the long ride
into the hills to escape adventure, venturing the heights for pleasure
northbound and bent to be back on the hull of this hollow pipe
tempered by rage and obedience
i’m coming home with new skin tuned to the worries of the lost
tearing, soul of my childhood where the knife’s edge kept on
past mother mountain—landings the launching pads
tops of trees the view
slow, clip by clip into the darkening narrow hills above towns
ascending further beyond self and the abstracting love
that holds these tires to the ground
bound and broke—i misplace these worries scattering at the curbside’s end
riding the tide
As the quarter before my final quarter of grad school gets ready to begin—the percolating potential of pedaling LA»GR is in robust aroma. I have been reflecting today on the question a close friend of mine had been asking with his family, that is, “If God was really with you, what would you be doing?” It is a question I just can’t shake.
I got hit by a car back on November 12th and have been limping along since. In more ways then one I have lived through this limping existence for five months now—four if my math is off—and now, with a ‘pep in my step’ I’m able to revisit a dream as mundane as the daily. I ride my bike everyday. I’ve been sick for months now, and still, just riding along feeling my legs move has been therapy. And this question looms as my beard gets longer and existential pondering gets a hold of my being. Not in some epic sense, but reality hits when this question goes against the grain of my thinking and way of being in the world these days. If God was with me, well, God is I trust, and so what is it to trust in such a way that the stories that God seems to describe inside me are lived, embodied—playing out in the daily. This is an old surge deep in my bones, and in the past, when this tide rushes, I ride.
All this to say, I have a single speed bike now—the $2000 Giant TCR got confiscated by a stranger, but that’s cool. I was climbing on the thing (the Masi) a few weeks ago—tired and sick—and thought, “Boy howdy! I think I could ride at one pace for 2200 miles, I walked the AT at 3mph for 3 months?” This may be a crazy thought, however, there might be something to be learned in the gearing system of a long ride. Pacing, endurance—as Nietzsche called it—the long obedience in the same direction—there might be something there.
in the drops
The night is a quiet space when you think about it. The darkness seems to absorb the sounds and the streets are so empty. When I ride at night I feel so fast too. Maybe its because I can only see so far and shapes seem to fly by just a half a second faster than the norm. It is in those half seconds that I feel invited to reach down to the drop bars. Now it may seem odd, because it is, but the sounds and the speed are another world. The cold air is running through my fleece and I can feel it on my lower back. My back is exposed because my fleece is to small but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I think for one of those half seconds that I have an air cooled jet pack on. I wonder for another half second how the jet pack is converting the night air into fuel but am reminded that my legs are moving me forward because I hit a hill… and I can feel it. The clean ticking of the chain and the tires gripping when I hit a curve remind me that I am grounded and free. Grounded by gears that move like a machine and free to aim this machine, that I have chosen to be apart of, in any direction I want. I have to choose a direction for this thing to work. If I look too long to the horizon or back at a passing car I will crash loosing the speed of the night and I am sure the crash would break the silence. I don’t want to crash. But I am interested in flying through this city at speeds close to the speed of sound. This is why I am choosing to be in the drops. For a moment I reposition and grab the bullhorns but after being low and tight with the bike the bullhorns make me feel like an old man. And out here I am riding trying to turn back time, the bullhorns have never felt the same since I reached for the drops about a twenty minutes ago. The drops are the new norm and there is no going back.
lets ride
I was in the mountains riding a few days ago. I could feel my pulse in my temples and drool was beginning to pool in my beard. The tension on my chain was what I imagined the jaws of a sizable animal capable of maintaining—I get this from what I have read about alligators. But my shadow climbed with me—cheering the whole thing on. Then, as I got to the top of a hill with a few gears leftover, I thought how I would have no gears left had I been carrying equipment. I have settled into the idea of riding LA»GR and my thoughts are in a similar place as they were when I was preparing for the AT. It is going to happen, like a prophet announces the destruction of a city, it will take some serious intervention to prevent it. So thoughts race to the details, thinking thought each component to a ride of this kind. Maybe it works like an engagement? The consummation being some time off while in the time leading up to a wedding there is preparation, binding that occurs, so that, the first step in ultimate togetherness is a natural one.
Natural… or rather fruitful.
I’m going to ride a ton this year and will collect some of the frustrations and fears along the way here. My hope is that this prodigal project is aimed toward restoration. I’m riding my bike home, so along the way and in the process of preparation, Ill be reflecting on what it is to come home, what home is, and how all of this hits the ground in the lives we live together as people. This is for me an exploration—going places I haven’t gone inside and venturing out to do something that is a bit unorthodox —in an effort to explore open spaces with creativity. Truth and experiences are nuanced enough for people to experience them in their own way, so, I am inviting friends and strangers into a conversation concerning the restorative work that is among us all, which is loving us toward a new view and an open eye to the horizon. As a friend has reminded me, lets follow the fruit—allowing hope to get hold of us and take us somewhere. I suspect this hope is less interested in religiosity and more interested in generosity. More concerned with being that doing. So lets ride.
