I Love my Bike

I love my bike. My cute shinny blue cruiser with lots of speeds. Even a granny speed for going uphill.

I love the hills. Well, perhaps love is not quite the word. Accept. I accept riding up those hills. It strengthens my legs and my heart, and builds endurance, making each successive outing a bit easier. And of course, with each ride up a hill, blessedly, there is a ride down a hill. Circle of life kinda thing.

I love going down those hills. I love the wind blowing in my face, my hair, my ears. I love the speed gliding down, legs happy, mind happy, like a child, carefree.

I love being out of doors. In the sun, in the mist, with the sounds and scents washing over me, whizzing past me (what was that? Magnolia?). The chorus of birds, the drone of the mowers and the rythm of my breath, the primary sounds.

Soft sounds. A quiet world. Even my brain is quiet. My maniacal, modern, monkey brain. Calm and clear. Except for the occasional inner mantras. ‘Hill cometh. Keep pumping. Almost there. I think I can', like the Little Blue Engine, bringing good things to the good boys and girls on the other side of the Mountain.

The Mountain being my little world and the neighborhood in which I ride. Each day bringing good things to my body, mind and spirit. So this little engine chugs her way along the winding back roads, down the narrow lanes, round the gentle curves, over the challenging hills, down the delightful dales, passing by houses and yards, circling round and round, in spirals and figure eights as I discover the routes opening before me new each day.

I call this my training. Which my friend who is a real biker boy thinks kinda funny. Especially since I have only been riding for such a short time. A mere four weeks. However, the initial outing upon my new blue bike, made such an impact upon my psyche, being so devastatingly revealing as to the condition my condition was in, I have ridden every day since. My heart and lungs have, apparently, been feeling somewhat neglected, and spoken to me, loud and clear. Come on now sister. Let’s ride!

And so I ride. Which is working out very well, since I happen to enjoy it so. A new love, really. It had been nearly thirty years since I sat upon the seat of a bicycle. But they say one never forgets. And since the weather has finally remembered to send some blue skies our way, I can jump on my blue bike and ride about the winding back streets every day, wheeling my way to whatever destination may lie before me. I love that I can don my backpack, hop on my bike and in five minutes get to the bank, the dollar store, or the coffee shop. It is green, it is exercise, it is local. And it allows me a greater connection with my neighborhood. This does not happen in a car. A car is a bubble. A shield of separation from all that hurls by. Not so on a bike. On my bike, I have a closer view of my neighborhood, meandering past homes and gardens and dogs and neighbors, walking by.

My many, many neighbors walking by. Up and down the street. To and fro they go, traveling back and forth from IHOP, in a continuous stream, part of an ongoing Migration. Believing one day they will arrive at their Final Destination. Until that day, they walk on. I ride on. Sharing the path along the Way. Howdy neighbor. This can only be good thing. A Close Encounter of the Neighbor Kind.

On Easter morning I had such one such encounter. Finishing my morning yoga, I pulled my nylon orange shell over my pajama bottoms, and a bright orange sweatshirt over my pajama top, some sloppy boots on my bare feet and a camouflage stocking cap upon my head to venture out for a morning ride in the quiet Sunday light.

It had just rained. The air was clean, the streets were washed and peppered with new seeds, and the pear trees were opening their blossoms unto the sun. Exploring new path ways, I turned onto a street and made my way slowly up a long hill. Half way up the street I spied a young lad running out of his home and away from his sister, who was running after him, in hot pursuit. As I approached his drive, he jumped upon his bike, rode out toward me, and, recognizing me as a fellow freedom rider, confided as he whizzed by, "Gotta get out of here." With an immense smile he sped past, making his escape. His young sibling continued chasing after. She was running down the middle of the street in a purple frock and wearing only purple socks upon her feet. Fnally she gave up and stopped, standing at the crest of the hill. As I made my triumphant assent, she turned her disapproving gaze from the receding form of her brother and turned it toward me. "And just what sort of an outfit is this?" she asked, looking me over. "Don’t you know it’s Easter?"

Guh? I suppose I could have answered ‘What sort of a question is this? Coming from a young sock-footed girl chasing her brother down the middle of the street, on Easter Morn?’ But there was no reply in waiting, no quick comeback, such as, ‘Jesus’ favorite color is orange.’ My mind was benign and inactive like a dumb, new born calf. Peacefully blank from the work, pumping up that hill. The usual quick Aries response was blessedly pacified and tamed by the even breathing. I was able only, to muster a gentle smile, and a ‘good day’ as I peddled past, cruising along my way. An Easter Miracle. A Cycling Gift. This lovely ride brought me much need exercise, a colorful encounter with locals, and a lesson on how to tame the Dragon within. Wear her out.

Well folks, I am turning off my computer to go and greet the great out of doors and take a sweet ride around my gentle burb in Terrace Lake Land. Where all of the locals are mowing, all of the IHOP-ers are walking and some of the children are running down the road in purple Easter socks. A slice of the American Dream. I go now to take a bite. Deb out.