Bright idea #49: Let's see if I can ride my bike from my house to the ferry dock. How long will it take? Is this a viable way to get the exercise I so need?

Put on the Shimano SPD biking shoes, gray cotton/lycra shorts, sports bra and tank top. Find helmet. Look for bike rack pack, fail to find it, and use the panier instead. Unlock bike. Get on. Note starting time.

First stop at the gas station for air. The tires are both a little low. Pay 75 cents for the air. Restart the timer and continue. Stop at the bike store when you realize the bike you are riding is no longer comfortable, is too heavy, has lost its agility. Find out that the '07 models aren't in yet, the '06's are mostly gone, and you have to wait about a month to see your options. Realize your interest in getting a new bike, and in bicycling itself, is rapidly waning.

Proceed down the Ruston Way waterfront path. Note that most people you approach do not respond to the exclamation, "on your left!" Consider getting a bell, the kind you might have had on your bike when you were a kid. You know, the one with a metal paddle you push and it goes "ching, ching".

Okay, the tunnel is approaching. Not the metaphoric tunnel, the real one. On the approach, cars are passing you and are pissed that you are not riding in the dirt and gravel on the side of the road. Once in the tunnel, you freak out because it's dark and uphill and there is hardly room for two cars to pass each other, much less to pass a bicycle, too. Whew. Glad that's done.

Wind through the Ruston neighborhood by the police station. Make an illegal right-hand turn to head down the hill to the ferry dock. 35 minutes. Not bad. It's only 5 or so miles, but there was a lot of foot traffic on the trail, and some moderate uphills to deal with.

Luckily, as you've become very hungry, there is Anthony's HomePort restaurant on the pier. You order rockfish tacos with pineapple salsa, to go. While waiting, you drink several free glasses of club soda with lime, quite aware that you are scantily clad, sweating, and fat. Nowhere to hide. The bartender is nonetheless courteous and servile. Big tip for nice bartender.

Go to a picnic table and eat a few bites of one of the tacos. You can't eat too much because there is that hill to go up right away. Reverse course, up to the Ruston neighborhood, down to the tunnel, along the waterfront. When nearing Old Town, realize that your front tire is going flat. Is flat. Shit.

Walk through the lovely Old Town neighborhood and past the Annie Wright Academy, doing the arithmetic in your head: you will push the bicycle about two miles. You deserve ice cream.

You've had a sore place in your throat, and you spend the two miles thinking about what it could be. It doesn't hurt when you swallow, like a swollen throat from a virus might. It only hurts, in fact, when you push against your trachea on the opposite side. The pain is deep under your ear. You think, of course, that it's a thyroid tumor or something growing on your vocal chords. Hmmm, if they have to do surgery and you somehow lose your voice, you will be able to use all of that sign language interpreter training. You could really work on your expressive skills then!

But you stop thinking of this, and stop at the Stadium Thriftway for toothpaste and Ben & Jerry's New York Superfudge Chunk. It turns out to be less spectacular than you needed it to be, but it's still chocolate. The rockfish tacos are fabulous, and you add just the right amount of The Rock Pizza's orange chipotle dressing, which makes everything better. Well, most things; for instance, you wouldn't put it on the ice cream.

You shower, eat, and delete a bunch of shows from your DVR. There are only so many episodes of WIll & Grace and South Park you can watch. You return calls from a friend and your brother, anticipate a deep, satisfying sleep, and head for bed.

You might still buy that bicycle . . .