I just ran over a cat. A few days ago. I was driving down a side street in Philadelphia and the dumb thing darted in front of me from the left. I swerved right to miss it, but felt my left front tire thump right over it.

I like cats. I really wish I hadn't killed that one.

Damn it.

So I'd like not to drive for awhile. I've long felt this anyway – even before something had to die just because I wanted to get to a pizzeria by 4:30.

In fact, often when I say I don't want to drive anymore, other people say they don't want to drive anymore either. And we all nod our heads and agree that we are resplendent with ecological creamy goodness. Then we go drive somewhere because, as near as I can figure it, somebody put a gun to our heads and forced us to marry our cars.

•  •  • 

"You Americans!" says Sandra, a friend of mine from Ireland, when I bring up the relationship between Americans and their cars. She then tells me … I still don't believe this, but guess what they don't do with cars in Ireland. They don't live in them.

They don't have newspapers in the trunk, mail on the dashboard, a gym bag in the back seat, cassette tapes scattered all over the floor and maybe an old press pass hanging from their rear-view mirror.

"Some Americans actually have a change of clothes in their car!" Sandra tells me, as if I could not possibly believe that – could not imagine that someone might have, say, a T-shirt and a couple of neckties in his front passenger seat, while a few blocks away, he strolled along chatting with his nice Irish friend.

•  •  • 

But it's really hard not to drive in New Jersey. It's not impossible, but you have to figure out how.

For one thing, you must do a lot of it without sidewalks. There generally aren't many of them along the highways, which, however, are where you'll find most of the restaurants and supermarkets.

For another thing, society has cast bicycles into a weird limbo; you never even see them advertised on TV. I can ride one to the office, but if I go to Philadelphia after work, I'd have to apply for a permit to take it on the PATCO Speedline – requiring me to fill out a three-page application and filing it in person at the Passenger Services Office in Camden, Monday through Friday, 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. These are easy hours to remember because they are when every single person in the world has to be at a friggin' job!

But don't worry. You also can file by mail. It's easy, according to instructions at the bottom of page three of the application: "Each completed application returned by mail must have the applicant's signature witnessed by a certified Notary Public."

A notary public! For a bike permit!

•  •  • 

It's terrible, what cars are doing to us. Though they're helping make us the strongest nation in history, they're also killing us off. Amazingly, the dead cat isn't even the half of it. Cars are, far and away, the most common cause of fatal accidents of any kind, the leading source of global warming emissions, the main impetus behind our friction with the Middle East, and the only inanimate objects that will ever love us.

Everybody understands this. That's why surveys indicate that Americans prefer conservation to drilling for more oil. And to prove how much they care about conservation, Americans have been buying obese, belching, petroleum swilling SUVs as if they were going out of style, which, by the way, they are.

•  •  • 

So I've been riding a bike to work for weeks now, and will continue to do so – self-righteously and smugly – for maybe another week or two, until it starts raining a lot and it's not fun anymore.

Because that's the main thing: It's really fun not to drive. I fly down hills, weaving past traffic, weighed down by nothing but a five-pound Kryptonite bike lock, a tire patch kit, a pump, a rain coat, a change of shirt for when I get to the office, a gym bag and the single remaining necktie I own that is not in my car.

And the only downside is that, next time, I'll be the one who gets run over.