There is the early morning, cold and unforgiving wind whipping my neon yellow jacket. But the fog lifts slowly and there is just me and the bike, flying free down the road to no where.
I see small birds and morning glories and scuttling black furry caterpillars cross my path. Then butterflies and soaring falcon, wings swept back. She has nothing on me, but height. I soar and find my pace.
Up hills I notice my breath, sometimes breathing like birth, two deep breaths in, one long one out hard, rib cage expanding for all it's worth, legs gasping for air, hands changing gears, mind wrangling with whether I can make it, and if not can I get my right foot unlocked from the stern pedal that holds me close, but traps me if I fail to free that shoe in time for leaning right.
Down steep hills I lean into my bike, praying for no hazards at the bottom, fearful of even peeking at my speed on my speedometer because my eyes would leave the brutal asphalt that threatens to swallow me up. Over all the fear is the unrelenting thrill of flying through the world, fully in it and transcendent all at once.
Then there is another hill.
And I keep going, up, down, steady on the flats, unsteady when fatigue sets in, chilled when I'm dehydrated, and sweating all the way. Muscles strain and my mind wanders to how this is so stripped down that all my earthly body parts show through spandex and I don't care and makeup isn't even missed and jewelry doesn't matter, it's me and my bike against the road and the wind and the heat.
And we meld with the road, the wind, the heat.
We roll mile after mile, talking to others on the path sometimes, but mostly alone wondering at the exquisite blueprint that came up with all the moving parts of me and the gears and the glorious water that slakes my thirst or dribbles down my jersey for desperate cooling.
It is the sheer reality of the ride that entices me.
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