Tuesday, July 3, 2012

What If It All Felt Perfect (on my bike)?

It's all about the set

What if I was riding my bike, and it all felt perfect?

The hot city headwind, the traffic moving around me, the day's worth of stress broiling in my belly.

The creaky knee stiff from sitting at a desk inside all day. Back too.

The uncertainty of tomorrow, of the next moment, for that matter.

Not knowing. And not wanting to know.

Nearly getting squoze off the face of the planet between two single-occupant SUVs racing to the red light to get home thirty seconds earlier to enjoy more their massive one day mid-week holiday. 

Then: sitting at the red light above the shimmering hot asphalt, hearing an old familiar tune coming from an open car window next to me, which on side glance turned out to be a white 1967 Mustang, the familiar tune being "American Pie," the refrain I have to sing. So I began singing along, and looked into the window, at the same time the driver, an attractive middle-aged brunette, also looked at me. She was also singing. And this wasn't meaningful, or poignant, or chemical, it was merely perfect. All I wish for her to think was, there goes someone having a perfect ride.

The light changed, we all drove off, and everything stayed perfect. Yes, I kept on singing that song, but beyond that, everything felt just right, completely due to the bike. Or rather, to my mindset and perception of the sensations coming from riding the bike.

At the stop sign I did a track stand because I felt as if touching the earth with my foot would cause the perfection bubble to burst. So I kept my feet up and everything stayed perfect. The wind in the trees, the sun in the sky, the black Mercedes flowing past me at the mouth of the traffic circle in a perfectly timed entry ballet, first him, then me, right through without delay, a split second apart.

What else I saw. Everything. What else I felt. Everything from birth to dying. As I said, not knowing, and not wanting to know. But seeing. The imagining that we might be this better self, in motion, not along for the ride, but being the ride, making it, seeing that this life may be all too short, but has its moments. It does. I put my foot down in my own driveway and it all just went away. Except the memory of it, some words, and the fading music of an old song coming through a car window at a stop.


  1. That's really lovely. I've had those fleeting, magical moments before...not necessarily on a bike, but maybe, but usually involving some music and wind blowing through one's hair.

  2. Great post...I can really connect to that..


  3. I love that sometimes surprising connection with a stranger. Whatever you have in common may render incredibly different memories and be poignant for reasons totally removed from each other, but, the mere fact that you both have a recognition of familiarity is enough to cause a brief bond and a feeling of well being. Always brings a smile :-)

    1. It does soften up the edges out there, doesn't it?

  4. So know what you mean. I experienced a connection with the bike and the landscape yesterday as I rolled out of Haswell, CO. The sun rising, the moon setting, the air taking on an essence I can't describe . . . it was perfect.

    1. JK I get wrapped up in it all, carried away a bit at times, but you are riding all the way across it, which is a whole other level. Looking at where you are on the map, that would appear to be the 11,000 foot level, just ahead.


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