Since Danny extracted my bike from behind a refrigerator in Mark’s garage, I’ve thought of jumping on it and going. I love biking, but just haven’t done it in years for no good reason. Granted, we live in the country, so riding a bike first entails loading said bike in the car or having it stationed at a friend’s house where all the roads aren’t gravel and frequented by cement trucks. But it was more than time.
So yesterday, driving into town with the bike in the back of the van (because I put it there the day before, thinking I might as well use the space opened up by removing seats when we moved Natalie and Daniel to college last month), it occurred to me that the time was now. Informing that decision was a long wait I had behind some construction trucks that ruined any chance to get to yoga class on time.
I parked near the movie theater, lifted out the bike, and got on it, aiming toward the lovely bike and walking trail. Of course getting on a bike again is just like getting on a bike again, and my legs, while protesting at times, quickly remembered what to do. In my 50-minute ride, I saw things I haven’t seen or noticed before:
- A small and lively farmhouse on the edge of the housing developing.
- Three boys near the stream bed planning their war strategy while three other boys ran toward them.
- A wall of cicadas still droning, even now that it’s almost October.
- Several entertaining little bridges over various fingers of the creek.
- It’s hot when I stop, cool when I go.
- Best not to think about how long the hill I’m on is and just keep pedaling at a moderate speed.
- The trail I thought just snaked along taupe-painted houses that all look alike actually shoots into long stretches of woods and surprisingly hidden fields of milo.
Most of all, I remembered something: biking is like flying, and I love to fly.