I used to get up early for different reasons.
There was a time when 4:30 am didn’t mean gym time. In the fall of 1997, it meant: “it’s time to open the coffee shop.”
Then, in Chapel Hill, I lived about 3 miles from the center of town. Parking is expensive in the Hill. I rode a bike to work.
There’s a reason the town is called Chapel Hill. It’s on a very steep hill. From all directions (except Carrboro), one has to go up hill to get to the center.
I liked to be professional. I wore a bow tie and well kept trousers to work every day. A few days in, a close friend saw that I was walking to work and gave me a bike.
This bike wasn’t a nice mountain bike or even a vintage 10 speed. It was a little girl’s bike—the “Miami Miss.” It was white and pink with pom pom tassels coming out of the handles.
So there I was, 4:35 am every weekday, in a bow tie, on the Miami Miss, pedaling as fast as I could up a steep hill. The shop opened at 5:30 am. I was usually barely on time.
I learned a lot that fall about coffee—what’s considered “good” and what’s considered “bad,” that coffee only grows within a ten degree latitudinal span of the equator, that surgeons prefer decaf.
I had incredibly strong lats by December. I also found a way to support myself with music rather than with coffee. I was sad to give notice, but happy to move on.
Above all, I was glad that I didn’t have to fall off that bike anymore. That hurt. A lot.
