I was late to work today, but not for the usual reason, not because I clutched desperately for the shelter of unconsciousness. I came home, had to get things together for work, packed them into my new Ortlieb waterproof bag that fits on the new rack on my newly revived old Specialized Rockhopper mountain bike.
Recently, I've been back on the bike to a significant degree for the first time since I was a teenager, when it was the one sport I ever really showed some real promise at. My girlfriend, Christina, bought a new bike for her summertime triathloning adventures, and I started riding with her.
Gas prices and traffic no doubt played some quiet, subconscious role in the decision to ride my bike to work for the first time in years. The greater influence was my new love affair with Mellow Johnny's, Lance Armstrong's new bike shop downtown, just a few blocks from my office. The nice, clean showers and lockers answer the overriding issue of my ability to sweat profusely at the drop, and bending over and picking up, of a hat.
And then there's the need for peace. I spent some peaceful afternoons and evenings working on the old steel bike, cleaning it, tuning it, stripping off the unnecessary bits and adding new marginally necessary bits.
Now, several mornings a week, I wrangle the laden bike down the stairs, pedal out of the steep hollow of my apartment complex's parking lot, and onto South Lamar. It's two miles of downhill, smooth and fast, and though I'm surrounded by morning traffic, I'm moving in the peace of a reality just slightly out of phase with the people in their cars. I can push a little, and I keep up with the cars. I've started wearing a helmet after suffering the caring ridicule of my girlfriend and several other friends, and after a couple of trucks almost clipped me one morning. But I still feel the wind in my face, the energy moving through the two patches of contact between rubber and asphalt, and it's a very, very good thing. Peace. I look into the cars around me, and see the delayed reflection of my own face driving to work - tired, annoyed, a little angry, already a little defeated.
Taking the bike to work for me is an escape, a rebellion, a postponement of the part of my day that only means a paycheck. And, as exercise, it's the only thing that is more joy than obligation right now. I run at this point because I can't really stop. My feet have hurt for over a year and a half now, advancing to the point where walking a few blocks is just a bit more painful than I'd like. But I fear losing what I've gained as a runner, and as a coach, and I fear losing what I've lost, in terms of weight and sloth.
But the bike is something different. It's all mine. It's a strength, and a love. I pull into Mellow Johnny's, lock it up, come in through its coffeeshop cheekily named "Juan Pelota", "pelota" being Spanish for "ball"). On some mornings, when I ride farther or stop to drown myself for half an hour at Barton Springs, as I did today, I get an iced chai latte, chat a little with the barrista, walk through the shop just stirring, morning chatter and music, and peace, like time and space themselves have been pulled out of the vise we keep them in.
I still have to go to work. I still have to run. There's still lots to do, and I and the people around me will abuse and crush time and space again. But I've won some little part of the day, and of a better, peaceful, smiling me.
Leave a comment