By HENRY SHUKMAN
Published: October 26, 2012
THE poet C. P. Cavafy said that a city changes when you fall in love with someone in it. It can also change for less exalted reasons: when, for example, instead of sealing yourself in the personal microclimate of an automobile, you use a bicycle to get around. I happened to grow up in Oxford, England, a city, and country, where biking is a normal means of transport, no more a sport than bipedalism is. But it rains a lot, and I didn’t come away with a proper appreciation of the benefits of the bicycle.
But here in Santa Fe, N.M., where I live now, it’s a different story. Every day I ride three miles to my office. These days there’s an autumn crispness in the air, and an almost detectable scent of frost. Along the way I pass under cottonwood trees, between adobe compounds and past the Capitol building before the morning rush has filled its parking lots, then follow the train tracks for a while along a dedicated bike trail, before reaching the rusty loft where I work. It hardly ever rains, and I have learned to love my bike.