Me = Official Bicycle Commuter. A Treatise on Adventure.

It's always such a sad moment to hear about pedestrians being hit by the Caltrain, and it strikes home even more when you're a regular Caltrain commuter, as I am. Caltrain's got quite the reputation with its unfortunately high hit rate, and it's no wonder, considering all the intersections I come to where pedestrian traffic across the rails is far too easy. Of course I'd like to think that everyone knows enough to stop, and look both ways, before crossing a set of railroad tracks. But some people evidently lack that capacity, or purposely chose to make the life altering decision.

I digress. And I took the bull by the horns yesterday evening when the conductor stopped our train at 22nd Street while still in SF and apologetically announced that the train in front of us had hit a pedestrian.

As part of my renewed dedication to training in preparation for the 2007 season, I've been getting off the train at Millbrae, some 10 stops too early and riding my bike into the hills and home to the R-Dub. It provides an hour and a half of training time, albeit in the dark and in a sometimes scary things-that-go-bump-in-night-and-I-see-a-pair-of-eyes-in-the-bushes kind of way.

Last night, with the announcement of the conductor, my commuting adventure changed a bit. On the train with a fellow racer from the women's Cat3 field, I had no intention of sitting on the car for god-knows-how-long, waiting for it to get rolling again, when I had two good wheels, two sore legs, and a mild direction of where south was. And how I would get home.

I looked at my fellow racer who also lived on the Peninsula. "Want to ride home?" I asked. She shrugged. "Sure."

After a phone call to a city-living friend, we were on our way. Down 22nd, right on 3rd, left on Ceasar Chavez, right on BayShore. Through the ghetto, across the on-ramp, and down the shoreline. We wrapped around the airport and passed behind the planes taking off.

"This sure is an adventure," she shouted to me, I riding in front with the only headlight between us.

I muttered back, "I feel like the scales are finally balanced. You're a Cat3 riding a cross bike in work clothes, and I'm a Cat4 riding my lightweight racer in my full get-up."

And with that, a plane roared overhead. And we continued our ride. Down South Airport, over to Millbrae Avenue and onto the familiar rodes of Burlingame and southward.

Official bicycle commuters we had become.

And to make a sour note sweet, I learned today that our train had sat on the tracks for another hour and a half before moving on, the tradegy of Caltrain behind it.