My trip home yesterday afternoon was mostly uneventful. Drivers were less aggressive. They're tired, and the pressure of being on time is off for some of them. One guy in a Mercedes did throw me a head fake, pretending he was going to pull into his driveway, but his heart wasn't in it and I didn't fall for the bluff.

It was a beautiful evening, and biking along the Charles River was a great pleasure. Everyone was out, walking their dogs, throwing Frisbees, just walking. The university crews were out on the river. This is the same scene I see every day, commuting in my car, but today I felt a part of it.

I discovered a new challenge, though: rollerbladers. Unlike cyclists and joggers, rollerbladers don't travel in a straight line. There is considerable sideways motion required to propel the skates forward, and it presents a passing dilemma. What I discovered was that I had to fall into their rhythm. I had to stay behind them for a little while, sensing when they swayed left and swayed right; and then, as they swayed right, I could pass left. Sway, sway, sway, and pass. It was a Zen thing.

I saw my first cellphone-using cyclist. He was on the bike/walking path on the B.U. (Boston University) Bridge over the Charles. He was steering (and braking!) with one hand, while the other was holding his phone to his ear. I hope he's reading this journal because I'd like to say to him: Hey, pal; you look stupid. Keep your hands on the handlebars and order your pizza at the next red light. I don't object to carrying a cell phone--I had one in my bicycle bag, preset to dial 911--but I don't understand talking while cycling. What phone conversation is important enough to conduct in the middle of a bicycle commute, but not important enough to stop for?

I had forgotten in the morning that my commute to work, in the aggregate, is downhill; the commute home ends in a long, gradual climb up to Jamaica Pond. I offer my gratitude to the cycling engineer who invented handlebar-grip indexed shifters. My thighs were throbbing like bagpipes by the top of the hill, but I made it.

Cycling makes you appreciate simple pleasures. Nothing can touch the pleasure of getting home, downing a cold brew, and sitting on something wider than oneself.

Learn more about Bike-to-Work Week, May 15-19, 2000.

One of my health principles is: keep your body guessing. If you constantly change what you're doing, serious maladies can't build up an infrastructure. That's why I smoke a couple of cigarettes a week. It leads the body to think you're a smoker, but when the germs set up to attack your lungs, you go out for a jog instead. It foils the germs and leaves them dispirited.

My second morning of bicycle commuting proved the wisdom of this practice. Yesterday, when I abused my body by riding to work, my body just said: "Hello? What's this, then?" But this morning, it was on alert; it was ready. As soon as I set off, my ass-bones screamed in protest (sorry; I know that's an ugly image; but I'm a journalist). Lactic acid, organizing all night in my thighs, joined the chorus. The first mile or so was grim. I stayed in a lower gear, and, thankfully, there is a lot of downhill, so I got through it. I found that standing on the pedals, legs straight, from time to time, provided some relief. I probably looked like a prairie dog, but it helped.

After that first mile, everything was great. Good weather again; it's supposed to hold until Friday. There seemed to be more cyclists like me; maybe Bike to Work Week is gaining adherents. We nodded to each other, passed politely, and shook our heads primly when the Thighmasters roared by.

I cut 4-5 minutes off my commuting time from yesterday, reaching the office in about 45 minutes. I think the difference was due mostly to my being more comfortable with riding, but I remain optimistic. If I can reduce my time by 5 minutes every day....