I Published a New Essay

It's kinda thrilling, even after all these years, to have another piece in a national newspaper

I’ve written for The Los Angeles Times many times, going back many years. But it never gets old, opening the newspaper, and seeing my own name.

I thought it might be interesting to show you guys the pitch I sent the editor. And the draft I submitted. And finally the article as it was published.

Thanks for your support!

AS PUBLISHED:

Opinion: I thought I had my L.A. cycling commute down. Turns out, I’d been missing the obvious

By Nathan Deuel

Nov. 8, 2024 3 AM PT

The other day I was biking home from Westwood to Venice, as I had for nearly a decade. At Wilshire and Gayley, the trip’s loudest, ugliest intersection, I noticed a guy straddling a 10-speed wearing scrubs. As cars sped by and an 18-wheeler blasted its horn, I nudged ahead and asked the man if he was in med school. Nope, he said in a precise German accent, he was a resident.

When I caught up to him again at Sepulveda, I told him his back wheel needed new spokes. He said he knew, he’d bought the bike for only $100, and wasn’t riding the absolute best?

In the many years I’d done this ride, this was the first time I’d bonded so immediately with a stranger. At Barrington, before he turned right while I continued straight, Conrad (we had exchanged names by then) said, “You must love riding the beach bike path” and waved goodbye.

I felt as if I’d been hit in the stomach.

I pedaled slowly for the next few blocks, not watching for opening car doors, broken glass or potholes. I wasn’t coasting on the pride I felt in not using a car and getting exercise. I was feeling regret and embarrassment.

Despite my carefully curated way of moving through L.A. — having made a transition from motorist to cyclist that felt so special — I never once, in nearly 10 years of good intentions, bragging and evangelizing about cycling, had had the good sense to head farther west so I could finish the last few miles of my ride on the beach bike path that now seemed so obviously the best way to go.

When my family moved to Los Angeles in 2013, we bought a Honda and decided where to live, how we would get to work and which school our child would attend. After settling in Venice Beach, we secured a slot at an elementary school in Westwood, a few miles away. “How bad could the commute be?” we naively thought. We soon found that at peak traffic times, the drive could take an hour. Traffic became part of our daily lives. Our kid lost their first tooth on the 405; my bumper once seemed to kiss a Mercedes; a woman T-boned me so badly that I saw stars. I felt miserable and trapped.

Then came the email that changed everything. My employer, the note said, would give me a new bike, but only if I gave up my parking pass. Soon enough, our kid was attending a Venice elementary school and our car was gathering dust on our block.

With a convert’s enthusiasm, I rode my bike everywhere. I deleted Waze, which thinks you can cross six lanes of traffic on Olympic without a light. I got a cool bike helmet, a decent lock and more and more strong opinions about not driving.

I nailed down the fastest, safest route home from my job in Westwood. I felt muscles tighten and instincts sharpen as I developed a cyclist’s feel for the flow of traffic. I memorized traffic lights and places I might get hit by a car door. I learned which stretches often had broken glass and bad potholes. When a friend visited, we did the route together. I couldn’t imagine the routine getting any better.

Then, Conrad.

In an instant, his beach route comment did me a huge kindness and made me feel like an incurious boor.

Children play in the streets while wearing face masks, in the Golden Hills neighborhood of north Redondo Beach, CA, during the coronavirus pandemic and current safer-at-home orders from California Gov. Gavin Newsom, April 05, 2020.

We got the kid all the way to high school, my employer valued me and I knew a good plumber. I voted regularly and had a pretty good smoothie recipe. But even though I bike on the beach at other times, I’d never thought of riding a few extra blocks to avoid the last two miles of congestion and enjoy a beautiful bicycle ride through paradise every workday.

So that afternoon, I did it. At Colorado and Main, I continued straight, and there it was: the Pacific Ocean bathed in pinks and oranges. I pedaled by three bros holding hands and singing and city workers cleaning public toilets. I saw people doing calisthenics on the rings and ropes and the volleyball fields buzzing with competition. A lifeguard tower shutting down for the day. A woman in a leather pantsuit walking a dog dyed bright pink. A grizzled man singing into a microphone, his feet sandy and splayed.

I arrived home within minutes of when I usually would. And despite my frustration at the years I missed, I was delighted that I could go this way from now on.

In L.A., and indeed anywhere, it’s easy to fall into a groove, to stop looking around, to think we’ve done well enough. It just took a brief conversation with a German guy named Conrad for me to make a slight change that delivered a massive upgrade. Something so small — right in front of me all along — felt so huge. I’ll be on the lookout for whatever else I’ve been missing.

Nathan Deuel is a continuing lecturer at UCLA and the author of “Friday Was the Bomb: Five Years in the Middle East.”

PITCH:

Dear ________,

I've got a new idea for an op-ed for you. After a decade of cycling home from UCLA to Venice, taking the fastest route possible, the other day was the first time I ever slowed down and took the beach bike path. All it took was a German cyclist to chat me up at a stoplight, for him to ask me where I lived, for him to convince me to add just a few minutes to my boring old routine. How had this not been obvious to me before?

Let me explain:

In car-centric L.A., I was like all the others, with a parking pass and a horrible commute by freeway. Then my employer announced a program in which pass holders could turn in their parking pass for a free bike. I did the math and took the offer. Thereafter, for years and years, smug and proud, I'd done the same 7.7-mile bike ride, through rain and wind, blinding sunshine and swirling fog, taking the safest, most direct route, as fast as I could go. Some weeks I'd go faster than others but always I arrived home sweaty, content, and so glad I didn't drive.

The other day I found myself following a guy on a ten speed in scrubs. At the forbidding Westwood/Gayley intersection, I asked him if he was in med school. Nope, he said, a resident. At the next light, I told him his back tire needed new spokes. The third light, I said I lived in Venice and he said, wow, you must love taking the beach bike path every day.

Stumped, ashamed, full of wonder at the fact that despite what felt like a carefully curated and thoughtful way of moving through L.A. I had never once thought about the possibility of taking the bike path. At the next light, we parted ways (I got his name: Conrad) but I pedaled slowly, astonished at the simple brilliance of taking a slightly different route.

At the corner of Colorado and Main, instead of taking a left, I continued straight. Then I saw it: The majesty of the Paficic, bathed in pinks and oranges, something I'd been riding like three blocks away from for a decade—all for the sake of efficiency. Exhilarated, stunned by the simplicity of this decision, shaken to my core by years of evenings I didn't do this, I pedaled past three bros holding hands and singing, towels over their shoulders. I passed city workers cleaning the shared toilets. Then a couple crammed onto a tiny scooter, the woman clutching a bouquet of flowers. I watched a huge crowd doing calisthenics on the rings and ropes. Then the volleyball fields buzzing with competition. A lifeguard tower was getting shut down for the day. A serene woman in a leather pantsuit walking a dog brightly dyed pink. A grizzled man sang into a microphone, his feet sandy and splayed. Normally I'd be head down, grinding.

At home, I was as sweaty as ever and only five minutes later than usual. In L.A., we all face so many decisions: One crucial assessment is how we make our way around the city. I'm already a bike evangelist. I pressure my bemused wife to take a city bus, even when we have dinner plans like two hours away with two transfers. But now I see how easy it is to fall into a groove, to stop looking around. All it took to slow down and try a new approach, for me at least, was a conversation with a German guy named Conrad to remind me that I could just take this detour from my normal course, that something small right in front of me could feel huge.

Let me know if you want to see a draft!

Thanks,

Nathan

SUBMISSION:

WHAT’S YOUR BEACH BIKE PATH?

The other day I was biking home from Westwood to Venice, as I had for nearly a decade. At the trip’s loudest, most ugly intersection, Wilshire and Midvale, I noticed a guy straddling a ten speed, wearing scrubs. Cars drummed by and an 18-wheeler blasted its ferocious horn. I nudged ahead and asked the man if he was in med school. Nope, he said, a resident. The light changed.

For some reason, I raced after him, catching up at Sepulveda. Out of breath, I told him his back wheel needed new spokes. Was I being annoying? He said he knew about the wheel, that he'd bought the bike for only $100, and wasn’t riding the absolute best? Yes, I almost shouted, then the light flashed green. At Federal, I caught up again and this time he marveled to me that more of his colleagues at UCLA didn't ride. I said it might be that they're scared, and he said all they needed to do was ride with us. I felt pride and fellowship.

For years I’d done this ride: All of it urban, intense, stressful, and awesome. This was the first time I’d bonded so immediately with a stranger, with whom I was now cycling to Barrington, where he told me his name (Conrad) and asked me where I lived and in his precise German accent he said, “You must love riding the beach bike path,” and anyway, he was going straight and I was turning right on Santa Monica and he said we’d see each other again and then I felt sick.

No car had hit me. Wobbling down Broadway, another few blocks of my traffic-y, un-beautiful ride, I pedaled slowly, not even looking for car doors or considering broken glass or mentally preparing for potholes. I wasn’t coasting on the lingering pride in not using a car or getting exercise. I wasn’t doing much of anything but feeling regret, longing, and embarrassment.

Because, despite my carefully curated and thoughtful way of moving through L.A.—a transition from car commuter to proud cyclist that already felt so special—never had I even once, not in nearly ten years of good intentions and bragging and evangelizing about bike commuter life, considered the obvious joy, wisdom, and good sense to head all the way west and instead of the kind of dreary, vehicle-choked main artery, finish the last few miles of my ride ON THE BEACH, on the bike path that was now so obviously the way to go.

How was this oversight possible? How could a guy named Conrad so suddenly open a set eyes that had already felt so wide open?.

Let me back up: When we moved to Los Angeles in 2013, after a series of cities that did not require us to have a car, we bought a Honda and faced a few more choices: Where to live, how to get to work, and which school would our preschool-aged kid attend?

We secured a slot at an elementary in Westwood, a few miles from our new digs in Venice Beach. How bad could the commute be? To come and go at peak traffic times, in fact, the drive could easily take an hour. So fundamental was traffic to our daily life that the kid lost a first tooth on the 405 and one day my bumper might have kissed a Mercedes but it just kept going and another day a woman T-boned me so badly I saw stars. I felt miserable about the situation but also trapped. What could I do?

Then an email arrived and I almost clicked spam. My employer, the note said, would gift me a new bike, if only I gave up my parking pass. I did the math, we discussed schools, and soon enough our car was gathering dust and the kid was attending a Venice elementary. All felt fantastic.

With a convert’s enthusiasm I was riding my bike everywhere. I un-downloaded Waze, which thinks you can cross six lanes of traffic at a stop sign on Olympic, and I happily filed away my granular land-changer’s knowledge of Wilshire's fearsome ten-lane slalom, from Westwood to Beverly Glen. I got a cool bike helmet and a decent lock and became more and more opinionated about not driving.

With no car commute, I took my time finding the fastest, safest route home from Westwood to Venice. Within a year, I had it nailed: Snaking through campus to Gayley, across Wilshire, over to Ohio, a quick dog-leg to Broadway, then the leg-burning blast south on Main, right to our little house by Gold's gym.

I felt muscles tighten and instincts sharpen, a new feel for the flow of traffic. I memorized traffic lights and places I might get hit by a car door. I learned which stretches often had broken glass and where the bad potholes were. When a friend visited, we did the route together, and I felt proud and accomplished. After a decade, I couldn't imagine the routine getting any better or brighter.

Then I met Conrad.

What a guy! In an instant, by taking the time to ask me where I lived and to comment on that route I was not taking, he did me both a huge kindness and also simultaneously made me feel like a blind, lazy, uncurious boor.

What else hadn’t I done? We’d gotten the kid all the way to high school and had been married for twenty years. My employer valued me and various neighbors sought out our wisdom, friendship, and counsel. I could call a good electrician, plumber, and a tile guy and had already voted in the presidential election and even had a pretty good recipe for a smoothie. But whether too busy or stubborn or unable to imagine the alternative, I’d just never thought of riding a few extra blocks, avoiding the final two miles of chaos, in order to take a beautiful, world class, purpose-built bike ride, right through paradise. (This is not to say I don’t bike on the beach at other times! I’m out there all the time! I just never thought to do it as part of my commute.)

So I did it. At Colorado and Main, I continued straight and there it was, all I’d been missing: The majesty of the Pacific, bathed in pinks and oranges. I pedaled past three bros holding hands and singing, towels over their shoulders. I passed city workers cleaning the shared toilets. A couple crammed onto a tiny scooter, the woman clutching a bouquet of flowers. I watched a huge crowd doing calisthenics on the rings and ropes. Then the volleyball fields buzzing with competition. A lifeguard tower was getting shut down for the day. A serene woman in a leather pantsuit walking a dog brightly dyed pink. A grizzled man sang into a microphone, his feet sandy and splayed.

Exhilarated, stunned by the simplicity, still a bit mad at myself, shaken to imagine all the years of afternoons and evenings I didn't do this, I arrived home, maybe 100 seconds behind my usual schedule. It was so obvious: I could just go this way from now on. And so I would.

In L.A., and indeed anywhere, it’s easy to fall into a groove, to stop looking around, to think we’ve done good enough. All it took for me to see a slight but massive upgrade to my own way was a conversation with a German guy named Conrad. Something so small—right in front of me all along—felt so huge. So what else was I missing?

Thanks!