Continued from Part 1…

The world is a biker's parking lot.

As an all-season cyclist, he’s had to learn to ride in cold, in rain, in hot sun, sometimes all of those conditions in a single day. He’s learned to wear wool, even in summer, because it wicks away sweat it doesn’t smell bad after you’ve worn it a few times without washing. In cold weather he wears layers because, as he wrote in his blog, “when you’re really pushing those pedals you can easily sweat in 31 degree weather, even after you’ve removed all but gloves and shirt.”

He’s taken to wearing wool biking knickers and a sleeveless t-shirt at nearly all times in the summer. I’m wearing spandex shorts and a racing top–the kind of outfit you see on “weekend warrior” cyclists like myself–not the uniform of a bike commuter.

I hear a bike approaching so I peek out onto the street. It’s not David, but a portly man pedaling by on the sidewalk on his way to some early morning engagement. It reminds me that David is not the only guy who bikes to work every day–there are plenty of people in Norfolk, possibly this man is one of them, for whom a bike or the bus is the only way to get around.

Bike commuting, for whatever reason, has seen a huge surge in the past few years. The U.S. Census Bureau’s American Community Survey shows that bike commuting rates increased from 483,145 commuters nationally in 2003 to 664,859 in 2007. That’s a 37.6 percent increase in the number of people who take their bike to work. There are more bikes on the streets of all major cities in the US, including Norfolk and Virginia Beach. Bikes are being seen places, on busy streets and in fast-moving traffic, that they were rarely seen a decade ago.

After fifteen minutes of waiting, I decide David isn’t coming. Monday is actually his day off, so he was just meeting me as a favor. Maybe something has gone wrong with his sleep-deprivation experiment. Maybe he’s “crashed” into his bed. I decide to ride alone. I pedal out onto Colley Avenue and head north. First, a drop down the railway underpass at 21st street, then a cruise through Park Place, the patch of warehouses and light industrial buildings just north of the tracks. Past Fellini’s, Enrico’s (Voted Best Greek Restaurant in Norfolk! declares a banner), and O’Sullivans, where the smell of fry oil permeates the air even at that hour of the morning. A bridge carries me across the Lafayette River, and then I’m in Larchmont, where Colley Avenue changes to Jamestown Crescent and nicely-trimmed homes nestle close to each other on either side of the street.

On a bike I notice things that I’d probably miss in a car. Each neighborhood I pass has a smell. Taking deep breaths while pedaling, I appreciate the fresh cut grass, the oleander and the smell of sausage cooking for breakfast; I cringe at oil, exhaust, and the metallic tang of industrial dust. The odorscape imprints itself in my mind as a sense memory, more primal than the names of the roads and neighborhoods. I’m guessing David can navigate by these smells, anticipating each before it comes, orienting himself by the map his nose remembers.

Jamestown Crescent angles toward the west, then turns northward again and merges with Hampton Boulevard. The posted speed limit is 35mph, but cars go 45 or faster. There is no marked bike lane. It’s legal to ride on this road, of course, but many drivers aren’t aware of that. This is the kind of road where the increase in cyclists is causing friction. I pick up speed and take up a position in the rightmost lane, riding about where a car’s right tire would be.”Take the lane” is a mantra of urban cycling. If you cling too close to the curb, cars may try to buzz by you in the same lane, dangerously close. You need to fill enough space that they have to slow down and go around you.

I feel cars crowding up behind me, then shifting to the left and passing by quickly. Most are polite, but one pickup truck driver rushes by with his engine at full RPMs. David calls this move “The Rev,” when a driver guns his motor angrily as he accelerates by a cyclist on the road.

Still, no one honks. I ride confidently up the road, the only cyclist on that part of Hampton Boulevard at the time. I make it to the base and turn around. I’m sweating now, with warm muscles. The ride from Ghent to the base, only about five miles, is really just a warm up, not a workout. I can see how David is able to do it every day. Although today it’s not raining. It’s not fifteen degrees. There’s no ice on the roads. David has ridden in all those conditions. Alone. He’s a committed, everyday bicycle commuter.

I’m just a tourist. What do I know?