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Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Zoom

Sometimes my favorite part of the day is a two-mile, 15-minute bike ride home from work. Escaping the office as soon as possible, black leather gloves on, jacket unbuttoned, I awkwardly stretch my leg over the bar, push the right pedal down and take off, a penguin diving into water.

Turning right onto Marquette Avenue in downtown Minneapolis, I own the narrow bike lane. Two lanes of cars come at me on my left. They stop and go and brake and curse and look exhausted. Suckers! I fly by them in my special lane. On my right I buzz by people waiting on the corner for buses, and people running for buses, and then the buses themselves, the passengers looking at me from above. Zoom zoom. I fly by. They are all jealous of my speed and agility. And my bike is hot — silver and black, shiny and postmodern. Postmodern is the word for my bike. Screw sensibility. The sun is shining and my legs are pumping and stress is falling off my shoulders and I forget whatever happened at work because it doesn’t matter and the traffic cop is waving me through. They hold traffic for me. They hold traffic for me. And after I fly through honking horns and blowing whistles and rumbling buses, I pass into the quiet neighborhoods south of downtown, cruising along the bike lane on Blaisdell Avenue for a few blocks before I turn onto a side street. The leaves are falling into piles along the gutters and I ride through them. One wheel, two wheels crunch through them and the smell of autumn leaves ascends and I imagine that behind me a trail of leaves is rising and swirling, driven from the ground by my speed and grace. My postmodern bike and me. And then, much too quickly it seems, I am at my intersection. I am there and I swing my right leg back over the bar and jump off. The schoolboys standing on the corner are jealous. They look at my bike. I pretend not to notice, but I know they are green with envy as I open the black metal gate to my yard, wheel my bike through first and then I follow, closing the latch behind me and disappearing into the darkness of the garage, where I carefully lean my silver postmodern bike against the wall, the front tire three inches from the bumper of my car. Tomorrow, I think. Tomorrow, if I remember this feeling and if the weather permits, we will ride again.

Posted by Aaron on October 11, 2005 11:44 PM