Sometimes I race the bus; sometimes I win

My bus trundles up Freedom Parkway to Highland, where I am sometimes waiting at the light, both bound north. Occasionally it will be a block ahead and I will catch it, deciding to cruise the remaining four miles home.

Other times, I watch it move, see it shudder, readying to race. It breathes its hollow howl, I adjust my shoe on the pedal, and we wait for the light to snap from red to green, a deaf starter pistol.

And then we race.

My bike and bus commute go pretty much the same way, at least down Briarcliff and Highland to Freedom Parkway. From there, the bike route heads through Freedom Park and across Highland to Edgewood or Auburn; the 16 bus continues down Ralph McGill to Courtland. Either one gets me door-to-office in about the same amount of time, roughly 30-40 minutes, depending how hard I push or how many it hauls.

We have done this race many, many times, sometimes in light traffic but more often in late afternoon's car-clogged rush. It does give me an advantage as I filter to the front.

Wednesday night, I heard the 16 before I saw it, and watched it grumble to the corner and swing wide, just barely missing, as always, the utility pole in front of Madeliene's. Show-off. When the light turned green, I dropped the hammer, so to speak. I had been sneaking sly glances behind me at the cute girl on a road bike, who smiled, but my mind turned to victory, glory: winning that race.

I got in front of the bus at North Avenue, turned and looked up at the driver, who returned my steely gaze. He knew me. I realized months ago I am now one of the Legends of Route 16: Bicycle Guy (there are worse, trust me). We were off again with a green light and I maintained the lead until Intown ACE Hardware. If traffic was light, the bus would beat me.

But I had shortcuts.

Lanier Boulevard parallels Highland but lacks its interruptions: traffic lights; turning cars; jaywalking pedestrians; bus stops. I whipped right and sped down the scenic street, considering, "Do I want to let up and enjoy the ride? Or do I really want to beat the bus?"

That night, for whatever reason, I really, really wanted to beat the bus.

I came to a complete stop at University and dog-legged back to Highland (now Johnson), glancing behind me: pulling up to the red light was the bus! I waved and smiled, then took off again, losing the lead maybe half a mile down the road. I always do. It's wide there, the traffic is light: that growling people-mover pushes past easily, almost arrogantly.

But Briarcliff is the great equalizer. There is just, JUST room enough for a bicyclist along the invariably looooong line of cars. Through the light and to the front of the line, then through another light and creeping past vehicles that might as well be parked. I always imagine surprised or stunned reactions to my passing, as I recognize vehicles that left me long behind: the Subaru festooned with youth soccer and honor student pride stickers; the rattle-trap Geo that is more tape and hope than car; a truck full of landscapers; my bus.

I crested LaVista and hit the downhill, 30 mph toward home. Before I did, though, I snuck one more glance behind: no bus. Nowhere even near.

It is a small victory, arbitrary and petty. It is a race of nothing more than self-challenge. I never feel defeated when I lose but always beam proudly when I win.