me, but they do not. I prefer the cultural vitality and diversity of the city to the stifling homogeneity of the ‘burbs. So every day I leave my townhouse on Alki beach and trek down to Stupidopolis—er, Auburn to earn my living.

Once a year, this routine trek becomes an adventure, when I participate in Ride to Work Day. I have a couple of scoots in my garage, a Vespa ET4 that I use for the bulk of my errand-running around the city, and a red Vespa PX150 (named ‘Luciana’, after the Italian actress Luciana Paluzzi) that I reserve for rallies and fun-running.

This year, I’m going to take Luciana on the 30-mile trip down the surface streets to Auburn and back. Since this stretches my usual 45-minute commute to about a hour and 10 minutes, you can see why I don’t use a scooter for a regular commuter. Another source of my trepidation comes from the nature of the beasts I must share the road with. It seems the further one gets from Seattle, the larger the vehicles get, and the drivers get even more clueless. You see, I’m about to venture into the heart of the realm of the latte-slurping, SUV-driving, cellphone-yakking soccer moms and NASCAR dads.

My wife (also known as ‘She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed’, or SWMBO for short) isn’t crazy about my scootering hobby, and she thinks even less of the idea of the long and risky trek to Auburn on a scooter. When I try to explain to her it’s a once a year opportunity to show solidarity with other riders and to make a case for alternative means of transportation, she just sniffs dismissively, “Oh, and I suppose if tomorrow was ‘National Whack Yourself on the Head with a Hammer Day’, you’d do that too”.

Reaching for my trump card, I helpfully point out, “You know of course, if I do buy the farm, you’ll never have to work another day in your life.” She simply responds with The Look (you married guys know exactly what I’m talking about). That’s my SWMBO, the original ‘glass-half-empty’ girl; can’t see the upside of anything. Fortunately, this year on Ride to Work Day she has to leave early to fly down to San Francisco for the day. Hmmm, what’s that the mice do when the cat’s away? Heh heh heh…

I leave home at 7:30 to make sure I’m there in time for my 9:00 am shift. My ride takes me first out of West Seattle and over the unique swing bridge over the Duwamish River and through the industrial area that is South Seattle.

Next, I take a run down East Marginal along Boeing Field. These days, the little guys with their old Pipers and Cessnas are increasingly being squeezed out by billionaires like Bill Gates, Paul Allen, Craig McCaw, etc, who are building huge hangars for their private jets. And we’re not talking about Learjets here either; those are strictly for the pikers. These guys are tooling around in Boeing 757s and 737s. Guess they have to spend their money on something. I wonder if John Edwards was on to something with his “Two Americas” speech?

I stow my feelings of envy to concentrate on the road. Past Boeing Field, I make my way into Tukwila, land of endless strip malls, warehouse complexes and office parks. This all used to be some of the most fertile farmland in Western Washington. Ah, progress. At least with lots of business and few residents, Tukwila is swimming in tax revenue with precious little to spend it on, so they invest in their roads, which are admittedly quite nice.

From there, it’s on to Kent. Kent I know well, having spent a lot of my growing up years here. Kent was the kind of place that folks moved to so that their precious little progeny wouldn’t have to rub elbows with kids that had too much melanin for comfort.

Ironically as cities like Seattle have increasingly become theme parks for well-heeled yuppies, older suburbs like Kent and Federal Way have increasingly become the destination of choice for ethnic groups that have sold out or have been priced out of their old ‘hoods. Funny, isn’t it? I see more gawdawful Chevy Caprices and 15-year old Cadillacs with low-profile tires and spinner rims, and hear more deafening hip-hop here than in all but a few hardcore enclaves in Seattle!

Leaving Kent, I cruise happily down the West Valley Road, and finally into the country. Strip malls and car dealerships have given way to farmland once again. As I follow the Green River, I reminisce on happy times as a student at the nearby community college, spent drifting on an inner tube with a cold beer in one hand and my other arm wrapped around a coed; ah, to be young, carefree and horny again! At least riding my Vespa makes me feel younger.

I pull into my facility and stop to check in at the guard shack. Since 9/11, our facilities have become mini-fortresses with barbed-wire fences and guards armed to the teeth. Our guards can’t help but smile, though, as the see me ride up. Interestingly, they want to know all about it, especially what kind of gas mileage I get and where they can buy one.

Heading on into the parking lot, I pull right up to the motorcycle parking area and park my scoot next to all the Harleys. This is my favorite part of Ride to Work Day. It’s not that I have anything against Harleys. They’re beautiful machines, and nothing quite captures the romance of the open road like the Harley-Davidson. It’s just that thanks to insanely good marketing, the Harley has become the standard fashion accessory of the aging Baby Boomer American Male. At my facility, it’s become a cliche (’ah, I see you’ve turned 45; here’s the keys to your Harley!’).

You can always tell when one of my colleagues buys their Hog. One day they’re your typical ‘polo-shirt-and-dockers’ guy, the next day they’re wearing H-D logo jeans, boots, sunglasses (underwear too, for all I know!), and they’re talking about their upcoming trip to Sturgis with the same zeal of a Muslim discussing their pilgrimage to Mecca.

The genius of H-D was to figure out how to package and sell an entire lifestyle, a new and exciting persona. I guess we never really outgrow our affinity for fantasy dress-up games. As kids, we’d put on a cowboy hat and become Roy Rogers; now we put on our leathers and voila! we’re Peter Fonda.

You can always tell the true bikers from the posers by the way they react to my Vespa parked among the Hogs. The True Biker will saunter up, quietly look the Vespa over from end to end, ask a few questions, and almost always say, “I love it; where can I get one?” The posers just glare at me and say “Don’t park that moped next to my Harley; it’ll make my bike gay!” Sorry, Stud Boy, but no Harley will ever compensate for your inadequacies.

Finally, my shift done, it’s time to head on home. For variety, I take a different route; I head west out of Kent over the hill to Des Moines, so I can cruise along the waterfront. North of Des Moines, I scoot through Burien. Once a tired and downmarket suburb, Burien is becoming a real classy and desirable place to live, thanks to inspired municipal leadership and an exciting new central business district.

The next community I pass through, White Center (known to one and all as ‘Rat City’) is a dreary blight that has long been the subject of a ‘push-of-war’ between various local governments. King County would love to see the cities of Seattle, Burien, or Highline annex the area, but these cities see the low property values combined with high poverty and crime, and realize it will demand much more in resources than it will ever contribute. Needless to say, no one is exactly tripping over themselves with an annexation offer.

I successfully make it through Rat City without being scooter-jacked, made the victim of a drive-by shooting, or solicited by a prostitute, and safely make my way back down to Beach Drive and home.

Later that evening, while enjoying a cold martini and watching the sun set over Puget Sound, I hear the garage door open. SWMBO has returned from her little jaunt to ‘Baghdad-by-the-Bay’.

“So how was your day, honey?” she asks. “Uneventful,” I reply, as I take a long sip of my drink. Fortunately, she doesn’t see the wry grin hidden behind the rim of my glass…

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