When it was locked up and secured for the day it was unknowing what unlocking it would be like.

Dusk, with its pink and silver like pearls lighting the dance of buzzing insects by the cloud-fulls, awaits me. I unlock my ride to discover that it has decided it will remain in one piece from now on, which is fine, and I adjust quickly to the new fact that I will save a minute or two on my journeys. My bike will no longer kneel but stand up-right while it waits for me.

While that development certainly changed the order of things, it was not until I covered my eyes in my normal protection from the sun’s light that I’m alerted to the kind of ride I’ll be taking home. The night around me reveals little except faint outlines and blurs of the others moving in the dark. With this new reality facing me I knew I needed to make the journey without my sunglasses: inappropriate without sunlight to shield me from. To this weight a counter was put on the scale: the wind of the night was blinding. Unless I decided to slow down and draw-out the trek home my eyes would face watering and simultaneous drying-out as I propelled forward. While in line, a fraction of the size of the rusting, steel monsters in my company, I decided to gamble on low-visibility instead of dealing with the blowing of the wind rising to match the spinning of my pedals.

Off I follow the familiar path home without the familiar comfort I’ve grown to know. I feel myself fumbling through my own apartment in the dark except with wider spaces and enough of an understanding that the red eyes moving beside me, as if I’m a tiny dog walking next to the stanchion legs of the horses passing, are serious dangers. I’m somehow more relaxed as my legs put the wind in to the pinwheels of my pedals while also married to the notion that I must be more alert than ever through the drunken slits of my underwater eyes. It’s liberating and empowering with a thoughtless concentration that lights a candle in my soul; a singular point of focus to block out all the other distracting stimulation.

Along the water, my dear water, a different tint but beautiful in the extraordinary light, I peddle without a struggle or slowing down. I know when someone is coming or I’m coming up to them by the blurs moving just out of sight, and by looking aside the peripheral of my eye traces an outline of them. I swerve precisely around them swiftly and continue with an extra push of forceful speed, while somewhere early on I felt the benefit of my fault with each impact of flying insects: their territory I’ve invaded. Without a single strand actually landing I bolt through to the feeling of spider-webs sticking to my face, and instead it’s the line of them colliding in space with the rocket of my projectile face. Now and again I think I feel the ping of mini-bites as they steadfastly fasten to my face like expeditioners entrapped on the egregious escarpment of my forehead. I wipe them away while my tires close the distance to the awaiting mouth of the garage door.

Home marks the end of the journey. I felt like I was flying like a gliding duck just inches above the water and so arrival is mixed. I’ll take the letdown if I’m giving their word that this isn’t the last time. I don’t know who “they” are or what say they have in the matter but I’m going to meet them out there again at a dusk coming soon.

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