To all of you who are mothers--and those of you who love yours, or someone who was one to you--Happy Mother's Day.
My mom is great. But she hates being photographed, and I've been able to take the few photos I have of her only by swearing I would never share them. Since I do believe in honoring my mother and father (which is not always the same as obeying them), you will not see her photo on my blogs. However, I'll give you the next best thing--to me, anyway. Here's a photo of a mom riding with her kid in tow:
It must have had to do with the fact that today was an absolutely perfect mid-spring day. Somehow I was feeling proud, if not invincible, the way I did when I rode in my youth. Of course, I can't ride as far or long or fast as I did in those days, but I was feeling pretty good and rather proud of myself. Perhaps it had something to do with seeing this
He just knew he looked good against that bridge and sky. Of course, it wasn't enough for him to make me notice that.
That bird simply knew the bridges spanned a river, but his wings spanned so much more. Well, that's what he seemed to believe, anyway.
Who am I to argue?
On my bicycle, I've raced, toured, commuted and delivered pizzas, books, payroll checks, blueprints, contracts, machine parts and a few packages with "don't ask don't tell" policies, if you know what I mean.
I've thumped along potholed city streets, rumbled down rocky hills, rolled along county roads and routes departmantles past fields, castles, cathedrals and through forests and villages. I've woven my way through pacelines and drafted riders I would pass and others who would ride in races, and in places, I have never seen. I've cycled over ice and through fire. (I'm not making that up!) I've ridden alone, with friends, with lovers and after breakups. And I've pedalled away from a person or two.
On the other hand, I've never done BMX, bicycle polo or paintball on bicycles. And I've never ridden a high-wheeler, although I sometimes think I'd like to. After all, my cycling ancestors did so. They include Auguste Rodin, H.G. Wells and Mark Twain, who wrote an incomparable account of the experience.
He tamed his bike the way he tamed just about everything else: with his wit and irony. Really, I don't see how a cyclist can not develop at least a little bit of either quality.
