No Car

Day 1

This week, I'm turning back the clock more than 100 years in one way: I'm not going to drive or ride in a car all week. I'm going to try to go about my days as if I had a car, and then figure how to get where I need to be. Already I know I'll have to bike about four miles to a dentist appointment on Thursday. Ahhh, the lucky hygienist who gets to be in a closed room with me after a sweaty bike ride!

A first observation: riding uphill in a car is vastly under-appreciated. As I biked two miles to the pool today, I quickly realized the ride is steeper than it seems behind the wheel. Plus, my car's air conditioning was replaced by the summer's 90-degree heat, a trade-off worse than Manhattan for trinkets.

My neighbor Kristen laughed as I rode up the driveway flopping sweat like a guilty man on the witness stand, so I told her my plans for the week. "Looks like you won't be going anywhere too far this week."

Hmmm, a challenge. I only logged about four miles on the bike today, so maybe I should shoot to double it each day. Actually, now that I'm allowed to do math after last week, I quickly realize that might be dumber than a Prince Valiant haircut. I'd have to ride 256 miles on Sunday, which is a measly 240 miles longer than any bike ride in my life.

Day 2

I'm fortunate to live within easy walking distance of suppliers of all my major food groups: 2 pizza shops, a Wawa, 2 restaurants, and an ice cream shop. So, for those worried, yes, I'll be able to maintain my college kid's diet of pizza, hoagies, hamburgers, and ice cream this week.

I took a leisurely walk this morning to the CVS a quarter-mile away and, now that I'm not behind the wheel of a car, I got to thinking about how many different vehicles I've driven. My aunt's motorboat, a stand-up Jet Ski, a sit-down Wave Runner, a moving van, a landscaper's truck, nine different cars owned by me or my family--and the kicker, a Jack & Jill ice cream truck.

I worked parts of two summers during college as the ice cream man, essentially summer's Santa. For a college student, the pay was great; after covering the daily truck rental and the wholesale cost of the goods, I made from $100 to $150 a day.

The more you sold, the higher percentage of sales you'd keep, so it paid to hustle and not eat your profits. You try ignoring the sweet sounds of Chipwiches and Choco Tacos calling out to you as the mid-day sun beats down. More often than not, I heeded their call, and so a lifetime love affair began.

Because time was my money as an ice cream man, I wasn't the most patient driver on the highway between points A and B. Which is how I came to realize how much fun people have laughing, pointing, and taunting an ice cream man who gets pulled over by the cops for speeding.

I'm sure I shocked more than a few kids who saw the ice cream man in trouble with the law that day. How does a parent reply if a kid questions that? "Don't worry, dear, I'm sure the ice cream man's not going to jail. The nice policeman probably just really wanted a Mickey Mouse bar."

It was even weirder to have to walk to the window to accept my ticket from the cop as if he were buying ice cream. I was tempted to bribe him with a Choco Taco--really, these things had that kind of mind-altering power.

Now, whenever I see an ice cream man--I think one built a McMansion because of his success at the nearby soccer field--I wish there was a sign I could flash like bikers do when they pass on the road. You know, the low wave. I think the ice cream man's signal would be a sly smile and a whispered, "Ka-Ching!"

Days 3 & 4

In my eagerness to take to the streets on my new ride (my bike), I overdid things a little and wound up getting re-acquainted with Skelaxin and Aleve. They sound like great characters for my son's burgeoning Space Police Lego collection, but are actually wonders of modern medicine. I needed Skelaxin (muscle reliever) and Aleve (pain reliever) because my back went out (old man disease).

I think it started Monday night when I got a call to help a couple move a bunch of items to their new home. I biked a mile over, worked, then biked back. Tuesday night I biked a mile the other direction to help another couple carry their Shaq-sized elliptical machine into the house, up the winding steps, and into the bedroom. Carrying that thing around the house is a harder workout than anyone will get on that elliptical machine.

Wednesday morning, I was doing the Back Walk, a move familiar to 114-year-old men or anyone who's ever thrown out their back. Your back is straight, your knees are bent, angled slightly so you're bow-legged, your hand is on your back, and your face is in a grimace while you try to move one of your feet. Repeat for the other foot. It's now five minutes later and you've gone a total of three feet.

Unfortunately, my wrenched back meant I had to break my No-Car rule for the first time. I planned to bike to my dentist's appointment three miles away Thursday, but I'm in worse shape than Quasimodo. So I took the car, rediscovered air conditioning, and vowed to throw my bike in the Delaware River as soon as I could lift something heavier than my foot.

My punishment for my transgression came immediately: I needed three fillings, leading to 45 minutes of work on my mouth. Of course, it wasn't painful because they numbed my whole lower jaw.

The problem arrived when I was ready to leave and my chin and tongue were number than Iditarod competitors. And I hadn't eaten lunch before the appointment, after which my doctor told me not to eat anything until the numbness subsides--for fear of biting off my tongue.

Now I'm hungry, can't feel my tongue, my chin feelsth like it'sth made of Play-Doh, and asth you can guessth by my sthpelling, I talk like Cthindy Brady in the famousth "Baby Talk" Brady Bunch episthode. Mean ol' Buddy Hinton.

Day 5

I'm thinking about the Amish today, though I'm certain they're not thinking about me. As part of their beliefs, the Amish don't ride in motor vehicles. Some Amish also practice "shunning," avoiding members who don't follow the religion appropriately.

If I were Amish, I'd be their Keith Richards this week. I'd be the poster boy for shunning, the person Amish mothers use to scare their children by telling stories of my misbehaving. That's because Friday, I did it again--I rode in a car. But I can explain, which is shorthand for, "I've got a good rationalization I'd like to sell you!"

I needed to help my wife Linda, who'd gone to the doctor's office but forgot her health insurance card. My back is slightly better, so I guess I could have rode the five miles on my bike. But it'd have taken 25 minutes. And Linda sounded like she was in a hurry. And it looked like it might rain. And it's kind-of uphill on the way there, and it's still pretty humid out. And....

Anyway, I drove my mother-in-law's car; hey, might as well make her complicit in my failure.

So I wonder, can you talk your way out of a shunning? "Ye faithful brethren, shun me not for my motorized ways. For I have seeneth the light--it was the headlight from an oncoming car--and have seeneth the error of mine ways. Though thou really do maketh good time in a car."

Days 6 & 7

The weekend was easier to get by without a ride, perhaps because with more people around, there was less isolation. Stay-at-home moms sometimes must feel stuck in their homes during the week, which I guess would explain why they make 47-minute phone calls to ask each other what they're doing.

I was doing basic housework: mowing the lawn, cleaning up the backyard, doing a load of laundry, essentially anything to keep the keys from my hands in my final hours. Which only made me recall when I was close to turning 16 and couldn't wait to drive.

Back then, you could take the written exam before turning 16 and, once you passed, your learner's permit allowed you to practice driving as long as you were with a licensed driver. Once you turned 16, you could take the driving test whenever you wanted.

My November birthday made me one of the oldest kids in my grade, so I'd be among the first to be able to drive as a sophomore. I had a chance to be cooler than the Fonz. (Only the magic of TV can make a 4-foot-7 guy named Henry Winkler seem ultra-cool.)

The only thing stopping me was me. I failed the written test. I blamed it on nerves, or maybe I rushed things, or perhaps I could have studied the booklet a little more. My real problem had been telling everyone I was taking the test, and then having to show up at school the next day. I went from Fonz to Urkel in no time.

So I regrouped, passed the test on my second try, and counted the days until I turned 16. The inside word was that you shouldn't take the test too close to your birthday because the tester will think you're over-eager. You should wait a few weeks at least. So I waited all the way until the day after my birthday.

Then I failed. Having learned nothing from my first failure, I again told my friends that I'd be taking the test. I had a feeling some people I knew were betting against me, since they suddenly were sporting Members Only jackets in multiple colors.

When I told them I failed, my friends looked at me as if I were wearing a diaper. There's really no good comeback to, "You failed again?"

Eventually I passed. I even taught my daughter to drive last year--and she passed both tests on her first try. I thought about buying my own Members Only jacket to celebrate. Or maybe a Tears For Fears CD.

Speaking of passing and failing, I'd give myself a C for my week without a car. To be perfect, I'd have needed a little luck and much more dedication to taking long bike rides. For now, I've spared my bike a Delaware River dunking and instead shoved it to the back of the shed. Do I need a little break from my bike? Correctamundo!