Bikes in Dreamland

Last night, I had a dream about my bicycle. A beautiful black miyata, vintage. I was laying in the grass, as I often do after a ride, next to my bicycle. The grass was crowded in my dream.

There was a man and his friend sitting somewhat close to me. He made an offer to me, to purchase my bike. He offered me $850.

I paid $500 dollars for my bike.

I remember considering this in my dream, considering 850 dollars.

I said no.

And I rode away.



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Connecting Louisville Metro

I’ve recently moved.


While this was a happy occasion with many perks, a downside was the increase in travel time to work, from five miles to ten miles. This may seem like nothing to you motor vehicle users, but to me, a cyclist, it means a world of difference. Not only am I located five miles more away from my workplace, I am located outside of the Watterson Expressway.


Louisville has five major roadways, 64, 71, 264, 265 and 65. Interstate 64 travels east and west through the middle of the city, and 264, the Henry Watterson Expressway ie ‘the Watterson’, travels in a loop around the city.

Louisville Interstates

My colleague says you never want to live outside of the Watterson. For urbanites this is true. For cyclists, I now understand, it holds even more truth.

For a cyclist, living outside of the Watterson means travelling underneath it. Travelling underneath it means cycling down a high speed roadway that motor vehicles exit and enter at high speeds as well. It is dark and musty under there. Gone are the bike lanes, or even sidewalks. It is no ped land. It exists solely for motorized vehicles.

Yet, this morning, I finally took the plunge. I spent many hours considering and calculating my route. I also used Google maps and its trusty bike route tool that gave me three options and times to reach my destination (approximately one hour). So I woke at 5:30, in order to leave by 6:30, and to reach my workplace by 7:30. The first ten minutes were easy neighborhood streets, plus the fact that it was 6:30 in the morning and not many were on the road at this time. But when I reached the dreaded overpass on the high volume roadway, I was nervous. My heart was pounding. It did not matter that there were not many cars. Was I visible?!

I clung to the edge, the white line. I switched to the shoulder with the debris, feeling slightly more protected there. Thank goodness I had lights because it was dark under there. Would drivers see me? Would I be hit?

I finally made it out. But that wasn’t the end. I was right next to a merging lane that exited the interstate onto my busy roadway. What would I do? Stay in the right lane? Switch to the merge lane? Where will people see me best? And they were all driving way too fast.


Finally, there was a sidewalk. I immediately switched to it. I had absolutely no desire to be on the busy roadway.


Ahead, a shining bike lane appeared, a cordoned bike lane for that matter. I was ecstatic. I had never wished more for a designated bike lane. It offered Protection, Safety. There was a sewer running along side it. Who cares?! Life was carefree again.


And then, I was within the Watterson Expressway loop again. I was near the city center. Drivers were real, respectful human beings again, driving at lower speeds. Within the loop there were designated bike lanes.


Cycling underneath an overpass (or over an overpass) is the least safe thing you could do on a bike. In Louisville, no bike lanes exist anywhere near these heavy volume, high speed areas. I don’t really understand why because it seems the place where they are needed the most.


A happy solution to this specific lack in bike lanes would be to add some, or even better, to narrow or reduce the motor vehicle lanes and simultaneously add a bike lane. This has been done in the Netherlands.
However, that is not to say that Louisville, KY does not have a burgeoning cycling scene. Our local government has spent much time and money developing bike lanes throughout the city, including the Louisville Loop, a 100-mile bike lane that travels around the city, much like a couple of our interstates. In fact, we recently reached silver status as a bicycle friendly community by the League of American Cyclists. Yet we have more work to do in order to expand our urban bike lanes and connect more riders to accessible and safe routes throughout the city, within or outside of the Henry Watterson Loop.

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Babes in Bikeland

I am going to pause and not talk about bikes for a moment, instead I will talk about babes. Not hot babes (unfortunately), but babes as in babies. Babies that are yours from the time they come out of you until they reach college. Well, they are yours forever, I suppose, not just eighteen years.


Recently, I had a break down. Last year, to be exact. It was a pivotal moment, I was considering doctoral-ism. All of a sudden, a time table flashed before my eyes. I am(was) 28, a PhD is going to take approximately five years. Then, a deep voice said to me, ‘but when are you going to have a baby?’ I immediately wept. It was too much pressure. Why was I required to think about this, about procreating? Why is it my decision? Why do I have to think about it at all until I am absolutely and really ready? Why must I be the procreator? Can’t someone else be the procreator?


This was all part of my break down. On a normal day, I don’t think about having children. In fact, it rarely crosses my mind.




When I see someone on their bike with a little trailer on the back. The windows are screened. And it is covered in reflectors.
Then, I think to myself, ‘if I have a baby that is what we will do.’

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The Bungee Strikes Back

At the beginning of each bike ride, I attempt to bring along as little as possible. When going to classes, this is never easy. However, when going to work it’s pretty simple. I have a small across the chest bag (A Kavu which I love) and a lunch box/bag. I normally try to stuff the lunch box into my Kavu bag along with the book I am reading at the time, my work shirt so I don’t sweat it up on the ride in, my large wallet that needs to be replaced, and other miscellaneous items that are safe to say, probably unnecessary.

Two weeks ago, I had a great idea to bungee the lunchbox onto my bike rack in the back. It would be less weight carried on my back. Although the lunch is small, it can make a difference believe it or not. Plus, I have had a number of instances where Tupperware has leaked, been tossed around and mushed together, or my fruit was majorly bruised.( You’d think I was doing some type of extreme cyclocross!) On the rack, it would be stable, upright.

I prepared for the ride. I secured my lunch box with my final yellow bungee cord onto the rack. ( I have yet to purchase new ones.) I noted how cute it looked, wondered what you might call a trunk on a bicycle, and happily and satisfactorily mounted my ride.

I took the usual ride to work. Partway down Frankfort, someone honked. I thought to myself, you have plenty of room to pass, just pass. But other than that, I didn’t think much of it. On Story Avenue, (one of my least favorite streets to ride on) I received another horn honk. I wasn’t sure what was wrong. I don’t normally get this many complaints early in the morning. However on Story, people like to speed and there are only two lanes. I’m sure I was inconveniencing someone as usual, shmeh.

Anyways, I continued on to work. I pulled up to my bike rack at work with a smile on my face, full of endorphins, and the bass beating in my ears. I locked it up and proceeded to remove my lunch box.

But it was gone.

Only my single yellow bungee cord remained.

My delicious homemade spaghetti with sausage and crusty Italian bread, gone! Oooh nooo! Did I even have money for lunch???

I had half a mind to go search for it. My lunchbox. Filled with food. My Tupperware. Filled with food. My CRUSTY ITALIAN BREAD FROM THE BAKERY!

There was no way to return. There was no time to go back and search for it. I had to let it go. Let. It. Go.

I thought to myself, it’s just a lunchbox Katlyn, it’s not the end of the world. Maybe some homeless person is really enjoying your meal.

Well, recipient of my homemade lunch, I hope it was good. I hope you enjoyed the decadence of bakery made Italian bread, of homemade spaghetti sauce with lemon zest and sausage, of long, al dente spaghetti noodles. I hope it gave you the strength of the gods! I hope you were rejuvenated for days! That you didn’t feel hunger at least for twelve hours!

But I’ll still search for you, lunch box. Every day, on my way to work, I’ll look for your discarded self. I won’t care that you’re no longer filled with food or crusty Italian bread. I won’t care that you’re covered in dirt and filth.

I’ll welcome you back with open arms. And I will reuse you, again.


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All Cyclists Welcome


Oh Louisville, oh Louisville. I love you and I hate you. But, you do have a biking community, and that makes me happy. When I became more involved in cycling, I craved for organizations and communities for which to feel like I belonged. I signed up for it all: Falls City, Broke Down Bike Club, Bicycling for Louisville, Louisville Cycling Club. There are many.


I guess I kind of feel like I am part of a community. I like bikes. You like bikes. We like bikes. We have a common interest, right? I try to go to community rides but that doesn’t always work for me. Commuting to and from my place of employment works for me, which is not always so communal. You know, 7:00 in the morning, Frankfort Avenue, not that much traffic, in the dark.




I’m alone.


But that is neither here nor there. It will never stop me from enjoying my ride.


The reason I bring this up is that there was a post on Facebook in a cycling group feed from a fellow cyclist. He was called a hipster while cycling, by another cyclist. Can you believe it? I, myself was appalled. Don’t we all have a common goal and interest? Don’t we all love cycling, no matter what it is? Spandex or mustaches? (I’m still not sure what a hipster is. I know I have been called one. I don’t think I am one. Frankly, I don’t care.) I’m just here to enjoy the road, on my bike. Aren’t you? Doesn’t matter your kit, your threads, your pedals…


I can’t help but think that if there is hostility within our biking community, is there an underlying problem? Will there always be hostility? Even if you are part of the same group, working for the same thing? An equal opportunity to use the road no matter the reason. Will that tension always exist? Must we belong to a category within a category? Is this an opposition to the opposition? How will we ever manage to get something done?


For me, cycling is about…

cycling is about…

cycling is about…


Cycling is about being on the road, on a non-motorized vehicle, no windows, wind zipping through my shirt, the glorious sun warming me, no emissions, not dependent on oil, not dependent on a corporation, not dependent on money (could be though), endorphins, exercise, sweat, hills going up and down, scenery slowly moving by, people, community, smiling and more, more, more.

What is cycling about for you?

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Story of a Cheap Commuter

As a biker, I slowly made adjustments to my ride. Of course, many of these began once I was riding more frequently; as well as once I could afford them.

Last year, during a whole year of avid commuting in which I switched out the gym for rides to and from work, I had a rack put on my bike.

I am a perpetual student eventually reaching for doctoral-ism. Everyday I carry around heavy backpack with my old outdated laptop which makes the pack even heavier. I purchased the rack to hold my fifteen pounds of backpack. I greatly considered purchasing panniers although once I saw the price, I decided some bungee cords would do. (Buy them at your local hardware store for a couple bucks.) In fact, before I had money for cords, I used recycled bike tube, which I still have not removed from the rack. This somehow seems reminiscent to the unwashed mold on my car from two years ago…

Which is neither here nor there.

Bungee cords will do.

Until, of course, your bungee cord unhooks and gets caught in the spokes of your wheels and you are driven off the road, thankfully, not at rush hour.

Last Thursday, during my daily commute home from work I heard a repetitive sound. After a minute or so of clanking, I pulled off the road onto the sidewalk. I rolled the bike back and forth, no clank. I proceeded to ride on. The clanking continued. I pulled onto the sidewalk again. After careful inspection, lo and behold is my beloved blue bungee cord wrapped several times in the spoke of my wheel. I am finally able to retrieve the twisted cord from the spoke after breakage of course. I am left with one lonely yellow bungee cord and a huge backpack. Because why would someone have a backup bungee cord anyways? Not this girl. She can’t  afford backups, much less pretty panniers.

So I proceed to tie up heavy backpack with lonely yellow bungee cord as tightly as possible. I mount and ready myself for the large hill hoping, at the highest point my pack will not fall off.

And lo and behold, it didn’t!

At least not then.

Give it a few more minutes and outdated laptop and backpack are skidding the ground and I am pushed off the road again!

Oh no, al fresco diners, don’t worry about me, I’m just a silly cyclist that doesn’t know how to cart her shit. I’m sure they were all wondering why I didn’t just use my car.  [But they don’t know I have a car, remember that! They just think I’m a lowly cyclist.]

Finally, (yes it took this many times) I put the pack on my back and finish the last mile home, safely.


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Stories from the Road

Okay, last post was about my first ride as an adult. Fast forward to now and I’ll tell you a funny quip:

It was only a month ago.  My family and I were meeting for my brother’s birthday. The weather was good (it was February, welcome to the Ohio Valley) and I decided to get back on that bike and start the season shall we say. A nice addition was that the restaurant was really close to my house 🙂

We ate, we laughed, I loved on my beautiful niece and we ended on a good note.

We leave the restaurant and I proceed to unlock the bike and prepare for the short ride home. I’ve mounted and I am back on the street waving to my sibs from the bike.


All of a sudden…

I hear a car horn honking. Loud, repetitive, obnoxious honking. Over and over, unceasing. I despise when people honk at me when I am on the bike. It almost feels like harassment. I always end up screaming at them to no avail because they are locked away in there nice personalized, surrounded and enclosed vehicle. But oh well that is a rant for another day.

I look back at the obnoxious honker with my meanest death stare.

He/She continues. So I resort to my normal illicit gesture with scrota (shout out to Carreon) that is reserved for special obnoxious pricks that honk their horns at harmless cyclists.

The honking stops. The car passes me. I look over for a final glare and who is in the passenger seat but my mother! My beautiful, sweet, lovely mother that probably said curse words like shit less than ten times in her life. She has her hand partially covering her face and she gives a mild wave. I can smell the disappointment through the enclosed vehicle.  I’ve just given the finger to my mother! I was mortified! She was not pleased. Her boyfriend, the driver, had been honking, I guess to say hi but that’s not the point, I flicked off my mother!

I cycled behind them sheepishly, wondering how I would explain myself.eu1 001

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Getting to Know One Another

The Diamondback

I remember my first bike; well my first one as an adult. It was a Diamondback, it had a dark color with a gold/champagne chrome finish to it. My sister brought it to my meager apartment as a gift. She even had a U-lock. I’ll never forget it, as foreign as it seemed.  I had no car. I had been taking the TARC.  My car had been totaled a while back, irreplaceable. Me, a college student, with little to no money, was not about to even search for a new one. But here it was, a bike; a vehicle really.

I said thanks, bewildered.

That Diamondback set up against the wall in my tiny apartment for several months. My cat used the seat as a scratching post.

I was in Speech101 class when I read one of the examples: riding a bike versus taking public transit; an argumentative speech. Biking is faster than public transit, the example stated (simple, huh?). It got me wondering. I was ready to start experimenting. The university campus was a mere three miles away although I didn’t know that then. Google maps was just a dream and I didn’t even have the internet at my apartment. I just knew it wasn’t too far; it was manageable.

I began without a helmet, in jeans. I definitely didn’t have money for a helmet and my pride was too big for one too. I rode, clinging to the parked cars, not really in a lane, scared out of my mind.  I remember getting almost there, about two miles, not so bad, but I was sweating, bad. Me, the non athlete and a pothead to boot, let’s say I didn’t exercise much. However, I made that final mile with relief, locked the bike at one of the few racks on campus, and walked to class with time to spare.


Eight years ago began my commuting career.

I’m not your average cyclist. I don’t race. I don’t do tours. I don’t do extreme dirt bikes. I don’t wear spandex.

I wear jeans.

What can I say, I’m an American.

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