Biking to Work: Did I give up my car, or did my car give up on me?

A little backstory to catch you up till now:

Once upon a time, on thankgiving day of 2008, I was driving my little toyota tercel to my mom's for dinner when my negligience in putting oil in the car resulted in total siezure(Anyone who is familiar with cars will at this point, shudder). Siezure is the death knell to an engine, and thus the car passed into its next incarnation as scrap metal. I was carless, and on the doorstep of winter. I had my boyfriend bring me back and forth to work as much as possible, but didn't like the idea of having to be dependent on anyone to get anywhere. I sent away for the bus route map for my county and planned my descent into the world of public transportation.

I say "descent", not in a reference to a hades-type world, but because the world of suburban transportation is hidden to anyone who is "lucky" enough to have their own pod. The first day I was supposed to take the bus, I decided to try going home from work. I figured that in case of a mishap, I wouldn't worry about having to call in sick. After work was done, I carefully counted my bus fare, took my binder containing every bus schedule in the state and ran across the street to the shopping center where I would depart. Unlike the weary people in the bus shelter, I was filled with nervous energy and anticipation. In fact, living in suburbia where a car is second only to toilet paper in necessity, I had never taken a bus by myself in my life. I had no idea what to do - what kind of culture was this? Were there rules? Did you talk to people or keep to yourself, did you need exact change? How did you get the bus to stop somewhere? I was clueless. When the bus came around, I tried to look bored, like I had done this a million times. I hung back so I could study the routine of the people in front. It seemed as though they put the change into a machine, and took a ticket. Okay. I can do that. I reached into my pocket, and pulled out something like eighteen dollars in change, and breathlessly told the driver the name of my destination. He pointed to the fare listed for two transfer zones. I put my money in and grabbed my ticket. Everyone eyed me dubiously. I was a newcomer. I looked around the bus as it started to pull away. It was filled with Latinos. They all seemed to know each other, and I heard various greetings in spanish. I grabbed a seat near the front by a window so I could keep track of where we were going and when I would need to stop. The bus got quiet and I studied my route. I watched as people pressed a button near the window when their stop was coming up. I prepared myself as we entered the city where I would pick up the next bus to home. As the stop approached, I was disappointed when a man near me pressed the button first. In my disappointment, I pressed the button anyway, having no effect. I thanked the driver and stepped on the streets of the city.

Bus schedules are rather confusing if you've never dealt with public transportation before. I waited at the bus stop by the train station for the next bus. It didn't come. I realized after an hour that I was in serious danger of frostbite. Having a car for so many years, I never learned how to dress for the winter properly. I'd run out in heels with no stockings, short-sleeved shirt or summer dress under a winter coat, no hat or gloves. Who needed these things when one went from warm house to warm car to warm office? As I looked around to see people dressed for the sub-freezing temperatures, I began to realize that I was in real danger of getting frostbite. I was wearing sandals. I wasn't sure where the bus was, but the cold forced me to find shelter until I could figure out what to do. I ran to the train station and inside the doors, I found myself in the company of a homeless person who was there for the same reason. Only he did not dress lightly out of ignorance. And he was eating out of the garbage. I suddenly felt very stupid and realized how much I had taken for granted all these years.

I pulled out my phone and called the bus company. I discovered that the bus stop I was waiting at was for the wrong set of buses, and this bus, a commuter coach bus picked up on the other side of the train station. Sighing, I walked outside and joined a different throng of shivering people. The bus was late. I tried to make conversation with someone, but he only looked away and told me that this bus was always late. 40 minutes later, just as I thought about running back to keep company with the homeless man, the bus pulled up. This was a different sort of bus altogether. This was a commuter bus from New York, and the only one that passed through my area of town to princeton. The have and the have-nots where huddled together unhappily. Thugs next to businessmen, Mexican food service workers sitting next to sullen women in furs clutching their purses. There was very little room, and I had to negotiate a spot near someone who eyed me up, then moved his things for me. No one spoke but the bus was warm. When it got near my stop, somebody signalled the stop, and a few people, myself included shuffled off. In the cold, dark, I crunched through the snow in my summer sandals. Cold, numb, and exhausted, I opened the door to my apartment. In three hours, I had gone 12 miles. It cost $4.15.

In the next few weeks, I got a ride to work in the morning, and continued to take the bus at night. Although I still had to wait 20 minutes for the initial bus and 30 minutes during my transfer, I was able to make it home in two hours. I went to K-Mart and bought a wool cap with ear flaps, some gloves and started bringing warm pants to change into. Socks and boots replaced summer sandals after the very first day. I started to get used to the public transportation thing, and soon I had the same bored, vacant stare as the others who waited for the bus every day. One day I even got to press the "stop" button first.

Still, I felt trapped. I used the stops to walk around the city and do my christmas shopping, and started to really get a feel for bus transportation, but I lamented the time cost for going such a short distance and felt limited by the bus schedule. Miss your bus and you have to wait 30, 60, 90 minutes, or be stranded if you've missed the last one. In suburbia, bus transportation is not a priority and so they don't run as often or go as many places as they would if this were a true urban center. This is when I began to think about my bicycle as a serious form of transportation. I wasn't new to commuting by bike to work, I had actually done it for years during the summer, but it was usually only a few times a week, and I always had the luxury of getting a ride when I was tired, or it was raining. I was, what they call in bicycle commuting circles, a fair-weather commuter. The appeal of the bicycle was easy to see: it would take half the time to bike than to take the bus. It would cost nothing, and I would get my exercise. The daunting prospect was that I was woefully out of shape, had no clue how to ride my bike in the winter or in the dark, and 22 miles a day seemed a hopelessly long commute 5 days a week. Nevertheless, I pulled out the bike the very next weekend, and prepared to give it a try.

It was cold. I didn't have the concept of layering, and so I simply piled on as much crap as I could find and wore my winter coat on top. I could barely move and half-way through I was sweating so much that I got cold. On the way home, luck would have it that it began to snow. After arguing with my co-workers about the sanity of going home in such weather, I stopped at the bike store and bought more lights and reflective gear. I was apprehensive, but determined. Once I got on the darkened roads home, I got a little scared and ended up riding on the sidewalk for the most of the way. For anyone who commutes by bike, it's a big no-no, and a common newbie mistake. It took 2 hours to get home in the slush. My miss-matched thift store gear was ill-preparation for the wet and cold, and by the time I got home, I swore off the winter biking. I didn't think I had it in me. The next day, I was told I was crazy by everyone and I took it personally. I thought they were right. I went back to the bus.

During the winter break, I decided I had to find a car - any car - I was desperate. I sent my boyfriend out to find something. Armed with a pension loan, I needed something cheap and I needed it now. I didn't want to go back to work in January on the bus. I was feeling sorry for myself. He came back triumpantly and soon I was behind the wheel of a yacht-sized station wagon. A 1997 mercury sable. Gunmetal gray. We named it "The Kondos" after the russian man who sold it to us. I was dubious about the choice of this behemoth, but it seemed to run okay, and it was really inexpensive. I reasoned that we could camp in the back and it would be good for hauling. I was also secretly and selfishly thrilled that I would no longer have to join "those" people who took public transportation. The middle-class suburbanite in me took over and I happily guzzled my way to work in January.

Things started to go downhill with the car the very next month. I started to overheat on my way to work, and had to get a tow. I remember the sense of deja vu as I stood shivering in my summer sandals waiting for the tow truck, feeling utterly betrayed by my new battleship. I discovered I had a leak in the coolant tank. I topped it off, vowed to check it, and off I went. A few weeks later, the brakes began to feel funny. I took it in and was told that the brakes were at a point of being dangerous and that they would need to overhaul the entire system. I was devistated to get a 900 dollar bill. Still, I reasoned, I only paid 1600 for the car, so I was still doing okay. In April, I needed to get the car inspected. After running it through with high hopes, I was told that I had two emissions problems
(codes) and something called motor mounts, among other things. I know intimately from other cars how expensive the emissions problems can be, and I only had one month to take care of it! I struggled to pay the 1200 dollars it required to get the car to pass inspection. I was beginning to regret the choice. I was broke. The car positively guzzled gas and every two weeks I was putting more coolant in it. I prayed that it would last a year.

In the late summer, the overheating problem finally got so bad that the car became barely driveable. One fix was applied but didn't help much, and it was determined that the car needed yet another expensive part. To make matters worse, the battery or the alternator was going, and the car wouldn't start without a jump. I had it. The car was a money pit. A failure. I scrapped it, got 200 bucks, and put the money into fixing the brakes on my boyfriend's car. His was the better of the two. So, on September 10th, I again became car-free.

I was aprehensive remembering the disaster of last winter, but it was still technically summer, and the idea to ride my bicycle seemed less threatening. I was so tired of the expense, the worry, the unreliability of having a cheap, used vehicle, that the thought of using a bicycle - something that always starts, is free to operate, and can be fixed by the owner with less than $50 in parts, was extremely appealing. In addition, I had gained 20 pounds, tipping the scale at 150, which is a lot for my 5'4" frame. It seemed like a win-win situation and I decided to revisit the idea of living car-free. I was determined to do this on my own terms - not out of desperation, but as a choice. Millions of people do it every day all over the world, I reasoned. The only problem was - how do I transform myself from a fair-weather summer-ony, part-time bike commuter into a full-time, winter-riding, 125 mile a week transportation cyclist? Read on...