riding

I thread through traffic. Weaving past cars stalled by red lights, I keep the periphery of my vision open to pedestrians. Forever calculating the distance between myself and them. I hold my breath as little unguarded me slides through the colossal, bone-crunching, semi-trucks. Breathing with relief that my clenched fists weren't crushed between the bike's wide handlebars and their doors. Ah traffic. One of the partners in this dance. Is it a dance? A race? An all out war? It has the fluidity of a dance, the feeling of a race, and the body count of a war.

I could say I ride because it's convenient. Or because it's cheap. Some guess that I ride for the exercise, for stony calves and taught thighs. But really, I do it for this. For that rush of power and control I get when navigating my way from here to there. The giddy high of escaping the perils of New York streets in one piece. The purity of riding cleanses me. There is only so much room for my bull shit on a one-speed. Problems inside my head can't take the concentration I need for the road.

Sometimes I succumb to my desire for passive transportation. I am lured away from the pitted, crowded road by the promise of a few minutes to read, and the chance to let myself be taken instead of powering through. The truth of public transportation is always better than the fantasy. In real life there is rarely a cute guy on the subway (without a wedding ring). I'll give in to an ipod instead of using the time to read, and those five blocks between work and the bus stop feel ten times harder than any bike ride. Given the alternative is it any wonder that I choose the freedom of riding?

I never thought to own a bike before. I bought it because it was on sale and it's pink. It's not the most practical choice but it makes me laugh. I am amused by it's cartoon proportions and color, by it's complete and total disregard for what a bike is supposed to look like. I've become numb to the comments, both positive and negative. It's pink and garish, and sometimes I wonder if that's what saves me as I brave traffic.

I can depend on my bike. It waits outside the school doors, bearing the indignities of stillness. It's wrestled into a small elevator at least twice a day, twisting in ways that rival any contortionist. My bike carries my bags without complaint, no word of their heft or number. It accepts the scratches and lost screws of city life, bounces over potholes and skids through gravel. And through it all, all it asks is that I ride.