Life On A B-I7

It’s tough to put into words what yesterday’s ride means to me. I wish I was better with words. To start, it felt good. Turning the pedals is — work. It’s also joy, pure and simple. You are moving forward and you are doing it under your own power and no one else’s. That’s part of the experience. It’s all on you and no one else. Watching the road come up and then disappear under the front tire gives you such a feeling of progress, it’s satisfying. I look up to see beauty all around. The sort of beauty you don’t see when screaming through the terrain at fifty mile per hour. Beauty you are seeing. Cars passing by don’t disturb me, perhaps they should, but they don’t. I’m lost in the moment, or perhaps it’s more accurate to say, the moments. I listen. I hear the tires rolling on the tarmac. Another indication that I’m making progress. Then there is the existential. It just feels good. Good to be out there. There’s no place else I would want to be in that moment. It’s all part of the experience that will eventually bring me home and allow me to write this. While you are pedaling, there is no thought of what is to come later. You look up, you see a bend in the road in front of you and there is no indication what is beyond. That’s part of the mystery. Naturally, you can never be completely sure your body will allow you to get where you are planning to go. I find that now, more than ever, the thought of finishing the ride is not assured. The desire to finish has become another point of the exercise. We can’t be sure of anything, but when the goal is reached and you dismount, it’s a cause for celebration, a celebration of one that feels good.