Your Rails Have Always Outrun Mine
Now I bike, some. Not quite enough for an ever-aging, ever-widening, part-time food writer (praise the lord it's not a full-time job), but some. I mean, it's Santa Barbara, where a cold morning is 40 and that happens a couple times a winter. And it doesn't rain over half the year. And we have no water, but this is about me, dammit, so if you want your ecological non-navel-gazing, go elsewhere. Just leave enough rain so not too much of the beautiful scenery burns down before I can bike through it.
Of late the hope is to have a bit of the mystic moment on the one long, not steep downhill on the way into work. It's alongside cars, so it's not that spiritual, but sometimes there's this sense of click, and I don't mean my bike needs a tune-up. I mean that the bike is sort of riding me and I'm not riding it, that I finally latch into that perfect gear when the wheel speed--that is real speed--and my legs all just synch so I work but it's nothing, it is exactly what is supposed to be is. Not even the moment when the trees hang too low and even ducking means they zip across the top of my helmet breaks it, if it happens, when.
Of course it's not long, and the desire for more speed makes it shorter. Of course I want it, and then force fucks everything up.
But it's nice to know it's there, that going downhill can be something to be loved. Cause I'm going downhill anyway.
(3 of 31 in the drive to 2500)
Labels: bicycling is fun