Freedom

Work, responsibility. I've heard adulthood described as looking both ways before crossing the street, only to get hit by a plane. The thing is, we forget. We forget the weights we carry, some put there by others. Some we picked up and forgot to put down again. Then, when we set everything aside and take time for ourselves, we marvel at the strange lightness. No two freedoms are alike, just as we each carry our own motley pack of problems. But let me tell you, freedom has two wheels.

If you're like the majority of us, you're bound by gravity, affixed to the ground so securely you don't question the fact. This is why stumbling on the stairs stops your heart for a beat. For that instant you are aloft, flying. Free. Then your adrenal glands kick in, making all the edges too sharp and giving you superhuman reflexes until you regain your footing. Remember the story of Icharus - man wasn't born to fly. Your feet touch again and you're safe. Safe, and you have already forgotten what flying feels like. Running brings us closer, brings us back. For a tiny slice of time both feet are off the ground, air and earth blending into soothing rhythm. Then the second is gone. No matter how hard you try, your legs lack the strength to leave the ground for long. There exists another option, for those so inclined. You will need a water bottle, and sunglasses, and most of a day. Best start early.

The bike is waiting in the garage, dust coating the seat and handlebars. A helmet hangs next to the dented bell, pads disintegrating and neglected. It will suffice; as long as the pedals turn and the wheels run smoothly, it will do. The morning is cool, the moisture not yet baked from the air. The start will be uninspiring; it always is. There are cars with inconsiderate drivers, potholes, puddles, dogs straining to the end of their leashes. It is acceptable to be irritated by them. Everyone is. Turning the corner, the road widens and smooths out, and you can start now. The pedals turn faster of their own accord as the air glides by, silken against your face and arms. Here you are aloft and not, free on the ground, untethered. Here you are strong. The rhythm comes from nowhere, legs moving effortlessly in time. Friction cannot hold you back now, or George at the office with his endless memos about the legal pads nobody can remember having ordered. Time is immaterial as you fly, the road blurring past but not so quickly you can't see the flowers. Before you realize it you are back in your driveway, shards of leaf clinging to the slick of sweat on your calves and a stripe of mud flicked in delicate pointilism up your back. The bicycle returns to the garage, water bottle an empty husk. Without the repetitive pressure on the pedals your legs have forgotten what sensation is, so you float into the kitchen. You are already feeling the soreness settling in, muscles flickering like a car engine ticking as it cools. Tomorrow you will question the wisdom of sitting on a peeling saddle for hours on end. Tomorrow you will fly again.