the Boy on the Bicycle

Nearly two weeks have crawled by since my last post (thank you, Jamie, for reminding me). My defense, for the record, is that these last two weeks in Pennsylvania have been less than exciting, inwardly stressful, and probably not much worth recording in any great depth. I don't care to remember them in any great detail, and a laundry list of events is something I explicitly want to avoid. All apologies. Instead, I'll do my best to write something, even if it's nothing of great consequence.

Still, I have had some interesting experiences - in particular with the strange society of people known as "bicyclists." They prowl the hills and curves of these country backroads, sometimes alone, sometimes in menacing packs, clad in obnoxiously bright spandex and sleek, streamlined helmets as they cycle upon lightweight frames and thin tires. A few of these individuals make an effort to wear only yellow, a symbolic gesture that I believe is a sign of respect to one of their gods.

Behind the wheel of a car, they are at most pests on the road, preventing me from attaining the speeds that my reckless driving nature demands. To them, cars are obnoxious metal beasts that consume gasoline and never share the road. Yet ever since I have taken to the road on my own bicycle, I have come to learn more about these people. Admittedly, I do not share their appearance: I am neither brave nor foolish enough to wear skintight clothes, and my bike is a simple model designed for rocks and dirt roads, with straight handlebars and a faulty, clicking gear mechanism. Nevertheless as I wander the roads in the early hours of the morning, or late in the afternoon as the sun sets across the tall corn, they greet me with a smiling 'hello' or a generous wave of the hand. I feel that I have been accepted into their community of roving riders, and am no longer an object of scorn. Even the civilians I encounter, be they crossing the street to check their mailboxes, mowing their lawns, or enjoying a walk, seem friendlier when they see me riding my mud-splattered mountain bike.

Perhaps it is the human contact of actually being face-to-face with someone instead of seeing them through a windshield that brings this change. Possibly they are laughing inwardly at the comical sight of me upon a bike. Or perhaps, as it later occurred to me upon thinking of a certain girl, I lose the "fuck off" look that I (apparently) often wear when out in public. Don't ask me about that; I'm not even sure I believe it.

As much as I want to leave, I will miss riding my bike.

10 days.