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First, a correction: yesterday I said I felt like Godot while I waited for the Walk light on the Cambridge side of the B.U. Bridge. That was, of course, ignorant: Godot wasn't waiting for Godot. I felt like Estragon or Vladimir, the two characters waiting for Godot. The correct analogue for Godot, is, of course, the Walk light. I attribute the mistake to oxygen deprivation.

Yesterday afternoon, Tools specialist and former bicycle messenger Mike Sierra sent email to those of us cycling to work, advocating the attachment of a small rear-view mirror to our helmets. The purpose of this accessory is, of course, so that we can see him coming as he prepares to roar by us. Lorrie LeJeune, editor, artist, and bicycle enthusiast (she has three bicycles, for heaven's sake), echoed Mike's sentiments and recommended a mirror that attached to the handlebars.

A bike-shorts pox on both of them, I say. Masquerading as well-meaning advice, this recommendation is a transparent attempt to legitimize the predatory Thighmaster riding style at the expense of muscle-challenged riders like me. The responsibility for safely passing a slower vehicle rests with the speedier vehicle. I will buy each of them a shiny bell or a sporty klaxon if they are too shy to use language to alert others to their presence. They might have to slow down at times; but after all, they're on a bike path, not the Huffy Expressway. I reminded them of Rule 6 of Satchel Paige's Rules for Staying Young: Don't look back. Something might be gaining on you.

Yesterday, you may recall, I was crowing about my successful attempt to pick up my pace on the way to work. I continued with that goal on the way home, with gloomier results. By the time I hit the hill up to Jamaica Pond, I was spent. I geared all the way down to my smallest front sprocket and my second rear gear (speed #2 out of 18, in other words). A jogger passed me. He smiled and said hello, for fear that I was distracted and might have missed the full humiliation. I would have run over his Achilles tendon, but I lacked the drive.

I got home, sucked down a beer, swallowed an ibuprofen for my SABS, and collapsed on the couch. I fell asleep, not in the manner of someone who is tired, but more like someone who had been struck on the forehead with a rubber mallet. Two hours later, I awoke. I felt better; I had slept my way up to tired.

My concern about hubris was apparently well-founded. I had done what wives always warn their husbands not to do (no, not what you're thinking): I overdid it.

Learn more about Bike-to-Work Week, May 15-19, 2000.

This morning, I looked out on a gloomy day, the first gray day of Bike-to-Work Week. The forecast was for afternoon thunderstorms. I could have considered the weather and my weakened condition and taken the day off. But I realized that I was at the nexus of journalism and performance art; I had a responsibility to my readers. I asked myself: What would Stone Phillips do? Of course, I had to ride.

I took a different route, however. I realized that the speeding cars that I rode beside were beginning to depress me. The contrast between their speed and mine and the more significant contrast between their mass and mine wore on me as I cycled. I decided to try a route that ran through neighborhoods, on roads with traffic lights, crosswalks, crossing guards, construction, trolleys, and pedestrians. Such a route seemed to favor me; I could accommodate all those impediments more easily than the cars could.

The route I chose ran through Brookline Village to Allston and Brighton. I picked up a river path then, West of Cambridge, and crossed the Charles River upstream from Harvard Square.

It was a good decision. The cars couldn't really get up a head of steam, so I feared them less. The drivers were forced to look around for pedestrians and the like, so I was more confident that they were aware of my presence. I could fudge some of the intersections and pass traffic jams by traveling to the far right. This route was definitely more bike-friendly. The only harrowing part of the trip was passing the Dunkin' Donuts at North Beacon Street. People going in are intent on getting their caffeine and sugar, and the people coming out are driving with their knees. It pays to be alert there.

It may be that I preferred this route just for the variety. Even three days of the same route was getting boring. I like pastoral, but I've seen enough Frisbee-chasin' Golden Retrievers to last me all summer.