After you've filed your resignation letter, lived through those glorious last few weeks where you tell yourself repeatedly "all this will soon be over," and given your old boss a few new rules to live by on the way out the door, you will have to find a new job.
Such are the demands of our how-soon-can-we-buy-the-ceo-a-new-private-jet? society.
Pick a job and apply for it, abundant with hope the middle-management will be kindly, the email system won't be Lotus Notes and you'll get ball point pens that cost more than 39 cents.
On your first day, get the bus. Go look at where you can park your bike. Is it secure? How will you get ironed garments to your destination? Is there a locker? A shower? Will you have to see your colleagues naked? Can you shmooze your boss while he rubs himself with a $400 Egyptian cotton towel and you dryyourself on your socks?
Then pore over the map and choose which way you will get there. Choose a route that looks direct and safe and commit it to memory.
BONUS TIP: You will never ride that way again. Every day, a crazy taxi driver, a frightening incline or a cavernous pothole will make you take a different left, or an earlier right, or start the whole thing on the path along the river instead of going down Brunswick St because goddamn it risk profiles rise inexorably with constant exposure to low-level consequences and bugger how come I always get thorns in my tyres when I ride through the park and why is this light-cycle so antagonisingly slow and if those school-run mums' SUVs got any bigger they'd need Heavy Rigid licenses and high vis shirts...
After about 15 years, you'll can expect to have your route to work figured out. Of course, by then the robots will be doing your old job at a tenth the cost, and you'll be sitting at home weeping as you nuzzle your bike's top tube for comfort.