He had been patiently waiting in the corner. There he sat, watching, knowing that his turn was coming. We were well acquainted. We’d spent many years together. This year would be no different, no matter how much I tried.
I finally came to his corner and extended my hand. I literally carried him up the stairs, where we would get reacquainted this year. We reminisced a little bit as I dressed to do the deed: “Remember when we helped those kids?” “How about the time they stared at us at Northern Lights Circle?” I spruced him up and he stood tall. I sat on his saddle and clamped myself in.
It was time to go for a ride.
As we danced on the pavement together, he softly reminded me that as Agnes Moorehead said several times during the series she’s most remembered for, “We are quicksilver, a flash of color, a fleeting sound. Our home has no boundaries beyond which we can not pass.” My body reveled and I could feel his smile beneath me. Tears streamed down my face.
In May 2000, at 221 pounds I rode six miles. I thought I would die.
In July 2008, at 189 pounds I rode sixteen miles. And I reveled in life.
It’s good to be a cyclist once again.
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