Nestled deep within the confines of my narrow carport rests "Lucy," a 1996 Miata R. Lucy is my real life racecar that I campaigned to a fifth place in B Stock at the 1999 Solo II National Championships, the high point of an autocross racing career spanning nearly twenty years.

I'm telling you this because I am a car person. My parents are car people, specifically British car people. I grew up in parking lots all across Northern California. My big brother is a 1960 Lotus 7A.

Long before I was born, and before she even knew my dad, my mother flat-towed this Lotus to races behind her Austin Healey. My dad, who drove his own Austin Healey to the races, thought she seemed like a cool chick and, after several autocrosses, proposed to her heading down the 580 grade into Pleasanton after a sports car club meeting, under the full moon.

My mom taught me how to heal-toe downshift, to appreciate pounding pistons and loud exhausts, and to dance and drift out of turns.

I'm telling you this because I don't drive anymore.

I still can't figure out exactly what happened. It certainly wasn't by plan and it wasn't all of a sudden. I think it all started with this carport, which was assigned to me as soon as I moved into this apartment building in downtown eight years ago. It is long and narrow, right along a wall. It takes tremendous physical effort to squeeze in between the car door to the driver's seat. So I ride my bike to most places. Or I walk. And I even take the bus.

I wish I could say there was a more profound or noble reason than that. I'd love to say that I don't drive in order to save the trees, or as a form of protest against global warming.

But no, it's because driving creates too much physical pain.

I'm telling you this because what I've discovered, in my laziness and unwillingness to contort myself to get into the driver's seat of my race car -- one that I have driven for many miles with joy and exuberance -- is that biking to places in Marin is not only entirely possible, it is more enjoyable than driving.

I am telling you this as a car person. (I am attracted in particular to V8s, but I enjoy all loud cars in general.) I'm not an environmentalist; I barely even recycle. I eat meat, and I like beer.

And I love riding my bike.

I moved to Marin County in 1994, but I swear I didn't start really living here until I started riding my bike. It was only then that I could enjoy Marin's textures and smells with all of my senses. These are all too easy to shut out behind a well insulated car door and a decent stereo system.

On a bike, with the wind in your face and the ground rolling beneath you, you can feel the bursts of sun hitting you through the branches of trees; you can take in the smells of the redwoods, of the bakeries in the early mornings, of pancakes and bacon frying in the cafes, or in the winter of wood burning in the chimneys. There is no air freshener available at any car wash that can replicate this. You start seeing the same people, and sooner or later, they become your friends. You stop going to bars so you can make it to 9am rides, which brings me to the last reason why I prefer riding to driving: driving never gave me a butt like this.