Once, I was able to navigate my sleek black Fuji racer, sitting arrow straight, pushing hard, and hands at my side. It’s amazing to think I was able to maintain my balance, down hills, around
unyielding corners, no plastic garbage pail stuck on my head to protect what little brains I had in the first place. Ah, those were the days.
I was dashing and daring back then, hawk-like eyes focused, clear and bright. There was no need to squint until my head ached. I rode with a pack of wolves, flying maniacs all part of my tribe, hurling down streets littered with the remains of Detroit’s monsters. There was no sissy water bottle stuck on the frame, no reflective side mirrors to steer me away from danger. No, just a basic stripped down machine was all I needed as if I was a test pilot screaming past mach one, the rush of pure adrenaline.
Now, when I bike ride, I feel weighed down with the expectation of a crash landing about to happen. Flung backwards by the slightest breathe of wind, I choke the handle bars with white knuckled kid gloves with eyes glued to the road, I expect the worse is always about to happen, watching the odometer to gauge how far I have gone, and how much time I have left.
Copyright © Steve Zak | Year Posted 2018
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