literature on the art of cycling (x-post)
When I was younger, 13 or so, and we lived in our quaint house on Cynthia St. whose less than charming outter decor reminded me of a rotten egg and whose inner less than pleasant odor reminded me of a rotten egg, I spent a lot of my time riding my bike. It was my relief, my release, my refuge.
It reminded me of when I was little. When I was a baby and my mommy and daddy would go on bike rides and I sad in my little seat behind my mom. That was when my hair was light brown and I had salon-esque curls, with the fashionable touch sweat and dirt of a toddler.
When I turned 6 I got my very first, very own brand new bicycle. No more red tricycle, the one everyone had. I was on my own. I was on my two wheeler. (Joyfully equipt with the the coolest training wheels in town.) But the bike, she was white with deep pink splatters of paint and I called her Splash.
Tonight, I remembered why I spent so much time with the wind in my face, my hands plastered to the grimey handlebars, and my ass seated on what is quite possibly the most uncomfortable and least form-fitting surface ever. I write novels in my head and store them in my own personal library. I sing way out loud in my heart totally silently and it's better than screaming. I re-live great things and terrible things and I can screw up my face in the most unpleasant expression and it's ok because nobody's looking. I see intriguing things like dead birds that didn't die because they were hit by a car and people fixing cars in their garage at 1am and kids sitting around getting high, positive they're hidden from any wandering eyes. Because it makes me so sure the world belongs to me. Or at least my neighborhood.
It reminded me of when I was little. When I was a baby and my mommy and daddy would go on bike rides and I sad in my little seat behind my mom. That was when my hair was light brown and I had salon-esque curls, with the fashionable touch sweat and dirt of a toddler.
When I turned 6 I got my very first, very own brand new bicycle. No more red tricycle, the one everyone had. I was on my own. I was on my two wheeler. (Joyfully equipt with the the coolest training wheels in town.) But the bike, she was white with deep pink splatters of paint and I called her Splash.
Tonight, I remembered why I spent so much time with the wind in my face, my hands plastered to the grimey handlebars, and my ass seated on what is quite possibly the most uncomfortable and least form-fitting surface ever. I write novels in my head and store them in my own personal library. I sing way out loud in my heart totally silently and it's better than screaming. I re-live great things and terrible things and I can screw up my face in the most unpleasant expression and it's ok because nobody's looking. I see intriguing things like dead birds that didn't die because they were hit by a car and people fixing cars in their garage at 1am and kids sitting around getting high, positive they're hidden from any wandering eyes. Because it makes me so sure the world belongs to me. Or at least my neighborhood.