On y va

Getting onto my bike has become the moment my day starts.  Inside my house, inside my morning, I could be anywhere; I drink coffee, I shower, I drift from room to room on bare feet, my bathrobe's sash slipping along the floor.

Then I wheel my bike to the front door and feel my day slide into focus.  I come alive.  Hoisting it down the front steps and around the trash can is more than automatic; it is a ritual.  I arrange my belongings, fumble with the helmet, smile at neighbours.  Then I step on and roll down the sidewalk to Canal.  The moment my wheels touch the street is electric; I lean in, a fierce little joy whipping through me as I slide into traffic.

Why did I start to bike?  Because I hate driving.  Why do I love to bike?  I like to sweat, I like an effort, I like complexity.  You can't be oblivious on a bike.  All you can do on a bike is think.

This city offers a lot of food for thought.  It is savourous, it is tough, it is sickly sweet.  Sometimes I have no appetite.  Sometimes my appetite is langourous and refined.  Sometimes I am ravenous, uncritical, questing for sensation and satiety.  And sometimes my gorge rises and I choke, sweating, eyes closed.