"I think of my bike as a very small bus," my wife told me shortly after we met. She meant that she viewed it as a form of transportation, and nothing more. That's changed substantially in the years since, and despite my own long-standing affection for all things two-wheeled, I recently needed a reminder from my wife that bikes, before all else, are fun. It's felt like a long winter and I've been pretty pragmatic about my bike. The reminder I needed came in the form of a brief and perfect weekend trip my wife planned to Buckhorn Springs.
We got a leisurely start on a Saturday morning, riding the Greenway south through the valley. The orchards were pink and white, and Bear Creek was flowing fast and clear. By the time we reached Ashland, we were ready for lunch, and we found an open table by Ashland Creek on the first warm Saturday of the year. Any meal is better when it's refueling a recent effort. After we ate, the Central Ashland Bike Path carried us smoothly through town. Beyond Emigrant Lake, we turned off the pavement and climbed into the foothills. The drainage narrowed as we followed Emigrant Creek up toward Soda Mountain, and there was a wonderful sense of enclosure that I miss in the wide Bear Creek Valley. We were the only guests that weekend at Buckhorn Springs, and when we walked our bikes around the gate spanning the driveway, it felt like we were entering a private garden. Our shingled cottage by the creek had been restored not to luxury, but to complete comfort.
The nap we took on arriving was more refreshing than some full nights of sleep at home, well earned as it was. We picked out a lone snag on a ridge for our morning hike and then passed a perfect evening of cooking, talking, and reading to the chatter of a mountain creek in springtime. When we woke in the morning, we couldn't understand the waves of tapping outside until we pulled the curtains aside to find sleet bouncing off the windowpanes. There wasn't a soul around to judge our laziness in climbing back under the warm blankets and settling for a shorter hike, later in the morning. We saved the lone snag for our next trip.
The precipitation returned periodically during our ride home that afternoon, but because it was frozen we stayed perfectly dry. I'll admit we did curse the weather briefly as we found ourselves pedaling hard against the wind even as we descended the hills we'd earned with our sweat the day before.
Approaching home, it struck me what fun I was having just riding my bike, even in the sleet, even against the wind. The next thing I realized was that I hadn't been aware of a lot of fun while riding lately. It had been months since I'd ridden anywhere but work or errands. On top of that, I'd been reading a lot of acronym-laden articles and blogs about how effective and important bicycles are as transportation. Mark Twain wrote that "Work and play are words used to describe the same thing under differing conditions," and biking somewhere to spend money rather than earn it illustrated that to me perfectly.
The first time I ever rode to work was pure play. It was Bike to Work Day 2003, and I still remember how good I felt all day... all week, really. (Incidentally, Bike to Work Day 2009 is Friday, May 15.) But in recent months I had been focusing on my bike as a practical means of transport and forgetting to go play on it. I'd been thinking of it as a very small bus, and forgetting that it's also a really quiet motorcycle.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Among the hooves of warhorses (April 2009 column)
Most of you will understand this immediately, but it honestly took me years to figure it out. Riding my bike home from work one afternoon some years back, I slowed approaching a downtown stoplight, and seeing no cross traffic, carried on through the intersection. When traffic caught back up to me, I was taken completely off guard by the earful I got from a driver in the adjacent lane.
It didn't make any sense! I hadn't cut her off or given her a dirty look. I wasn't wearing a shirt with a self-righteous message. It seemed pretty clear that I hadn't inconvenienced her in any way—so why the abuse? I needed several years and a few thousand trips by foot, bike, and car to make sense of that incident. There I was, asserting my bicycle's status as a vehicle by riding on the road. I was relying on the operators of other vehicles to respect my rights on the road, but I was unwilling to be inconvenienced when it was my turn to yield. It wasn't any inconvenience that driver was objecting to, it was my hypocrisy.
Here's a fact: cyclists feel good about our choice to ride for transportation. We have a tendency to devour any study or article affirming cycling as healthy, brave, and important. We can quote you statistics about foreign oil and air pollution and life expectancy. All of which is entirely reasonable, but a danger arises when we conclude that our reduced impact on pollution and congestion, and the minimal threat we pose to others, somehow means our only responsibility in riding is to protect ourselves. It's as if we relish imagining ourselves the dogs trotting among the hooves of the warhorses. That's not only unambitious, it's inaccurate. The fact is that cyclists have an outsized impact on the drivers around us. We won't improve bicycle safety or relations between cyclists and drivers without acknowledging that impact.
You might expect cyclists, often enough marginalized on the roadways, to treat pedestrians with the utmost of deference—the way we wish drivers would treat us. But to hear some pedestrians tell it, our track record perpetuating the cycle of disrespect is dismal. Cars, at least, don't chase them onto the sidewalks and greenways. Cars, at least, don't sneak up behind them. Cyclists have been slow to embrace pedestrian rights as first among transportation rights; that is a major failing.
It gets messy sometimes, when we start thinking in groups and resenting the others. One way of counteracting that tendency is mixing up the way we get around. It's hard to delay a line of cars while biking, knowing that this weekend I'll be one of those delayed drivers. I'm less likely to step off the curb mid-block in front of a cyclist knowing firsthand how frustrating it is when a pedestrian disregards me like that. And my tendency to mindlessly blow past a pedestrian at a crosswalk has dropped off considerably since I've started walking to the grocery store a couple times a week.
I recall another interaction I had with a driver, and this one completes the lesson of the story I opened with. I understood its significance immediately. I was picking up a few things at the grocery once when a man stopped me. "Was that you out there on the bike?" I told him yep, that was me. "I can't believe you used hand signals! That was so great! Man, I wish all bikers would do that." I'm convinced that interaction, like the one after I ran the red light, had little to do with any inconvenience or service given to the driver. In both cases, what made an impact was the root attitude I was revealing.
If we are serious about extracting ourselves from this slough of auto dependence, we'll need more than technology and planning and infrastructure. Every one of us who sets foot out our front door will need to be aware that our travel impacts other people. And for that awareness to mean anything to us, we'll need something more basic still: we'll need respect.
It didn't make any sense! I hadn't cut her off or given her a dirty look. I wasn't wearing a shirt with a self-righteous message. It seemed pretty clear that I hadn't inconvenienced her in any way—so why the abuse? I needed several years and a few thousand trips by foot, bike, and car to make sense of that incident. There I was, asserting my bicycle's status as a vehicle by riding on the road. I was relying on the operators of other vehicles to respect my rights on the road, but I was unwilling to be inconvenienced when it was my turn to yield. It wasn't any inconvenience that driver was objecting to, it was my hypocrisy.
Here's a fact: cyclists feel good about our choice to ride for transportation. We have a tendency to devour any study or article affirming cycling as healthy, brave, and important. We can quote you statistics about foreign oil and air pollution and life expectancy. All of which is entirely reasonable, but a danger arises when we conclude that our reduced impact on pollution and congestion, and the minimal threat we pose to others, somehow means our only responsibility in riding is to protect ourselves. It's as if we relish imagining ourselves the dogs trotting among the hooves of the warhorses. That's not only unambitious, it's inaccurate. The fact is that cyclists have an outsized impact on the drivers around us. We won't improve bicycle safety or relations between cyclists and drivers without acknowledging that impact.
You might expect cyclists, often enough marginalized on the roadways, to treat pedestrians with the utmost of deference—the way we wish drivers would treat us. But to hear some pedestrians tell it, our track record perpetuating the cycle of disrespect is dismal. Cars, at least, don't chase them onto the sidewalks and greenways. Cars, at least, don't sneak up behind them. Cyclists have been slow to embrace pedestrian rights as first among transportation rights; that is a major failing.
It gets messy sometimes, when we start thinking in groups and resenting the others. One way of counteracting that tendency is mixing up the way we get around. It's hard to delay a line of cars while biking, knowing that this weekend I'll be one of those delayed drivers. I'm less likely to step off the curb mid-block in front of a cyclist knowing firsthand how frustrating it is when a pedestrian disregards me like that. And my tendency to mindlessly blow past a pedestrian at a crosswalk has dropped off considerably since I've started walking to the grocery store a couple times a week.
I recall another interaction I had with a driver, and this one completes the lesson of the story I opened with. I understood its significance immediately. I was picking up a few things at the grocery once when a man stopped me. "Was that you out there on the bike?" I told him yep, that was me. "I can't believe you used hand signals! That was so great! Man, I wish all bikers would do that." I'm convinced that interaction, like the one after I ran the red light, had little to do with any inconvenience or service given to the driver. In both cases, what made an impact was the root attitude I was revealing.
If we are serious about extracting ourselves from this slough of auto dependence, we'll need more than technology and planning and infrastructure. Every one of us who sets foot out our front door will need to be aware that our travel impacts other people. And for that awareness to mean anything to us, we'll need something more basic still: we'll need respect.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Gleanings from the shoulder of the road (Mar 2009)
Commuting is like no other part of the week. I have a tendency to count it as time lost on the way to places I want to be, but in fact I'd be poorer without that half-hour each morning and evening. At various times, I've commuted by foot (both with and without a wheelbarrow of tools), by car, and by public transit. These days most of my trips are by bike. Each kind of commute has something going for it, and below is an assortment of things I've learned getting to and from work by bike in the last year.
When I wave at a bus full of school kids, I get a wall of waves in return. It's like when I was seven and a friend showed me how truck drivers would honk if I pumped my fist up and down at them.
The hottest part of a 103-degree day is getting in a car.
I can bike casually to work every morning in the summer and never break a sweat.
Rogue Valley drivers tend to be a courteous bunch. The one time I chased a car down at a stoplight to offer some constructive criticism, I was met with an apology and a compliment to my lights. Deft conflict avoidance for certain, but I bought it. The last time I chased down a driver in a different river valley town, I was offered a fistfight on the spot.
I can be doing something I love 60 seconds after I finish a workday.
There's no better justification to buy cycling accessories than the money I save riding to work. At the federal mileage rate, I save $8 every day.
Places feel different in relation to one another after I bike between them. This is a difficult sensation to explain, but locations that otherwise feel isolated from each another by a car trip come into focus after I ride between them. It's like finding out that two good friends know each other, or realizing that the section of puzzle I've been working fits into the section my dad's been working.
Riding in the rain means getting wet. Rain gear has a place, but there's no substitute for a change of clothes in a waterproof bag.
Worrying about rain is far worse than riding in it. Riding in the rain can be great fun. That's a secret though.
My most successful commutes are those that provoke nothing but indifference from the drivers around me. My goal is to be as visible and unremarkable as another car, and every so often to inspire the thought that looks like fun, or I could do that.
The more visible I am and the more I behave like a car, the more respect I get. I don't think I've been honked or hollered at in my last 500 miles of city commuting. I'm up to three headlights and two taillights now.
Lessons aren't all I've gleaned along the shoulder of the road. I once recovered the contents of a neighbor's purse. And I've picked up a nice set of adjustable clippers, any number of good bungee cords, some sturdy hardware fabric, and a license plate for the garage pegboard.
After watching a cornfield grow all last summer, I stopped one morning after harvest to pick an ear. I ate it raw that night and it was sweet as a Medford pear.
If you've ever seen a bike commuter and thought that looks like fun, or I could do that—well it is, and you could. And if you've just passed me carefully without honking or hollering, thanks for your part in making my trip so pleasant.
When I wave at a bus full of school kids, I get a wall of waves in return. It's like when I was seven and a friend showed me how truck drivers would honk if I pumped my fist up and down at them.
The hottest part of a 103-degree day is getting in a car.
I can bike casually to work every morning in the summer and never break a sweat.
Rogue Valley drivers tend to be a courteous bunch. The one time I chased a car down at a stoplight to offer some constructive criticism, I was met with an apology and a compliment to my lights. Deft conflict avoidance for certain, but I bought it. The last time I chased down a driver in a different river valley town, I was offered a fistfight on the spot.
I can be doing something I love 60 seconds after I finish a workday.
There's no better justification to buy cycling accessories than the money I save riding to work. At the federal mileage rate, I save $8 every day.
Places feel different in relation to one another after I bike between them. This is a difficult sensation to explain, but locations that otherwise feel isolated from each another by a car trip come into focus after I ride between them. It's like finding out that two good friends know each other, or realizing that the section of puzzle I've been working fits into the section my dad's been working.
Riding in the rain means getting wet. Rain gear has a place, but there's no substitute for a change of clothes in a waterproof bag.
Worrying about rain is far worse than riding in it. Riding in the rain can be great fun. That's a secret though.
My most successful commutes are those that provoke nothing but indifference from the drivers around me. My goal is to be as visible and unremarkable as another car, and every so often to inspire the thought that looks like fun, or I could do that.
The more visible I am and the more I behave like a car, the more respect I get. I don't think I've been honked or hollered at in my last 500 miles of city commuting. I'm up to three headlights and two taillights now.
Lessons aren't all I've gleaned along the shoulder of the road. I once recovered the contents of a neighbor's purse. And I've picked up a nice set of adjustable clippers, any number of good bungee cords, some sturdy hardware fabric, and a license plate for the garage pegboard.
After watching a cornfield grow all last summer, I stopped one morning after harvest to pick an ear. I ate it raw that night and it was sweet as a Medford pear.
If you've ever seen a bike commuter and thought that looks like fun, or I could do that—well it is, and you could. And if you've just passed me carefully without honking or hollering, thanks for your part in making my trip so pleasant.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Looking a gift horse in the mouth (Feb 2009 column)
This new $825 billion stimulus package puts me in mind of winning the lottery: we'll probably blow most of it and there's a real danger we'll sink ourselves in the process. And like the lottery, someone else will be footing the bill for every penny we spend.
News reports have emphasized the transportation infrastructure component of the stimulus, but it turns out that roads, bridges, and public transit come to just over 5% of the package, or about $42 billion. Oregon's expecting roughly $420 million of that. By the time that filters down to Jackson County it's not even a big Powerball. But the fact is that the stimulus is coming our way, and we could do some great things with a few million.
Just not with these millions. Local transportation agencies are effectively prohibited from spending the stimulus on most projects of lasting impact. That's because projects of lasting impact require planning and flexibility and ongoing attention, while transportation projects using stimulus funds must begin within 90 days—so-called "shovel-ready" jobs. Forget any project requiring substantial design work, permitting, or environmental impact study. Forget thinking things through.
The proper use of borrowed money is for projects that solve ongoing problems. Projects that improve our situation rather than just maintaining it. That sort of project has been written right out of the question by the 90-day rule. Immediate job creation is a reasonable motivation for this package, but temporary employment alone, destined to evaporate leaving just a thin asphalt residue, is not enough to justify spending this much imagined wealth. The fact is, we'll put most of this money we didn't work for into projects we'll barely notice. One day they'll grind up a road that hadn't struck you as bad and the next day it'll be fresh and oily-black. Two days after that you'll forget it ever happened. We're mortgaging the farm to paint the barn. Pretend though, just for a minute, that it didn't have to be that way.
Go with me here, but don't worry, because what I'm suggesting will never happen. Let's make headlines: let's tell Washington that the Rogue Valley doesn't want our portion of the stimulus unless we can have the freedom to spend it in ways that will benefit our children for as long as they're paying it back. Failing that, we'll respectfully decline our portion, along with our share of the debt when the note comes due.
What kind of transportation project would justify the use of borrowed funds? Here's one that's been on my mind: I'd like to see a vehicle buy-back program for the Rogue Valley. Handgun buy-back programs intended to make city streets safer have been popular with urban police departments for years. But motor vehicles kill far more Americans every year than firearms, and a well-crafted vehicle buy-back program could make real progress in making our streets safer. In this program, you'll be able to trade in your car for a complete and personalized transportation package. If you like, we'll put local bike builders to work crafting you a custom ride, and you'll get a sturdy trailer to go with it. You'll get a voucher to a locally owned store for rain gear, comfortable walking shoes, and the finest umbrella you ever owned. Take good care of these things because your children were kind enough to buy them for you. But it's true you won't walk and bike everywhere, so you'll also get an annual bus pass and a membership in Ashland CarShare, which should, in this expanding market, be providing shared vehicles valley-wide. If you turn 16 and decide to forgo your driver's license, you get these benefits too.
By emphasizing a change in the way we travel, we'll be starting to change the system of incentives that has made us think three miles is too far ever to walk in a city, and a quarter mile is a bit far if the car's handy. We'll be reducing our need for transportation infrastructure and foreign oil, and learning how to provide for ourselves. We'll be addressing local needs through thrift instead of waste. That way, when we've finally stimulated our economy into complete submission, we'll at least have the makings of a transportation system we can still use—and more importantly, the knowledge, fitness, and willpower to use it.
News reports have emphasized the transportation infrastructure component of the stimulus, but it turns out that roads, bridges, and public transit come to just over 5% of the package, or about $42 billion. Oregon's expecting roughly $420 million of that. By the time that filters down to Jackson County it's not even a big Powerball. But the fact is that the stimulus is coming our way, and we could do some great things with a few million.
Just not with these millions. Local transportation agencies are effectively prohibited from spending the stimulus on most projects of lasting impact. That's because projects of lasting impact require planning and flexibility and ongoing attention, while transportation projects using stimulus funds must begin within 90 days—so-called "shovel-ready" jobs. Forget any project requiring substantial design work, permitting, or environmental impact study. Forget thinking things through.
The proper use of borrowed money is for projects that solve ongoing problems. Projects that improve our situation rather than just maintaining it. That sort of project has been written right out of the question by the 90-day rule. Immediate job creation is a reasonable motivation for this package, but temporary employment alone, destined to evaporate leaving just a thin asphalt residue, is not enough to justify spending this much imagined wealth. The fact is, we'll put most of this money we didn't work for into projects we'll barely notice. One day they'll grind up a road that hadn't struck you as bad and the next day it'll be fresh and oily-black. Two days after that you'll forget it ever happened. We're mortgaging the farm to paint the barn. Pretend though, just for a minute, that it didn't have to be that way.
Go with me here, but don't worry, because what I'm suggesting will never happen. Let's make headlines: let's tell Washington that the Rogue Valley doesn't want our portion of the stimulus unless we can have the freedom to spend it in ways that will benefit our children for as long as they're paying it back. Failing that, we'll respectfully decline our portion, along with our share of the debt when the note comes due.
What kind of transportation project would justify the use of borrowed funds? Here's one that's been on my mind: I'd like to see a vehicle buy-back program for the Rogue Valley. Handgun buy-back programs intended to make city streets safer have been popular with urban police departments for years. But motor vehicles kill far more Americans every year than firearms, and a well-crafted vehicle buy-back program could make real progress in making our streets safer. In this program, you'll be able to trade in your car for a complete and personalized transportation package. If you like, we'll put local bike builders to work crafting you a custom ride, and you'll get a sturdy trailer to go with it. You'll get a voucher to a locally owned store for rain gear, comfortable walking shoes, and the finest umbrella you ever owned. Take good care of these things because your children were kind enough to buy them for you. But it's true you won't walk and bike everywhere, so you'll also get an annual bus pass and a membership in Ashland CarShare, which should, in this expanding market, be providing shared vehicles valley-wide. If you turn 16 and decide to forgo your driver's license, you get these benefits too.
By emphasizing a change in the way we travel, we'll be starting to change the system of incentives that has made us think three miles is too far ever to walk in a city, and a quarter mile is a bit far if the car's handy. We'll be reducing our need for transportation infrastructure and foreign oil, and learning how to provide for ourselves. We'll be addressing local needs through thrift instead of waste. That way, when we've finally stimulated our economy into complete submission, we'll at least have the makings of a transportation system we can still use—and more importantly, the knowledge, fitness, and willpower to use it.
Friday, January 16, 2009
An immediate campaign of urgent self-improvement (Jan 2009 column)
There's a certain kind of person—and I include myself—who gets a little antsy this time of year. We've made our holiday trips, used our vacation days, and rationalized a whole season of indulgences. The next paid holiday isn't for five months. In short, we've run out of distractions and there's nothing for it but to confront life, with its waking up, going to work, and the whole bit. The obvious response, for those of us of a certain temperament, is to invent a new distraction as quickly as possible. The louder and more dramatic the better, so it's hard to beat an immediate campaign of urgent self-improvement.
Any over-ambitious plan can occupy my thinking for a couple days, but I've found I get the most distraction value from the most realistic goals. Unrealistic goals get uninteresting as soon as they fail, which they seem to do pretty quickly. Realistic goals, in addition to lasting longer, can offer the benefit of changing something worth changing. So in the spirit of this bicycle- and pedestrian-oriented column, I offer some realistic thoughts about changing travel habits from two people in our fair valley who are leading by example.
Becky Brown is a mother of three who recently founded Ashland CarShare, a non-profit business that lets members share the costs and the benefits of car ownership. This is not a disinterested pursuit for Brown, who has been living car-free since she sold her ailing VW van in 2007. Brown eased her family into the change after she realized repairing—and keeping—the van was optional. Brown says her attachment to owning a vehicle "was like a mental block." Once she got past it, she realized the van had "fostered a dependence that made me uncomfortable." Her children, however, didn't immediately embrace the idea. "For a while, the kids begged to take the van every time we went out." But Brown was persistent, parking the van out of sight while she made sure her family could in fact live without a vehicle. After three months of walking, cycling, and busing around town, she and her children saw that the van had become peripheral to their lives. Brown hasn't looked back, and the carsharing program is an effort to make the new lifestyle sustainable for her family and accessible to others.
Jim Bauermeister suspects he's still the only person ever to have biked to his high school in rural eastern Washington. He rode the 22-mile round trip a couple times and never fully recovered from the experience. Bauermeister, of Medford, is now orchard manager for the OSU Extension Service in Central Point. He aims to bike his commute more often than he drives it. Bauermeister traces his interest in bike commuting to the first energy crisis in the 70's, and he has found in his love of resource efficiency a lasting reason to ride instead of driving. "I like bikes," he explains. "They're superior to cars in every way... though they're not much for carrying plywood."
My own travel change is not complete, but I've made some progress. Most days, I ride my bike to work. When my will falters, I take the bus or share a ride to the transfer station. Cycling to work makes me happy, and it lets my wife and me get by with one car. I trace my bike commuting days to Bike to Work Day in 2002. From that great ride forward, I thought of myself as a bike commuter, though my dusty 10-speed might often have disagreed. It wasn't until my wife and I got rid of our second car that the change really took hold. The two key moments in my progress were 1) taking that first ride, and 2) eliminating driving completely from my daily choices for getting to work.
My change of habit has actually been fairly easy, but it became possible only when I did away with the even easier option of driving. We're like water, aren't we? We can cut our way through a mountain range if we must, but only when there's not an easier way. In contrast to water, though, we're able to chose our own route—and reap the rewards of that choice. As Becky Brown says of raising a family without a car, "It's not hard at all. The hard part is living in a car world."
Incidentally, I plan to try jogging my commute as soon as I shake this cough. That and a little more good snow in the mountains ought to keep me distracted at least through March.
Any over-ambitious plan can occupy my thinking for a couple days, but I've found I get the most distraction value from the most realistic goals. Unrealistic goals get uninteresting as soon as they fail, which they seem to do pretty quickly. Realistic goals, in addition to lasting longer, can offer the benefit of changing something worth changing. So in the spirit of this bicycle- and pedestrian-oriented column, I offer some realistic thoughts about changing travel habits from two people in our fair valley who are leading by example.
Becky Brown is a mother of three who recently founded Ashland CarShare, a non-profit business that lets members share the costs and the benefits of car ownership. This is not a disinterested pursuit for Brown, who has been living car-free since she sold her ailing VW van in 2007. Brown eased her family into the change after she realized repairing—and keeping—the van was optional. Brown says her attachment to owning a vehicle "was like a mental block." Once she got past it, she realized the van had "fostered a dependence that made me uncomfortable." Her children, however, didn't immediately embrace the idea. "For a while, the kids begged to take the van every time we went out." But Brown was persistent, parking the van out of sight while she made sure her family could in fact live without a vehicle. After three months of walking, cycling, and busing around town, she and her children saw that the van had become peripheral to their lives. Brown hasn't looked back, and the carsharing program is an effort to make the new lifestyle sustainable for her family and accessible to others.
Jim Bauermeister suspects he's still the only person ever to have biked to his high school in rural eastern Washington. He rode the 22-mile round trip a couple times and never fully recovered from the experience. Bauermeister, of Medford, is now orchard manager for the OSU Extension Service in Central Point. He aims to bike his commute more often than he drives it. Bauermeister traces his interest in bike commuting to the first energy crisis in the 70's, and he has found in his love of resource efficiency a lasting reason to ride instead of driving. "I like bikes," he explains. "They're superior to cars in every way... though they're not much for carrying plywood."
My own travel change is not complete, but I've made some progress. Most days, I ride my bike to work. When my will falters, I take the bus or share a ride to the transfer station. Cycling to work makes me happy, and it lets my wife and me get by with one car. I trace my bike commuting days to Bike to Work Day in 2002. From that great ride forward, I thought of myself as a bike commuter, though my dusty 10-speed might often have disagreed. It wasn't until my wife and I got rid of our second car that the change really took hold. The two key moments in my progress were 1) taking that first ride, and 2) eliminating driving completely from my daily choices for getting to work.
My change of habit has actually been fairly easy, but it became possible only when I did away with the even easier option of driving. We're like water, aren't we? We can cut our way through a mountain range if we must, but only when there's not an easier way. In contrast to water, though, we're able to chose our own route—and reap the rewards of that choice. As Becky Brown says of raising a family without a car, "It's not hard at all. The hard part is living in a car world."
Incidentally, I plan to try jogging my commute as soon as I shake this cough. That and a little more good snow in the mountains ought to keep me distracted at least through March.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Location Location Location (Dec 2008 column)
We have it on the authority of Thoreau that the best zoning laws are those which zone least. And after nearly a century of modern zoning practice, that concept has at last caught on with our nation’s land use planners and in our collective thinking. After all, it took the aggressive zoning of the last century to give us certain absurdities we now take for granted, like swaths of family homes whose residents can't reasonably leave the neighborhood without a car. Or equally vast commercial areas without a single human resident, equally unnavigable by foot.
Before the era of zoning laws, development was largely unrestricted with regard to use and density, and accordingly, it was dominated by the kind of mixed-use model that land use planners around the country are now working to restore. If you want a community to feel organic, there’s nothing like letting it grow organically. Unless you listen carefully nowadays, you might be led to believe that the new zoning schemes showing up around the country are the product of a new generation of policy prodigies. In fact, the new schemes are in essence just a thoughtful relaxation of past over-regulation. Planning policy is not creating dense mixed-use development, it is finally allowing it. We weren't too dumb all along to want organic communities, it's just that they were illegal.
A migration back to urban areas is already in full swing in many of our large and mid-sized cities; we’re now beginning to embrace that trend in small cities and towns like those that define the Rogue Valley. Communities like ours have the best opportunity to become the sort that will thrive in the future. We exist on a reasonable scale and we're still connected to the land that surrounds us. We have farms and public venues and first-class recreation and enough good water, if we use it responsibly. We can make many of our own commodities and accommodate most of our own waste, if we create it responsibly.
Let me pause to say that if you are committed to rural living in our valley, by all means carry on. But in that case, your contribution to the livability of our valley should be through becoming truly committed to that life, and not trying to simulate suburban living in a rural setting. Rural life may mean having chickens or a productive garden. It may mean working or exercising at home. It will certainly mean combining or sharing automobile trips into town. Remember that denser development in urban areas is vital for preserving rural areas.
Our valley's future will be determined by our decisions about what we eat, how we work, and where we recreate—but no choice is more powerful than where we live within our valley. If there is a move in your near future, you have a chance to lead the way. In the next decade our small cities can experience the same redevelopment patterns of larger re-urbanizing cities and benefit from a resulting quality of life not surpassed anywhere. Don’t doubt that property values will follow. But we’re being reminded powerfully that property values giveth and property values taketh away. Let's instead make our decisions based on livability, which will in turn create value.
When zoning laws don't restrict unduly, developers will build what we demand. And they'll be building a lot; estimates from the state indicate that Jackson County will need to double its residential and commercial buildings before 2030. Let's demand—that is, let's rent and buy—the right things. Namely, housing mixed with the kind of commercial services we use in an average week. Homes near parks and grocery stores and our jobs. Offices served by public transit. And more than anything else, let's demand that our investment in public transportation infrastructure prioritize the best modes of travel, walking and cycling, above all others. One way to demand these values in our future development is to buy or live in a part of town designated a "Transit Oriented Development," or TOD. Municipalities across the Rogue Valley are designating areas as TODs, where new development will encourage organic mixed use and require improved accessibility by foot, wheelchair, stroller, and bicycle. Ask your real estate agent to show you homes in the TODs first.
Oregon's land use planners have always been ahead of the curve, and our decisions make land use planners of us all. There's little question that the ability to live well close to home will be a great asset in the near future. As for me, I'm planning now.
Before the era of zoning laws, development was largely unrestricted with regard to use and density, and accordingly, it was dominated by the kind of mixed-use model that land use planners around the country are now working to restore. If you want a community to feel organic, there’s nothing like letting it grow organically. Unless you listen carefully nowadays, you might be led to believe that the new zoning schemes showing up around the country are the product of a new generation of policy prodigies. In fact, the new schemes are in essence just a thoughtful relaxation of past over-regulation. Planning policy is not creating dense mixed-use development, it is finally allowing it. We weren't too dumb all along to want organic communities, it's just that they were illegal.
A migration back to urban areas is already in full swing in many of our large and mid-sized cities; we’re now beginning to embrace that trend in small cities and towns like those that define the Rogue Valley. Communities like ours have the best opportunity to become the sort that will thrive in the future. We exist on a reasonable scale and we're still connected to the land that surrounds us. We have farms and public venues and first-class recreation and enough good water, if we use it responsibly. We can make many of our own commodities and accommodate most of our own waste, if we create it responsibly.
Let me pause to say that if you are committed to rural living in our valley, by all means carry on. But in that case, your contribution to the livability of our valley should be through becoming truly committed to that life, and not trying to simulate suburban living in a rural setting. Rural life may mean having chickens or a productive garden. It may mean working or exercising at home. It will certainly mean combining or sharing automobile trips into town. Remember that denser development in urban areas is vital for preserving rural areas.
Our valley's future will be determined by our decisions about what we eat, how we work, and where we recreate—but no choice is more powerful than where we live within our valley. If there is a move in your near future, you have a chance to lead the way. In the next decade our small cities can experience the same redevelopment patterns of larger re-urbanizing cities and benefit from a resulting quality of life not surpassed anywhere. Don’t doubt that property values will follow. But we’re being reminded powerfully that property values giveth and property values taketh away. Let's instead make our decisions based on livability, which will in turn create value.
When zoning laws don't restrict unduly, developers will build what we demand. And they'll be building a lot; estimates from the state indicate that Jackson County will need to double its residential and commercial buildings before 2030. Let's demand—that is, let's rent and buy—the right things. Namely, housing mixed with the kind of commercial services we use in an average week. Homes near parks and grocery stores and our jobs. Offices served by public transit. And more than anything else, let's demand that our investment in public transportation infrastructure prioritize the best modes of travel, walking and cycling, above all others. One way to demand these values in our future development is to buy or live in a part of town designated a "Transit Oriented Development," or TOD. Municipalities across the Rogue Valley are designating areas as TODs, where new development will encourage organic mixed use and require improved accessibility by foot, wheelchair, stroller, and bicycle. Ask your real estate agent to show you homes in the TODs first.
Oregon's land use planners have always been ahead of the curve, and our decisions make land use planners of us all. There's little question that the ability to live well close to home will be a great asset in the near future. As for me, I'm planning now.
Friday, October 31, 2008
No Car — Will Travel (Nov 2008 column)
Ever since our car broke down in February during our move from Kentucky, my wife and I have been threatening to shed it entirely. Though we're both favorable to the idea, our conversations about it have centered mainly on objections. Do we tell Mom and Dad to get a taxi from the airport? Can we bike home with three sheets of plywood for the shed? No spontaneous midnight movie trips? But of all the things we would lose in giving up our car, the hardest to swallow might be the quick one-night getaway. The refreshment we both find in a brief escape from daily distraction is something it's hard to imagine going without. And for us, that kind of escape has been nearly synonymous with our car.
After some weeks of casual brainstorming on car-free getaways, two ideas were at the top of our list: the “S24O” and the “Long Walk Home.” We decided to try them both.
The S24O is a bright idea from Grant Peterson, one of the country's more sensible and stylish bicycle builders. He spells out the concept in an Adventure Cyclist article subtitled “Bicycle camping for the time challenged.” The term is an abbreviation of sub-24-hour overnight, and the idea is a quick human-powered getaway that doesn't interfere with your schedule, even midweek. We planned ours for a Wednesday night after work. After dinner, we threw our sleeping bags on the bikes and headed for the hills. One hour later—one hour!—we had sent a black bear loping away through the trees and were sitting on our bags watching the moon rise over mountains. There was no evidence of humanity in sight. We fell asleep that night under the Milky Way and woke in time to cruise down the hill, shower up, and head to work with a sweet and lingering sense of wildness about the day.
We thought up the Long Walk Home as a way to expand our options beyond bike camping. In all honesty, spooking the black bear out of our S24O campsite hadn't made falling asleep particularly easy. I've always thought an inn-to-inn walking trip through some idyllic old world landscape sounded quite tolerable, and the Long Walk Home grew loosely out of that idea. I've not historically been a champion walker—my impatience and inveterate multitasking are not easily compatible with the pace. But when I strip down my to-do list to one thing for a whole day (Saturday: Walk home.), I find I love the simplicity. To extend our range, we caught a Friday afternoon bus to Ashland. The bed and breakfast had stacks of interesting books, and a hot meal got us started on the right foot in the morning. Our route home followed railroad tracks and back roads, and we were rewarded with an abundance of warm blackberries and firm pears gleaned from harvested orchards.
One thing I noticed about walking a route I normally bike or drive is that there's no obstacle to stopping when I'm on foot. Even on my bike, I seldom brake to explore something right beside the road; but during our walk, we paused to watch goats, smell flowers, read signs, and wash the blackberry stains from our fingers in cool water. We arrived home Saturday evening before sunset, after hours of unhurried conversation, with hearty appetites and the very clear feeling that we'd found the escape we wanted. That feeling was richer for having come home under our own power, without a gas tank to fill or a trunk to unload.
We haven't decided to get rid of our car. Before our car-free getaways, I thought if they went well it would be easier to imagine living without the Honda. They went very well, but the fact is, the closer I've come in my mind to the idea of having no car, the more radical it seems. What I can say, however, is that after these outings and several months of commuting to work by bike and bus, I feel different about our car. Though I feel less attached to it, I actually appreciate it more than I did before. I'm aware of it as a tool, and I'm aware too of my ability to move and explore and arrive without it.
Thanks go to the Medford Sneak Preview for offering me a place to share our explorations with you in the coming months.
After some weeks of casual brainstorming on car-free getaways, two ideas were at the top of our list: the “S24O” and the “Long Walk Home.” We decided to try them both.
The S24O is a bright idea from Grant Peterson, one of the country's more sensible and stylish bicycle builders. He spells out the concept in an Adventure Cyclist article subtitled “Bicycle camping for the time challenged.” The term is an abbreviation of sub-24-hour overnight, and the idea is a quick human-powered getaway that doesn't interfere with your schedule, even midweek. We planned ours for a Wednesday night after work. After dinner, we threw our sleeping bags on the bikes and headed for the hills. One hour later—one hour!—we had sent a black bear loping away through the trees and were sitting on our bags watching the moon rise over mountains. There was no evidence of humanity in sight. We fell asleep that night under the Milky Way and woke in time to cruise down the hill, shower up, and head to work with a sweet and lingering sense of wildness about the day.
We thought up the Long Walk Home as a way to expand our options beyond bike camping. In all honesty, spooking the black bear out of our S24O campsite hadn't made falling asleep particularly easy. I've always thought an inn-to-inn walking trip through some idyllic old world landscape sounded quite tolerable, and the Long Walk Home grew loosely out of that idea. I've not historically been a champion walker—my impatience and inveterate multitasking are not easily compatible with the pace. But when I strip down my to-do list to one thing for a whole day (Saturday: Walk home.), I find I love the simplicity. To extend our range, we caught a Friday afternoon bus to Ashland. The bed and breakfast had stacks of interesting books, and a hot meal got us started on the right foot in the morning. Our route home followed railroad tracks and back roads, and we were rewarded with an abundance of warm blackberries and firm pears gleaned from harvested orchards.
One thing I noticed about walking a route I normally bike or drive is that there's no obstacle to stopping when I'm on foot. Even on my bike, I seldom brake to explore something right beside the road; but during our walk, we paused to watch goats, smell flowers, read signs, and wash the blackberry stains from our fingers in cool water. We arrived home Saturday evening before sunset, after hours of unhurried conversation, with hearty appetites and the very clear feeling that we'd found the escape we wanted. That feeling was richer for having come home under our own power, without a gas tank to fill or a trunk to unload.
We haven't decided to get rid of our car. Before our car-free getaways, I thought if they went well it would be easier to imagine living without the Honda. They went very well, but the fact is, the closer I've come in my mind to the idea of having no car, the more radical it seems. What I can say, however, is that after these outings and several months of commuting to work by bike and bus, I feel different about our car. Though I feel less attached to it, I actually appreciate it more than I did before. I'm aware of it as a tool, and I'm aware too of my ability to move and explore and arrive without it.
Thanks go to the Medford Sneak Preview for offering me a place to share our explorations with you in the coming months.
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