The Shame of Laziness

Everyone who knows me pretty much agrees that I am a dedicated bike rider. I ride in snow and rain and cold and wind (also, heat and gloom of night are equally ineffective in staying me from the swift completion of my appointed rounds, if you were wondering), and routinely get up very very early in the morning to substitute bike and train for driving. But today, I just couldn't do it.

For the second night in a row, the younger of my two terrorists sons was in full, nighttime effect, coming into my room at around 2:00 a.m. to propose activities wholly inappropriate to the hour ("I wanna watch a movie;" "I wanna go for a walk"). When the alarm went off at 5:00 for me to get up and get myself on to train, I just couldn't do it. "I'll drive to New Haven and take Metro North from there," I told myself (naively). So I put the Xootr in the trunk, headed south, and when I got to exit 6 on I-91, the voices that usually tell me to kill told me to keep going, and as usual, I listened to them, merging onto 95 South and driving all the way to my Bridgeport destination.

I know I shouldn't feel guilty about this. It is a 60-mile trip and sometimes it's OK to drive. But damn it, my self-image rests in large part on stubborn dedication to not driving, so I feel like I'm losing my identity.

On the plus side, my new car may not have such luxuries as power windows or any sonic insulation between the engine and the passenger compartment, but it does have a CD player, so I enjoyed some Pharcyde during the drive, which was just what the doctor ordered.