The World at Fifteen Miles Per Hour

When I see an adult on a bicycle, I do not despair for the future of the human race.  ~H.G. Wells

How many of you can remember the moment your mom or dad let go of your bike seat and you were riding for the first time, completely free? For many of us, our bicycle was the first major step in our independence.  When I get on my bike the sense of fun and freedom from my childhood is still nearby. I’ve been tapping into that childhood joy and sense of independence to embrace bike commuting. I begin my day lost in thought, but attentive to the rules of the road, with Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” on my Ipod shuffle while I cruise the Route 66 bike path towards town. The 45 minutes it takes for me to ride to work is my time to contemplate the world around me. The sense of motion and the free moments take me far away from the clamor of civilization.  Author Christopher Morley deemed the bicycle “the vehicle of novelists and poets,” and Albert Einstein conjured his theory of relativity while riding a bike. Besides inspiring creativity, I like to think that if I keep up with this I won’t need Dick Cheney out there waging wars for my share of the oil.

Besides all of those reasons, riding a bike is just plain fun.  I delight in the things I notice on my bike that I would miss in my car. Like the stink beetle with its rear end pointed towards the sky as a warning for me to keep my distance. Or the red-shafted flicker; wings outstretched, undulating in flight ahead of me on his own daily commute along the Rio de Flag urban trail. I savor the rich fragrance of the willow stands.  I catch a raven drinking out of someone’s roof gutter.  I discover a whole other world out there on a bike with the breeze blowing in my hair and a smile on my face.

And I find that I am not alone.  I admire the myriad of personalities of the other riders—the professional lady in a leather jacket, the commuting dad with his kid in a trailer on his way to day care and the woman on a cruiser who calls out “You go girl!” as pass her. There is a camaraderie we share on the bike path that is not present between fellow automobile commuters.  In my car I am impatient and other drivers are often my enemies, while in the biking world a friendly nod or a wave is common practice, as are impromptu conversations while waiting at a stop light. 

A little more than half of all Americans live less than five miles from where they work, according to Bicycling magazine, yet only 1.67% of Americans commute by bicycle. The United States consumes 17 million barrels of oil daily and driving accounts for almost half of that consumption. Think of the difference we could make if even 10 percent of us opted for our bikes. Industrial world cities typically use at least one third of their land for roads and parking lots for motor vehicles. If more of us took to our bikes, imagine how much pavement we could replace with gardens and parks. It’s easy to conjure a better world from behind the handlebars of a bike, and more people are opting for that perspective.  The number of bike commuters in the United States doubled between 1983 and 1990.  In Flagstaff the there is an ever-growing biking community.  This year 1,157 individuals participated in Flagstaff’s Bike to Work Week festivities—that’s over 50 percent more people on bicycles than in 2007.

I relish the freedom that I don’t need a car to get where I am going.  At first the 15 miles round trip to work doesn’t feel like much in the face of global climate change, but as the summer wears on and I sink into my routine, the miles start stacking up.  When I convert that to tanks of gas I didn’t have to fill, my pride and commitment deepens.  And there has never been a more critical time in the life of our planet to feel the simple power of creating our own motion. 

Chasing the Eternal Spring: From the Sonoran Desert to the Colorado Plateau

I grew up barely surviving the grey-skied, early darkness of New England winters. Beneath several feet of snow, I watched the naked branches for signs of life, anticipating the buds that would someday become green leaves. It was painful. I suffered from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), walking my rural Vermont neighborhood looking out into the lifeless woods considering how my life might be different with a change in season. Spring always seemed like a miracle lurking in the distance with the promise of something new.

When I moved to the Southwest after college I discovered winters with ample sunshine that culminated with spring at a range of elevations that lasted several months. Each year I feel like I go on tour like a groupie chasing the blossoms from the desert to the mountains. Living at 7,000 feet I just can’t help but partake in spring incrementally. It is just too hard to wait, especially knowing that down the hill in the Verde Valley the natural world is coming to life. So while the plants sleep in the mountains I escape to lower elevations to witness the coming of spring again and again.

The tour usually kicks off with a trip to the Desert Botanical Garden in mid-February for a conference of Arizona Botanists. It is an annual opportunity to bask in the world of plants, and exchange ideas and knowledge with other plant nerds. We ponder the complex mechanisms desert plants employ to protect their offspring in these harsh environments, and the crucial role of pollinators, so much of which we still barely understand. Outside agaves send up their stalks like tender shoots of asparagus, and the cadmium yellow desert saucers bloom in the sunshine.

During spring break I venture into the Paria Canyon with a volunteer group from Lewis and Clark College. There is more magic around every bend, as spring makes more of a showing with every passing day. There is the newness of everything green, just impossibly so, and in technicolor shades. Thousands of individual leaves greet the world of the sun, each in their own sparkling exuberance. The box elder leaves are soft and still curling inward, twisting and lengthening into their greatest selves, unfurling into a broad and merciful canopy that will provide shade later in its short life. In the cool, narrow walls of Buckskin Gulch I find a dead sphinx moth who is likely to have perished in the absence of nectar-rich blossoms like primrose and sacred datura. I am reminded how timing is everything and how tenuous and fragile this existence.

In early April I descend to the bottom of the Grand Canyon to meet up with my husband and good friends passing through on a river trip. All along the South Kaibab Trail I am greeted by the luminous blossoms of Sego lilies that arise from the sandy soils of the Tonto Plateau with spidery foliage and a golden star for anthers, thick with pollen. The slopes are shades of chartreuse—a blend of green foliage and the flowers of brittlebush and blackbrush. The Kaibab agaves wave their yellow spikes in the breeze, so new and sweet, surrounded by crowds of bees and butterflies.

Meanwhile, back in Flagstaff the apple trees are expectant with blossoms, fists clutched tightly in bud, waiting for the perfect moment. I enjoy a walk along Schultz Creek with my friends Mike and Melissa and Sally the Dog, meandering along the ephemeral snowmelt from the San Francisco Peaks. The gurgling of water over stone set the tone for our conversation, consisting largely of praise for spring and water, with pauses to notice a bold mustard peeking out from the ground.

Our Flagstaff spring has been delightfully reluctant this year, with intermittent snowstorms in between 80-degree days. I love watching my gardens come alive slowly, and cherish a visit from a passing oriole that perched in my aspen grove for a rest. A raven pair and two different house finches have built nests and are tending to their new babes.

It is all so fleeting and for this alone, to be treasured fully. Soon I will be hiding from the cruelty of the sun. I relish spring, not just because I am a plant lover, but also because it is a season synonymous with hope and new beginnings. I enjoy the possibility of it all. I want to be just like a new leaf, inventing myself again each spring, coming alive simple and green, new to this world, awake to the wonder.