Metropolitan Diary: A New York Cyclist Goes West I have spent all but the last two months of my life in Manhattan, and my preferred mode of travel around the city is my bike. Biking in the city is much like city life: fast, furious and cutthroat. When most drivers see me, a blonde teenage girl riding a feminine sea-green bike, they usually try to bully me into letting them cut me off or push me off the street (especially when there is no formal bike lane). I've become accustomed to middle fingers, loud car horns, curses, insults and kamikaze cabs. Now, however, my bike and I are freshmen in college in Michigan. Recently, a minivan unexpectedly shot out of a side street and nearly took me down. Immediately jumping on the defensive, I instinctively yelled, "Watch it, Jersey!" as I fought to stay upright. The driver, a middle-aged suburban woman, looked at me with confusion and bewilderment before rolling down her window and asking if I was O.K. before saying, "Did you say jersey? Like the fabric? Oh Toto, we're not in Midtown anymore. Reach us via e-mail: diary@nytimes.com.