Cycling in Sydney Australia
I was a bit late leaving work yesterday. I had to get back, as Mrs Dan had her first dance class of the year that day, and was very keen to attend. I was on a three-line whip to be home by 6pm. It's about a forty minute ride, so I really needed to scoot out not long after five to be sure of getting home on time. However, it had gone twenty past five as I wheeled the bike out of the lift, and the need for a swift ride home was very apparent.
As the office lobby doors slid open, the heat hit me. According to the BOM it was the warmest part of the day, and temperatures were up around 33C. This was going to be a hot ride...
I should have realised at that point that things were not going to go well. There are two reasons why you get lots of red lights; one is when the weather makes waiting at the lights unpleasant. The other is that you are running late.
I copped that double whammy in spades. Every single traffic light was red. Every single one. Out of the office, first lights on Miller St: red. Pac highway junction: red. Blues Rd: red. Lavender St: red. Pedestrian crossing: red. All the bike lane lights in the city: red.
So I just had to wait there in the blistering sun, heat coming up form the tarmac like a sizzling BBQ plate, clock ticking away. I might have considered blasting through some of them like the fixie scofflaw that I aspire to be, but the traffic was also against me; not gridlocked to weave through, but not light enough for there to be gaps.
I finally got out of the city and onto Anzac Bridge. By now I feel very late, so I push hard up the hill battling both the incline and the oppressive temperature. Keep pushing through, onto the local roads, push push push up one last final hill to the house. Drop bike in yard and run into the house.
"I'm here!' I gasp, perspiration dripping from my beetroot red face, legs trembling from the effort. It's one minute past six.
Mrs Dan and Baby look up. "Hello. You look hot. I need to go out in about fifteen minutes, so you'd better have a shower."
The wisdom of women: building in a margin for error where their husbands are concerned.