LJ Idol Week 3: It's a Trap
September 2003-I am speeding down a two-lane New Jersey highway on a tandem bicycle, quite literally a bicycle built for two. My bike captain Ed, who is doing the steering, occupies the seat in front of me. We have been on the road for nearly six hours today and have covered nearly 75 miles. The trees lining the road part for a moment, and I can see the sun setting to our right, dipping low over the little town we’re about to pass through.
“There’s a bridge up ahead,” Ed calls out. “One of those that’s like a hill.”
I groan inwardly. I love riding, but we’ve been on the road all day, going up and down hills, and my legs are tired. I’m not sure I can do one more hill.
“It’s probably about a five,” Ed adds, giving me a rough estimation of the steepness of the hill we are about to encounter.
I begin to focus more on my breathing, to take deeper, more even breaths. I know that in a moment it will be hard to catch my breath at all.
“We’re coming up to it now,” Ed warns, and about ten seconds later, I can feel the bike angle upward. It’s not the worst hill we’ve ever done, but after being on a bike for six hours, every hill seems big.
And after twenty seconds, I am sure that I won’t make it. My stomach and legs ache from the exertion, but worse than that, I can’t catch my breath. I try to, but I can’t. I can’t breathe.
“We’re about halfway there,” Ed says breathlessly. “You doing okay?”
“Uh-huh,” I reply, the word little more than a weak breath.
Pedal. Breathe. Pedal. Breathe. I can do it. I can do it. Just fifteen more seconds. I can do it. Ten more seconds. I can do it. Five. I can . . .
Finally, we crest the hill and drop down the other side. The pressure on the pedals eases as Ed stops pedaling. I do the same. Time to coast.
As gravity takes over, We start going faster and faster and faster. It’s like we’re flying. My stomach feels like it does when you’re on a roller coaster and you’ve just entered the first drop. The wind whips against my face, blowing my screams of joy right back at me. And I stop thinking and just take in the moment.
I don’t even remember that ten seconds ago I couldn’t catch my breath, that ten seconds ago I thought this hill would go on forever. And before I even reach the bottom of this hill, I know that when I crest the next one, and the next, it’ll be like that again. I’ll forget about the pain, forget about the fatigue, forget about the fifty miles we still have to cover before dark. Because in those few moments that we’re speeding down those hills, nothing else matters.
* * *
Six years later, my life has grown even more complicated, and there is so much more to think about, so much more to clutter and overwhelm my mind.
I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor in one of the Community Music School’s practice rooms. Julie S. sits beside me, leaning against the leg of the piano, and Julie M. sits in a chair a few feet away.
It’s almost midnight, almost time for the CMS to close. They’re going to come down here soon and tell us we have to go. We’ve already stopped practicing piano for the night, and now we’re just sitting here listening to music on my computer.
The song changes to the Glee version of “I Dreamed a Dream,” and we all stop talking to listen.
As the first verse ends and the music builds, I can feel my body tense with anticipation. I’ve heard this song at least a hundred times, but every time I listen to it I await this part like it’s the first time. The volume on the computer is all the way up, and all I can hear is the music, building, building, building . . .
The instruments reach their crescendo. The soloist’s voice rises to meet them, blending perfectly. Her voice is so clear, so pure. I can feel the notes surrounding me, filling the whole room. It’s almost like I can feel it in the air.
I unfold my legs and rise to my knees, hands clasped in utter joy, completely consumed by the music flowing around me. My eyes widen, and I smile, completely giving myself over to the moment. My mouth opens slightly, as if to form the note right along with her. For that one moment, the music is all there is. Everything else-deadlines, uncertainties, worries-just . . . falls away.
Whether I’m in a theater or a recital hall, with my friends or all alone, when the music wraps around me, nothing else matters.
* * *
It's these little moments that grab me and don’t let go until I’ve forgotten everything except what’s right there in the moment. And, sometimes, it’s not until I’m in one of these little moments that I realize that that’s exactly what I need.
“There’s a bridge up ahead,” Ed calls out. “One of those that’s like a hill.”
I groan inwardly. I love riding, but we’ve been on the road all day, going up and down hills, and my legs are tired. I’m not sure I can do one more hill.
“It’s probably about a five,” Ed adds, giving me a rough estimation of the steepness of the hill we are about to encounter.
I begin to focus more on my breathing, to take deeper, more even breaths. I know that in a moment it will be hard to catch my breath at all.
“We’re coming up to it now,” Ed warns, and about ten seconds later, I can feel the bike angle upward. It’s not the worst hill we’ve ever done, but after being on a bike for six hours, every hill seems big.
And after twenty seconds, I am sure that I won’t make it. My stomach and legs ache from the exertion, but worse than that, I can’t catch my breath. I try to, but I can’t. I can’t breathe.
“We’re about halfway there,” Ed says breathlessly. “You doing okay?”
“Uh-huh,” I reply, the word little more than a weak breath.
Pedal. Breathe. Pedal. Breathe. I can do it. I can do it. Just fifteen more seconds. I can do it. Ten more seconds. I can do it. Five. I can . . .
Finally, we crest the hill and drop down the other side. The pressure on the pedals eases as Ed stops pedaling. I do the same. Time to coast.
As gravity takes over, We start going faster and faster and faster. It’s like we’re flying. My stomach feels like it does when you’re on a roller coaster and you’ve just entered the first drop. The wind whips against my face, blowing my screams of joy right back at me. And I stop thinking and just take in the moment.
I don’t even remember that ten seconds ago I couldn’t catch my breath, that ten seconds ago I thought this hill would go on forever. And before I even reach the bottom of this hill, I know that when I crest the next one, and the next, it’ll be like that again. I’ll forget about the pain, forget about the fatigue, forget about the fifty miles we still have to cover before dark. Because in those few moments that we’re speeding down those hills, nothing else matters.
* * *
Six years later, my life has grown even more complicated, and there is so much more to think about, so much more to clutter and overwhelm my mind.
I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor in one of the Community Music School’s practice rooms. Julie S. sits beside me, leaning against the leg of the piano, and Julie M. sits in a chair a few feet away.
It’s almost midnight, almost time for the CMS to close. They’re going to come down here soon and tell us we have to go. We’ve already stopped practicing piano for the night, and now we’re just sitting here listening to music on my computer.
The song changes to the Glee version of “I Dreamed a Dream,” and we all stop talking to listen.
As the first verse ends and the music builds, I can feel my body tense with anticipation. I’ve heard this song at least a hundred times, but every time I listen to it I await this part like it’s the first time. The volume on the computer is all the way up, and all I can hear is the music, building, building, building . . .
The instruments reach their crescendo. The soloist’s voice rises to meet them, blending perfectly. Her voice is so clear, so pure. I can feel the notes surrounding me, filling the whole room. It’s almost like I can feel it in the air.
I unfold my legs and rise to my knees, hands clasped in utter joy, completely consumed by the music flowing around me. My eyes widen, and I smile, completely giving myself over to the moment. My mouth opens slightly, as if to form the note right along with her. For that one moment, the music is all there is. Everything else-deadlines, uncertainties, worries-just . . . falls away.
Whether I’m in a theater or a recital hall, with my friends or all alone, when the music wraps around me, nothing else matters.
* * *
It's these little moments that grab me and don’t let go until I’ve forgotten everything except what’s right there in the moment. And, sometimes, it’s not until I’m in one of these little moments that I realize that that’s exactly what I need.