Suburban racer

I plead guilty — with extenuating circumstances.

I don’t think I’m reckless, though others do. I confess that I don’t (shield your children’s eyes) wear a helmet most of the time when I ride my bike.

For the prosecution: There are few bike lanes in the West Island suburb where I live, so crisscrossing between sidewalk and road, with traffic nipping at your heels, can be, um, hair-raising at times. And I do swish past stop signs at a goodish pace, although mostly on very quiet streets. I do tend to turn any cardio exercise into a race — faster, faster, faster. I’d say it’s a guy thing, but I’ve seen many women (girls, mostly) do the same. So guilty on two counts. For the defence: It’s a nineminute ride from my house to the train station, where I park my bike. I have good peripheral vision and am super-aware of traffic, continually looking around me, not quite 360 degrees, but 200 or so. Even so, I came closest recently to getting thumped — no way to eliminate danger. Might need to review my policy.

It’s not to be contrarian — I’m just slightly claustrophobic. Subways, planes, cinemas, basements, seatbelts (which, ahem, I do wear) and helmets — anything constricting gives me a momentary pinch. The defence rests. OK, fine, I’m guilty. But come on; I gotta get some brownie points for not using any carbon at all to get to and from work, right?