A few weekends ago, after conducting research for my job (ok, I went to the movies) I found myself wanting to get out and do something active. So I decided to face the streets of LA and bike the 3.3 miles to the beach without my roommate guiding me. In fact, this time I would be serving as the guide to my trusting friend, and the pressure was on.

Of course, a bike ride to the beach wouldn't be complete without stopping for brunch on the way, so I made an 11:15 reservation at The Independence in Santa Monica hoping it would serve as fuel to our pedaling fire. With helmets securely fastened and backpacks on, we took off for the bike path, finding it easily and with few automobiles interfering. Unfortunately, my cockiness was soon stifled when my friend exclaimed from behind me, "Your tire is almost completely flat!". I knew there was a reason this trip had already ripped my quads to shreds, and only five minutes in.

With the promise of stopping at a gas station dangling over me, I continued down the quiet street, pleased to find everyone still sleeping and not threatening my life. However, before I knew it, we were at our brunch spot, and my tires were still flat. On top of that, we weren't exactly sure where to lock our bikes up. Another active Angeleno had secured his bike to the bus stop shelter, but being the new in-city biker I was, I had no idea if this was legal. It was then that my brilliant friend pointed out two posts across the street, which were either for bikes or horses, so we took a gamble and locked them away.

I must say, we only glanced at our environmentally friendly modes of transportation once or twice. Every three minutes. After asking the hostess for a specific table by the window so we could keep an eye on said bikes, but the point is, they were still there when my time ran out on my bottomless mimosas, and I was faced with a new challenge. Make it to the beach safely. Maybe because my mimosa haze had me feeling like Lance Armstrong pre-scandal, I completed this challenge with ease, and we settled into spots on the sand, books and towels in hand. Two hours later, after a hard-earned nap, we began the 3.3 mile trip back. This time, in an effort to avoid all the people on the boardwalk, we took city streets. Without bike lanes. At this point, my legs were burning, and I wanted to cry and call a car to save me, but my fit friend motivated me by pointing out a gas station, complete with an air pump. Sure, I was terrified biking without those two solid white lines "protecting" me from cars, but that fear was quickly surpassed by relief when I spotted that air pump.

We filled my tires and safely made it home, my ego swelling like my quads. I had just biked to Santa Monica. To brunch, and the beach, from my apartment. I was terrified of biking around my neighborhood in Oklahoma City, let alone city streets, and I had just navigated this LA area on my bike. I had never felt so metropolitan and I look forward to making this routine a weekend staple.

Brunch at the beach, anyone?