Compared to past winters, this one has been brutal--or, at least, especially dreary--and has seemed endless. This putative beginning of spring feels more like a truce, one that can be broken at any moment, than a true end to the hostilities.
So far, I've done three rides that weren't commutes or related to some specific purposes. Even though I pedaled along streets, paths and boardwalks I've ridden many times before, those rides felt like discoveries and releases at the same time: The tears that rolled down my cheeks were not only from the wind.
But somehow I feel I rode as furtively as the season slinking its way among bare branches piqued with buds not yet ready to open. I am like a cat creeping, ready at any moment to scamper back into shelter.
The rides have been really good. But I am anxious for the season to take root, for flowers to open and to ride expansively and endlessly. Hopefully all of those things will happen soon.
So far, I've done three rides that weren't commutes or related to some specific purposes. Even though I pedaled along streets, paths and boardwalks I've ridden many times before, those rides felt like discoveries and releases at the same time: The tears that rolled down my cheeks were not only from the wind.
But somehow I feel I rode as furtively as the season slinking its way among bare branches piqued with buds not yet ready to open. I am like a cat creeping, ready at any moment to scamper back into shelter.
The rides have been really good. But I am anxious for the season to take root, for flowers to open and to ride expansively and endlessly. Hopefully all of those things will happen soon.
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