It didn’t occur to me that I had been cycling between the green curve of prehistory and what’s left of post-capitalist America until I got home and saw the route map:

Squigging slowly through the gap between Petroglyph National Monument and Ladera Golf Course, there are neighborhoods and neighbors not unlike just about all of ABQ’s West Side. We have differing priorities and needs when it comes to choosing a neighborhood in which to live, and it’s fun to contemplate just how genetically/psychologically different I must be from the folks saying to themselves and loved ones: “Yup, I simply HAVE to live on Creggs St. NW at the base of the National Monument/Mesa.”

As always, there’s two ways to think about such things. Prescriptively and descriptively. Prescribing where somebody should and should not live and why they should/shouldn’t and what a loser they are if they choose to live where they shouldn’t, yadda, yadda, yadda is an eternal temptation of our species, and is also really fucking boring.

Instead, we should (and there’s that prescriptive “should” word again) just describe/illustrate what we see to give at least a bit of insight.

Above is consolidation of my descriptive take about neighbors and the neighborhoods at the base of the Mesa/National Monument. For clarity, the Pontiac Bonneville above was parked across from a house, not just left at the Monument fence. The wear and overall look of the Pontiac was far more amazing than my poor photo skills can impart.

For someone who is always railing about how cars/drivers are the problem, I sure like looking at old cars. This is particularly contradictory, as way too much of my childhood was spent standing with a socket set of wrenches watching my dad deep in a car’s engine, once again, cursing a blue streak trying to fix/maintain the vehicle in question, one of several semi to non-functioning cars strewn across our yard, at least one or two on cinder blocks.

As you can probably imagine, a single thought stuck in my brain throughout these experiences, leading me to often hand Dad the wrong socket/wrench in my perservation on the following: I am NEVER gonna fucking work on a fucking car ever.

Still, I like looking at old cars.

There weren’t too many old cars to look at on this ride, primarily just the same assortment of big-ass trucks that don’t fit into the garage. On the multi-modal side, however, as is true throughout the oft-maligned West Side, there were plenty of these:

Showing wear almost as extensive/cool as the Pontiac, these bollards let non-drivers slip through from Sipapu NW to the multi-use path along Unser Blvd. Much of this ride was along Unser (i.e., not fun), as I had quite a few previously untraveled streets/tiles scattered along/near the stroad very appropriately named after a racing car family. As a cost of doing business, you can do worse than cycling Unser (e.g., Coors Blvd.), but the thought of Unser had me putting this mapped route/ride off for some time.

And then this happened:

That, my friends, is a new (to me) 2016 Haibike Xduro “Trekking” XR. Yes, that is an ebike. My first ebike. I already have quite a bit to say/write about my nascent ebike experience (I have ridden them one or twice before, such as Lisbon bikeshare), and will save most comments for future posts, but will share now a first reflection that mirrors what seems to be just about everybody’s first reflection upon riding an ebike: Goddamn that’s fun!

Again, I’ll spare you, for now, a deep dive into heart rate zones, ebike pedal assist levels, and search for the perfect ebike assist on/off balance. For now I’ll just mention the fun and how that fun made riding up Unser Blvd. far less like going to the laundromat, which I did weekly for years as a child, trying to keep clothes from flying off while sitting in the bed of a pickup truck that, more than once, needed to be fixed and had me standing with a socket wrench set while my dad cursed a blue streak.

It’s not hard to figure out why cycling appeals to me so strongly.