Pilgrim's Progress

I can do it and so:
I load a brimful backpack onto my back,
I hook a bursting plastic bag around my left wrist,
I hang a heavy tote bag from my right shoulder,
securing the handles under the backpack straps so it doesn't slide down my arm,
I wedge a small foldable plastic table under my left arm,
leaving only my right hand free (that's where the bike's back brake is).
Then I straddle the bike, edge myself onto the seat, hold the ensemble steady
with hands on the handles, and tips of the feet on the ground, and,
double-checking that there is no oncoming traffic, hoist myself fully
onto the saddle, lifting both feet simultaneously and finding the pedals blindly,
push off into the street and turn left into the bike lane. And I'm set, precariously.

There are three traffic lights ahead before I can turn into my alley.
Reeling and straightening, I know my only chance is for all the lights
to be green - I can't stop without keeling over, and so
I look into the distance to gauge the colour of the lights and pace
my belaboured progress accordingly, trying not to get the bags caught
in the front wheel, while people are giving me the fish eye, especially
the drivers as if I was some kind of unpredictably dangerous competition.
I don't know if it's from my power of concentration but the first two lights
are green and I roll on through semi-triumphantly, pedalling steadfastly
towards the third, which turns yellow and, when I get there, red but
a quick glance left and right shows no imminent traffic so I use the momentum
and pass through. And now,

the big question looms: once I turn right into the alley and approach my building,
how do I stop? There isn't much time to think, I'm already at the turning point,
and just as I undertake the manoeuvre slowly, I notice a man sitting
in front of his door, and a plan swiftly forms in my head to address him,
to appeal for help -- he could just hold the bike in place while I dismount -- but
by the time the plan runs through standard social propriety checks
and descends to the vocal cords, it's too late; I can't see him any more.
Miraculously, I am saved by a bump in the asphalt on my left,
just high enough to serve as a stepping stone: I brake, lean to the left, touch the ground
with the tip of my shoe, and finally halt, all my muscles turning to soft goo.

An absurd disproportion between effort and gain?
Yes.
But how else do you pretend that despite the shortness of time
hanging in the air, your day (and the rest) is not scattered in vain.
No question mark there.