Thursday, November 5, 2009

Get up. Go ride.

Mine is flying down the canal path, enveloped in darkness, moon reflecting off the water, tires singing their gravel song through the steel frame while the wingbeats of a startled great horned owl brush air against my face as I interrupt his dinner plans. The cottontail he almost taloned races alongside me in a panic, looking up and seeing me spinning, in place of the death that he sensed was coming. We run together for a few moments for the sake of running, and then, realizing that his life continues, he darts off into the mesquite bushes while I spin on. Mine is also tearing down a mountain at unsafe speeds sometimes, the shock frantically flexing its thing, the tires' knobs grabbing at anything to try to keep me mostly upright, moving straight, and out of the rocks and cactii. It's also spinning down a long stretch of asphalt on a carbon machine and nothing else mattering except a relentless, circular motion of my feet at speed with little effort, powering a line of in-the-moments attained when physical and mental find their balance in pure motion and the slow burn of muscle. Some days, mine is watching the city wake up from the vantage of my bike on the way to work. Some others I will tell you later. What's yours? Whatever it is, or if you don't know yet, find it, and go do it. Get up. Go ride.

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