night biking

The amber-steel sky of an overcast night lights my way down Lincoln Avenue. From the suburbs into the city, I ride in the muted darkness of the metropolis. Street lights provide oasis's of yellow pools in the grey night. The headlights of cars warn of their approach like a brash predator. Ahead of me I see a tapestry of lights: tails of cars, neon shapes proclaiming "open" or "beer", green and yellow traffic symbols, creamy-speckled high-rises, and pastel curtains of family homes.

My legs pump up and down on my pedals, and the cold wind brings rouge to my cheeks as I feel the release from a dependence on steel and petrol. These two tires, a light aluminum frame, gears, screws, bolts and all the pieces of metal and rubber combine with my body to propel me over distance. It offers me transportation and doesn't pretend to protect me from air, or entertain me with a radio, or comfort me with a soft seat. I'm responsible for my own safety, no seat-belts or airbags. The exhilaration of holding my own life in my own balance keeps me alert and wary of the the heavy vehicles speeding by, just feet away.

I feel the pavement. Every bump and crack reminds me of my connection with the world. I feel intimate with my route home. I expect the change in grade, and my tires caress the cement-clothed shape of the land. My breathing heightens as I reach the peak and calms as I coast on. Unused train-tracks scar the landscape, and potholes pit the smooth pavement. I experience it without leaving as a stranger enclosed within a metal box.

Scents assail my nostrils from the open air. Greasy, fast-food meat and fries is dank in the night. Some people still burn wood in the fireplace and the rich, sentimental aroma greets me and follows me for a block around its home and lingers as I pass. A chinese restaurant beckons with the sweetness of plum sauce mixed with rice. Diesel trucks remind me of the present with their black scented-smoke. Donut shops, hotdog stands, sweet kettle corn and more, present a menagerie of experiences, each with a story.

My mind is free to process the stories of my surroundings. I don't feel a need to drown my thoughts with the conversation of DJs and lonely singers. I'm at peace as I travel. The wind is far more soothing than the rumble of a motor. My minimalist symphony is composed from the contributions of other commuters in their cars and trucks, percussion-ed by the the brief arrival of a booming bass system or honking horn, and under-toned by my own steady, familiar breathing.

Familiarity leads me to appreciate my journey home.