I’m habitually late.

I mean, I’m late everywhere — chronically, habitually, unavoidably tardy.

It’s not that I think my time is more important than anybody else’s. It’s not some power trip. I’m not trying to be rude or insensitive. I’m not trying to send a message. And, believe it or not, I actually have a pretty good sense of timing.

It’s just that I try to squeeze so much into so little time, one thing runs over and the domino effect kicks in, and next thing you know, I’m checking in at the dentist’s office at 2:47 and saying, “Hi, I’m here for my 2:45 appointment,” even though I know and the receptionist knows it was really a 2:40 appointment or maybe even a 2:30 appointment, and the whole 2:45 thing was just a ruse.

Just today, I was supposed to attend a Very Important Meeting at work with that included my supervisor’s supervisor. I figured it would take me 15 minutes from the door of my house to the door to the office, so I planned to leave 25 minutes before the meeting.

Twenty-seven minutes away, I sat down to check and then fire off another e-mail, putting me a couple of minutes behind schedule. Then I grabbed a quick bite to eat in the car. And stopped to pet the cat.

Because it was raining, I decided to drive in and had trouble finding a parking space. I had hoped to go to my desk, fire up the computer, get a drink, grab some Very Important Meeting props — a pen, writing/doodling material, etc. — and saunter to the meeting place with time to spare. Instead, I bolted through the door just as my supervisor’s supervisor was seeking me out, no doubt wondering just where the heck I was.

At some point in this Very Important Meeting, when a string of acronyms lodged somewhere between my ears and brain and my eyes lost focus, it dawned on me that for all my habitual tardiness, I’m especially late when I drive.

I remember having the same epiphany years ago, when I observed to a racquetball buddy that whenever I rode to our games, I was only five minutes late. When I was forced to drive, it was more like 15 minutes.

Logically, it should be the other way around.

In a car, it doesn’t much matter if the road is a little damp or the wind is howling.

On a bike, though, I go a lot slower in the wet to cut down on road spray. And a headwind can add five or 10 minutes to a long commute, just as a tailwind can shave off a few seconds.

I spend more time on Weather.com than YouTube, even, and constantly adjust my bike departure times based on the elements. I’ve even been known to budget in a few minutes to account for that stubborn light on my regular commute that I just can’t seem to trip.

When I drive, however, I just wait until the last minute and figure I’ll overcome any unexpected setbacks — like traffic, the need to stop for gas (or fuel for the car even) — by treating speed limits as suggestions.

And, truth be told, I’m a slower driver because I don’t drive much. It’s easy to forget just how much time traffic and road construction and difficulty in finding a parking space can add to a commute.

With any luck, I won’t have to be reminded of it often.