When life hands you lemons in June, I always say, buy a bike for the November cyclocross season.

This comes to me from Brian, who sold it to me for a song. Now I have no excuse to not race this winter, and it takes some of the pressure off of recovering in time for the road season.

The clavicle is healing well. I have almost full range of motion, although it often feels as though someone were pinching me. I still wear the sling, mostly to remind me not to reach for that top shelf, and to remind others not to pat me on the shoulder.

The worst part is the commute.

I must face away from the lake as I ride the bus. I can't bear to see so many people riding bicycles. I especially can't bear to see so many people riding poorly. "Booo!" I want to yell. "You shouldn't be out there! Yes, you! Riding that stupid cruiser with your iPod and flip-flops! That should be me out there!"

And then there's the time suck that the CTA is.

There are two kinds of commuters in Chicago: Those who like to get around town quickly, cheaply and conveniently, and then there are those who choose not to ride a bicycle.

Unless Ellen gives me a ride, I must budget an hour for the commute that would take 30 minutes on a bike (26 minutes if there's a tailwind). Ordinarily I can leave work at 6:30 p.m., get a 90-minute workout in and be home by 8. Now I still get home around 8, but by the time I've changed, filled my water bottles and pissed away some time at the computer, I'm getting on the trainer at 9 and finishing, dejected and unmotivated, around 9:45.

I've heard of people whose joints become barometers, warning of weather patterns days away. My shoulder has become a tachometer of sorts. As soon as my heart rate rises above 150 on the trainer, it begins to throb. I don't know whether it's the blood pulsing around the wound or whether it's the nub of the clavicle floating around. I'll ask my doctor at my check-up tomorrow.