River

A few dozen steps or a pair of wheels spun forward by pedals and I can merge in to the miniature highway. A ribbon of grey border moving in tandem with the brown but sparkling river. Some of us pass in hurry those traveling a little differently, and we do so with respect and a bell of a wave. I tell myself I’ll spin gently with the traffic, not rushing or raging by any means, and take the time to appreciate the leaves, the breeze, and time unplugged and reconnected with the beauty of the trip.

Then I mount my bike.

In the same manner that I remain in bed in the morning and push the available time I’ll have to prepare as compact as possible, I measure the wind and decide to see how quickly I can race home. My heart questions me and it begins to pound; my skin plays strings of salty sweat with a look of pure contempt. My weakened legs and I weave ahead and between our fellow journeyers without the flowing glee we could have enjoyed like fresh water on dry lips in favor of going. Going as fast and as hard as reason will allow. There’s a joy or accomplishment in the time I can save and increase for the evening of leisure ahead, and I want that. I want to be home, or at a place as cool and relaxing as home, and I want to be there so fiercely I charge in to the sweat and sun and strong exhaustion it greets me at the door with. The spokes will blur.

A ribbon of grey moves in tandem with the serpentine canal slithering through the city, and I admire the fact that I can enjoy its closeness. I admire that I can not enjoy it and venture along it by morning and evening as just a part of my daily commute. I love the Winter, but this summer of cycling beside the sparkling waters will be a cherished photo in the album of my mind.

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