A commute measured in calories and savings

Steve Marcus

This is how Jeff Olin commutes to his job at Exoticar Paintworks (yes, an auto shop) every day — 10 miles and a hundred calories or so each way — and not a drop of gas.

By Mike Trask

Thursday, July 31, 2008 | 2 a.m.

Jeff Olin works on some of the best cars money can buy. BMWs. Lexuses. Mercedes-Benzes. Even the occasional Lamborghini.

Steve Marcus

Olin waits for a traffic signal to change during his commute to work Wednesday. He started the riding ritual mostly for fun and exercise, but he doesn't mind the extra $20 or so a week in his pocket.

Steve Marcus

Olin, 29, changes out of his cycling shoes after commuting to work Wednesday. He started riding his bike to work from the west side of the valley about a year ago, and his co-workers still think he's a bit crazy.

He knows good road vehicles.

To get to work every day, he pedals a Cannondale — a high-performance road bike that carries a four-figure price tag.

The bike takes him 10 miles each way from his home near Flamingo Road and Interstate 215 to Exoticar Paintworks on Highland Avenue, near Interstate 15 in a neighborhood filled with industrial buildings and exotic dancers. Leaving his Nissan Frontier and Mazda Miata in the garage saves him about $20 a week in gas.

It costs him 1,000 calories.

His co-workers think he’s certifiably insane.

Here’s the thing about riding a bike from the west side of the Las Vegas Valley to the center: The morning ride is all downhill.

It’s the way back that will test the lungs and legs for someone less fit — like, say, the person interviewing Olin.

The roads are empty at 6:30 a.m. when Olin, wearing a sleeveless biking shirt, cargo shorts and special silver Nike shoes, leans into his pedals. He’s got a pair of water bottles and a backpack with his lunch.

This is pretty easy. It’s nice to get some fresh air in the morning. The sun looks nice, rising behind the Strip. The roads are mostly empty and the bike lanes feel safe.

Olin, 29, started riding his bike to work about a year ago — not necessarily out of a desire to save cash, although he does enjoy the extra money in his pocket.

Olin loves to ride. He’s also an environmentalist and wants to do his part to keep his carbon footprint small.

The first time he made the ride, it seemed daunting. He’s a good rider, but Las Vegas traffic is unforgiving. He eventually learned to take side streets, making his way to Twain Avenue for the bulk of the commute. Then he slips over to Desert Inn Road to get to Highland.

So much for it being all downhill. Wow, the ramp up Desert Inn across the railroad tracks is steep. I hope someone doesn’t swing around the corner and kill me. Huh, it’s 7 in the morning and people are leaving the Spearmint Rhino.

Who knows how many others in the valley use pedal power to commute in Las Vegas. There’s no bike traffic jam on the west side of the city. But messages posted on local cycling Web sites bring riders out of the woodwork. There are government workers, computer programmers, teachers and firemen riding to work each day.

Like Olin, they’re driven not by the economy but because they are avid bikers, the type of guys wearing spandex and shaving their legs.

Olin gets to work by 7:15, parks his bike near his service bay in the garage and changes into a mechanic’s uniform. Job one is fixing up the bumper and fender of a cracked-up Infiniti.

Nine and a half hours later, it’s time to head home.

At the last check, it was 106 degrees. It’s rush hour and traffic is thick. Why are those trucks driving so close to the bike lane? And why is there a hair dryer blowing up from the pavement?

Olin moved to Las Vegas from Michigan three years ago for the same reason everybody else comes to the city. He knew there would be work. The heat doesn’t bother him much anymore. He barely breaks a sweat during these commutes.

On the weekends he typically rides at least 30 miles. He’s gone as far as 100 in a day. Those are the days he gets a real workout.

Sweat is stinging my eyes. My legs are cramping. The hill on Twain near Durango Drive is brutal. I’m feeling nauseated from the heat, the exhaust fumes and making that 700-foot-elevation climb back to where we started this morning. Pedaling off from every signal light is killing me.

Olin is home by 6 p.m. (He would have been home earlier if a reporter hadn’t slowed him down.) He pulls his bike back in the garage, hangs it on a rack and grabs a sports drink. He collects the garbage cans.

Then, like every other Vegas commuter, he closes the garage door and disappears into his suburban home.

Probably to refuel those lost calories.