bicycle race

I like to ride my bicycle. I like to ride in the cold December morning, to ride until my ears turn red and I am sweating, pedaling pedaling in the snow (flurries) that fall if only for one moment. I pedal pedal, then coast, and pedal hard faster faster when I know the coast is clear. It is clear, and I soar down the big hill. Nothing can touch me now.

There is a certain thrill, then, as I feel needles on my legs, as I pray that the light will be green–or alternatively, that there will be no cars at the busy intersection. And this time of day, on a Sunday morning, there very nearly never are. Yes, good thing. It is possible at this point to speed through two more intersections and ride up a much larger hill, look around the downtown from a parking lot, then race back down. But I don’t. Not this time. Today, I turn, wind through the streets that lead from semi-urban chaos to woods, pastures, narrow roads where cars pass speedily, where the horses and alpacas look up as I ride by. I nod to them in some anthropomorphic effort at fellowship on this morning, on this day when all paths lead to adventure, when all paths must lead to the sublime.