I pull my bike out of the back of my dad’s Subaru, mulling over the fact I should really buy a bike rack for Arizona. The dusty tire marks are all over the back of the car: the windows and the side walls. Not much to be done for that when you’re in the desert. Leaning the bike against the car, I decide on the final route I’ll ride this evening while I start my Apple Watch exercise tracker as well as Strava. Did you even ride if you didn’t track it? I tuck my phone away in my hip pack. I’m vaguely aware of the cars on the highway immediately behind me, and I’m continually scanning the new arrivals at the lot. It’s not lost on me that this sport is primarily dominated by men. I have a knife in my hip pack just in case. I’ve never felt unsafe while riding alone except for that one time I got catcalled while heading into the trails, but I am always aware. Just in case. I pull my knee pads up, lock the car, another quick check that my hip bag is zipped, and that I’ve got both bottles of…
