Sunday, January 11, 2015

The Old Yellow Bike at the Arizona Falls

Below the power plant falls--have they changed?

There was me, long-ago me, trying to imagine a future day when I would be at ease and could go where I wanted, do what I please, ride my bicycle out where I wanted, return home whenever I felt like it.

Tricky light with the gloomy clouds, a fill flash might have worked better

There was me today, riding my flatland commuter fixie project bike with the new handlebars on my easy ten mile get-up-go-ride route, my mind kind of at ease, my destination wherever I wanted it to be, my schedule pretty open, my time due home unknown. It seems like this was that ride that long-ago me imagined. Apparently, on reflection, this was the day.

So many holes...

There will come a day when I can't ride any more. When knees fail, when back goes for good, when lungs or heart begin to struggle, when the physical plant wears out. This day, I suppose I will look back on, to remember when I could do these things. When I did them. When I close my eyes and hear the water of Arizona Falls cascading over the dull hum of the generator. I will look up at the lights, hear the machines beeping, and think, this power was made from water.

In the meantime, though, more rides, ride the day, I say, live these moments and know them for what they are, now. Also necessary, important I think, to know that others may be on some similar journey, from the first mode, in the second, middle mode, moving inevitably, eventually, to the last. Solidarity in understanding this contingency while holodecking the now as if it were hyperreal.

Ride the day, be home on time, though.


  1. I hear ya JRA! Ride while you can and appreciate the now. That and making dreams reality - no regrets. What keeps me going is knowing there's a bike out there to suit every physical ability. (Someday, I'd relish owning an easily pedaled trike.) It aint over until it's over. Ride on JRA, ride on.

    1. Way back when I commuted in a car, I cranked up the music, I think in an effort to penetrate senses dulled / blunted by the repetitive stress of twice-daily traffic jams and road rage. Now I quietly stare at the wonder of clouds and sunlight reflected in puddles. It feels like progress.


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