The ride home...

Data analysis interrupted by gazing out the window. Not getting very much done, might be better to call it a day; It's 5:30 anyway for 'crissake. Shut it down, pack it up. Say goodbye. Walking the bike down the hall like she's a purebred at a dog show. Best in show, I'd say. Lift her over the shoulder as you walk down the old stairs and through endless sets of double doors.

Outside it is glorious, a rare confluence of sun and warmth and blue sky in a usually dreary April.

Mount the bike as if it's a steed; lean it and swing a leg over, in part because the frame is slightly too tall. Giddy'up. Avoiding pedestrians on the way to the street.

3.

2.

1.

Go.


Heart starts pumping faster going down the first hill. There are two things to remember when riding a fixed gear: the first is that you can't coast. The second is that YOU CAN NOT COAST. Going very fast, to the point where the eyes water and upcoming potholes get harder to spot.

The fear doesn't diminish the grin, it only broadens it.

At the bottom of the hill, pedaling hard to save the momentum to get up the next one. Legs are starting to feel the incline beneath them. At a stop light and sucking more wind than would be preferred. Wait for the cars to pass before turning left.

Potholes.

Straining to get up to speed, from a car waiting to move,

"You're almost there!"

Strangers are strange. But he is right.

No more straining or sticking to the hole-stricken side of the street. Move down into the drops, take weight off the saddle, back straight, neck up. Focus on form. Take the lane. As fast as the cars behind. Better than Armstrong, Schleck, or Contador. Better than anyone at that exact moment. The greatest ever. Power through the intersection just as the light turns green then lay off a bit.

Turn onto the country back road and the mind starts to wander from adrenaline withdrawal. The streets of Baltimore and the cobblestone of Fells' Point. Wonder how feasible cycling will be there. Logistics of moving. Think about summer in Hanover. The trick is, I think, to not fall in love.

Snap back as the smell of the dairy farm is carried on the wind, signaling the final turn of the trip back. Climb the dirt road out of the saddle, like a mountain stage on the Tour.

Reach the apex, take a breath, and sprint. Leave nothing in the tank. The speed is put to a rhythm supplied by the pedal strokes and tension in the chain. It is music, it is beauty. Feel the cool air as the street invades the forest. The house is not far now. Pull into the driveway and dismount on the wrong side of the bike, every single goddamn time.

Lift her up again and walk around the back of the garage. Looking up: squirrels and birds on barren branches. Looking down: grass growing from under the dead leaves. The reflection in the window shows nothing different; inevitable change and a new life.

See you all Wednesday,

M.