Flying
“It’s pretty late, are you sure you don’t want a ride?”
“Yes,” I assure them. “I’m sure.”
How to convey that I appreciate their gesture of kindness, but that it would really be doing me a disservice? How to convey that I don’t bike out of want, but that it was a calculated lifestyle decision I made years ago?
I don’t like who I am when I’m in a car – tucked behind glass into a padded seat as the outside world zips past at a speed too fast to be appreciated. Expected to engage in casual conversation with the driver who is piloting a two-ton weapon and who really should be giving that their undivided attention. Feeling stifled, the outside world muffled and my senses deadened by the cocoon of the car. Conscious of the fact that getting around this way is making it harder for people to live. I’m not a very social person when driving or being driven, and I don’t want my interactions with people to be that way.
I graciously take my leave and step out into the night. A light breeze caresses my face, and I come alive. My senses sharpen as I hold my head high and breathe in the cool night air. My heart fills with anticipation as I unlock my bike and buckle my helmet. It is time to fly.
I soar through the night, speed nearly effortless on this bike I have built and optimized for efficiency. The wide, smooth, and supple tires allow me to float over the asperities of the road without sacrificing forward momentum and without dulling my sense of the terrain. I constantly adjust my stance, poised to absorb the bumps without slowing down. Shifting my weight and putting power to the pedals at the right moments to play off of small obstacles and use them to increase my speed. Riding loose over rough patches as I hold myself level and let the bike move underneath me.
A step in the sidewalk approaches, and I shift my weight back and pull up on the bars to lessen the impact to my front wheel. I come to a dip, and I throw my weight into the bars to keep my front tire glued to the ground as I roll through. My eyes lock onto the curve ahead and I throw my weight into the turn, pushing the limits of how fast and tight I can carve before laying down the torque and pulling out of it into the next straight bit.
I come to the top of a hill and throw my arms out wide to embrace the wind. I sit up and back as I fly down, making dozens of minute muscle adjustments to keep upright and steer the bike with no hands. It almost feels like cheating, but I remind myself that I earned this speed when I climbed to the top of the hill: straining to turn over the pedals of this high-geared singlespeed without losing my momentum. I drink in the cool and quiet night air. The cozy lights of homes stretch off toward the foothills, and the road is peaceful without the impatient roar of engines or the buzz of car tires behind me.
Still some distance from home, I settle into a manageable cadence. Riding singlespeed means I never have to think about shifting, which frees up my mind for other things. All I do is pedal and steer, and after a dozen minutes of this I enter a zen state. I’m still pedaling, but it doesn’t feel like I’m exerting any effort. The steering comes naturally, and it feels like I’m just gliding along, an albatross on the wind.
“Yes,” I assure them. “I don’t want a ride.”
This writing is 100% human. Absolutely no A.I. was used at any point in the process.
