Rider, Anonymous Cyclists are naturally anonymous; armored inside a helmet and dark glasses, spinning through snippets of neighbors and strangers’ lives, consuming the scene but never contributing to it for more than a split second. Momentum is the muse. Speed tingles sweat-moistened skin, every cell and nerve awakened. Emotions ride shotgun. I pedal for miles and no one pays me any attention. That’s the good part, and that’s the bad part. My bicycle is beauty in motion: a lean, mean pumping machine that hammers like a piston, but only a flash in the consciousness of the earthly world I travel through. The blind man on the porch: I spot him as I start a long climb. He is planted in a wheelchair with a red blanket tucked around him, round dark glasses, immobile, baking in the late afternoon sun. I wave to him and smile, just because, and then his head begins to turn like a sundial following me up the climb. He is not blind! I am inexplicably thrilled by this knowledge; we are friends for a moment. I crest the top of the hill expecting to see my favorite cookie cutter view of Holland, Vermont: a classic vista of ruler-perfect mow lines on rolling green hills framed by a mountain range cut from God’s pinking shears. Instead I see a scumbled skyline, layers of polarized haze masking the beauty behind a blue veil. A young boy, maybe 13, is mowing on a John Deere tractor. He sits erect, puffed with pride at his ability to commandeer the rig so skillfully. I smile at him, acknowledging his prowess with a thumbs-up, and then, he salutes me! My heart explodes and starbursts of happiness ripple through my body. I laugh out loud as I speed on. In the middle of a sweet descent I look up the road and see a six-pack of Harley hogs in perfect flight formation. The motorcycles move as gracefully as debutantes descending a staircase. I love motorcycles and ride one on the days I rest from bicycling. I need to connect with these riders, if only for a moment. I drop my left hand down in a lazy reverse peace sign, flashing them the biker’s wave. They get my greeting and R.S.V.P. me the wave in choreographed perfection. It’s a beautiful moment and I swoon. As I ride along, I begin to understand that my desire for casual connection is not needy, it is human, and universal; it is the anonymous extrovert’s endorphin fix. I choose to ride solo, and often, and yet it’s not really a paradox: if I’m with somebody else, I can’t properly tune into the detailed nuances of my personal soap opera the same way I can alone. It’s like partying alone in a room full of people- a perfectly nice way to observe and enjoy human behavior up close without getting personal. I roll down a hill in dismay: I have to stop for a flashing school bus. Breaking gently, I practice my balancing skills so I won’t have to clip out. The kids at the back of the bus spot me and plaster their toothless mugs against the glass; they look like a poster from the house of mirrors. Waving and flashing the victory sign they convulse in a self-conscious heap of hysteria when I wave back. The lights go off and I roll on anticipating the encore as the bus passes me again. I pass other riders, but I only slow down long enough to say hi; I don’t want them in my movie. Right now I need to pay attention to the activity on the porch 50 yards ahead. Surrounded by four sweating toddlers in soggy diapers, two wrung out moms wearing identical crowns of streaked hair that look like mangled broom straw swig Budweiser long necks. It’s the beginning of the arsenic hours, and they’ve got a long way to go before their kids’ bedtime. I send them a vibe strongly laced with hope and wish them well. I am grateful for the freedom of my ride, and I silently praise God for my own grown daughters. After these many miles I am wind-drunk with love for the lives I temporarily annex. Despite my enthusiasm, these encounters remain real only to me; they have no name. My communion is expressed but it is never received. The faces I glimpse and the homes I fly past have no clue that I connect with them at all. I am a split-second voyeur. I’m spinning back through town now, and I notice the not-blind man has gone inside; it’s getting cool. I imagine him sipping a fine scotch before his evening meal. I hope that he is well cared for. He can no longer move with any kind of grace or speed, but I send out a prayer to him anyway, a hope that perhaps a pleasant moment was stirred as he watched me pass by on my machine. Kim Dannies ©2008 |