In January 2008 I made a resolution to quit driving my car and instead ride a bike.  I’ve had a love/hate relationship with driving almost from the beginning, not only because I just don’t like driving, but I am not very good at it.  Need some proof?  How about the four car accidents I had before I turned 18?

Since moving to Los Angeles, I have had my share of fender benders and numerous points added to my drivers license, and sat through hours and hours of traffic school, all contributing to the 2008 New Year’s resolution to give up the metal and turn to the pedal.

On January 2, 2008, I drove down to my local bike store and after two hours of shopping I left with the most beautiful, tricked-out Cadillac of street bikes – complete with front and rear baskets, reflectors, light for night driving, and the cutest bell – strapped to the back of my now obsolete car.

Like all good resolutions I had a myriad of reasons not to actually start it.  First we had a California cold snap, and I thought I better wait until that ended.  Didn’t want to catch a seasonal flu.  Then we had the usual California heat wave, and I figured I better wait for that to pass.  Didn’t want to faint on the road from heat exhaustion.

The months went by, gas prices hit over $4.00 a gallon, I got two more tickets and still the tricked-out bike sat in the carport waiting for me to start my resolution.

Finally, in January 2009, I decided I’d sat in my last Los Angeles traffic jam, that I had wasted my last hour circling the parking lot at the mall looking for a space…it was time to enact that 2008 resolution. I dusted off my bike, parked my car, and began to pedal everywhere that I went.

Deciding to go bike in a city that was clearly designed for cars is not an easy feat, I can tell you that.  First of all, there are not many bike lanes on the streets of the city of Angels.  So, after nearly loosing my head, literally, on Magnolia Boulevard by a shocked Toyota Tercel driver when she bumped into me while making a left turn, I went and bought the coolest and safest bike helmet I could find.  This was not easy, because bike helmets are not very attractive.

It took two and half hours to get to a dentist appointment, and when I arrived I was so out of breath and dripping with sweat that I decided to change dentists to one that was a more manageable ride.  I also changed my doctor, my hairdresser, my pharmacy and my Pilates teacher so that they were in a closer, more peddle-friendly range.

After nearly running into a Explorer while peddling down Hazeltine with my dry cleaning held high above my head, streaming in the wind, I decided that perhaps one day of driving was necessary for the unbikable errands.  So one day a week I complete my grocery shopping and other various errands by car.

Automobiles can’t hear me when I frantically ring my bike bell, or if they can they resent it so much that they ignore it.  I no longer ring my bell when riding up to senior citizens walking down the street.  I learned that after I made one sweet elderly lady cry when I scared the shit out of her.

Just like driving, not a good idea to text while biking either. I learned that after skinning my knee when I ran into the curve while trying to say, “I’m on my way.”  And, never leave things in your bike basket, because someone will even steal your water bottle.

After eight months of being nearly automobile-free, and the year is coming to an end, will I keep it up?  I think I will.  I’ve lost 20 pounds, I’ve regained some of my sanity and I get a really good feeling knowing that I am no longer adding to global warming.  I’m thinking that this year’s resolution will be to give up my cell phone.  I should get around to it sometime in 2012.

Every morning for the past ten years, I’ve set my alarm for 7:00 a.m., planning to go running.  Every morning, without exception, I’ve hit the snooze and gone back to sleep.  I’ve spent entire weekends hatching schemes about how this week I’ll finally start.  “I’ll relax all day today, and Sunday too,” I reason, “and then come Monday, I’ll get up early and start my new routine.”  Doesn’t happen. I’ve gone as far as to lay out my entire outfit, thinking that if I see it lying there, I’ll have to put it on and go. But that hasn’t worked either…I just sweep it aside and wander into the kitchen looking for breakfast.  In reality, I’m the only runner in the world who doesn’t actually run.

How many times have you seen this scene in the movies?  The cute prosecutor who’s about to become involved in the biggest case of her short career is troubled.  She needs to work out the details of the murder, and stop thinking about the handsome suspect.  To clear her head, she puts on spandex running pants and a grubby white t-shirt and heads out the door for a bracing 3-mile run through scenic woods and back roads.  By the time she gets back, she’s either figured everything out, or been shot at, one or the other, but gosh darn it she looks cute.  No red puffy face, no salty sweat dripping in her eyes, not her.  No, she has just zipped along, past breezy cornfields and sun-dappled meadows like a graceful gazelle, happy to be running, running, running.

I want to be her.  I want to be able to run for more than ten minutes without wheezing and gasping for air.  I would like to not look like a lobster dropped into a pot. I would like my white t-shirt not to have even a hint of a sweat stain on it when I return, or if there has to be one, it should lightly ring the neck in a delicate v-shape.  I’d like to be able to chat with my neighbor as I run by, me at a fast trot, her pushing the twins along in their double stroller.  “Hi, Mora*, how are the kids…they’re getting so big,” I’d say without even a hint of breathiness.  Mora would envy my slim physique and easy gait as she called after me, “just fine, Mim*, just fine…”

I have tried to run a few times. I get Walter all peeed and pooped and then warn him, “we’re going to run for the next twenty minutes, okay boy?”  We take off at a moderate clip, make it about five blocks and then I reach my wall.  After five blocks.  I just can’t continue or I’ll die.  My lungs burn, my knees ache, a weird twinge goes off in my ankle. I reason with myself again (I do that a lot), “five more blocks and you can stop.”  We keep going, feeling very virtuous.  We get to the corner and I check my watch.  We’ve only been running for a total of seven minutes.  How is that possible? It feels like forever. Dammit!

Walter has to be involved in my running plans because he has a tendency toward chunkiness, unlike his fantastic, goddess-slim mother (stop laughing, I can hear you, you know).  So, earlier this week, Mina* and I worked out a plan.  We’d train for a 5K…me, her, Walter, Mina’s boyfriend, her son, her friend Modi*, all of us.  We’d participate in the “Race for the Rescues” 5K on October 4 that raises funds for The Rescue Train, the wonderful organization that Walter came from.

Mina found a great web site that outlined a “Couch-to-5K” running plan.  It’s nine weeks long, exactly the amount of time till the Race.  Week One, the plan said, here’s what you do.  “Brisk five minute warm-up walk. Then alternate 60 seconds of jogging and 90 seconds of walking for a total of 20 minutes.” We could do that.

Walter and I began this morning.  We got up at seven (yay, finally!). I put on my scruffy white t-shirt, my iPod and brand new running shoes (all new plans require new equipment), and we were out the door by 7:15. Summer mornings are actually quite pleasant, did you know that?  Very cool and quiet…who knew?  Had no idea what I was missing while I was fast asleep.

We walked for five minutes, then ran for a minute, walked a minute and a half, ran a minute…until we got to 20 minutes exactly.  Each of those running minutes felt like a running hour. I kept envisioning kids standing by the side of the road, cheering me on, with cut-up oranges or paper cups of water in their outstretched hands.  Then I realized, this wasn’t the Boston Marathon and I wasn’t approaching the Mile 18 marker on Commonwealth Avenue. No, I’d gone about six blocks in beautiful Valley Village and kids don’t even play in the streets here, never mind hand you stuff.

I was red-faced and had completely sweated through my Hanes v-neck tee, but felt quite proud that I’d successfully completed the first week’s task.  As we walked home, I started doing the math in my head.  In total, we’d only run about five minutes.  That was barely a fraction of a mile.  We’d have to be able to do three miles in a few short weeks.  Ugh. Well, I’ll do this two more times this week…and then next week we’ll pump it up.  “Week Two:  Start with a brisk five minute warm-up walk. Then alternate 90 seconds of jogging and two minutes of walking for a total of 20 minutes.”

I CAN do this…I can be that running girl I’ve always dreamt of being.  The one who breezes past me as I huff and puff my way up Runyon Canyon. And then runs back down the hill, not sweating, as I’m still struggling to make it to the top.  She can be me.  And Walter can get back down to a svelte 15 lbs, from a well-rounded, over-indulged, Jewish-mother-induced 18.5. We can do this together, he and I. I’m going to be a runner, even if it kills me…one who actually runs. Think good thoughts for us.

*  All names have been changed to protect the innocent except Walter’s…he doesn’t read the blog much…