It’s been picking at me for quite some time, the thought growing as quickly as my waistline. Dieting and exercising has become a way of life for the past five years, and as much as I hate to admit it, its not working as well as I would like. I knew that I was going to have to throw something else into the mix, and the price of gas these days seemed to seal the deal. I bought a bike. Last week found us searching the aisles of Target and Walmart. I didn’t want something too fancy, because I’m not Lance Armstrong. But I didn’t want something too simple, either, with a cute wicker basket across the handlebars. Visions of “Murder She Wrote” scenes flashed through my mind, as the writer-slash-crime fighter Angela Lansbury pedaled through the little town where she lived, solving murders and chronicling them to show the police. I’m still a city girl at heart, and it would be just my luck to witness a crime and the criminal steal my bicycle, cute wicker basket and all. “Are you sure you can do this?” my beloved asked me as we loaded it into the back seat of the car. We had lucked out and learned Target sold the display bikes, already assembled. It was silver and had no basket. It did have hand brakes just like Lance’s, however, so I felt it was a reasonable compromise. After giving it the once over, he agreed it was the one for me. He was anxious for me to get started, but afraid I would kill myself. “Of course!” I answered, somewhat insulted. “What is that about learning to ride a bike? You never forget it!” Secretly though, I wondered if I could pull it off without falling off. I named it the Silver Bullet, in honor of Stephen King, one of my favorite authors. We went home and together we mapped out a route for me to travel; ever the planner, in the event I fell into a ditch he would know where to find me. I was to call him when I arrived at my destination, and we had calculated it would take approximately an hour. The morning of the inaugural ride, I strapped on my helmet and slung my regular clothes snug in a knapsack behind my back. It was a perfect day to ride, the sky overcast and the early morning sun had not yet made its appearance. “Call me when you get there...” he reminded me, and snapped a picture of the liftoff. Cycling at a normal pace, I rode with purpose and determination. The hills were hard, especially when I saw them approaching, almost mocking me in their stance. I had to get off the bike twice to walk it up, disappointed but determined. But as in every uphill climb we encounter in this life, there is the long, delightful windy glide downhill. My mind drifted back to when I was nine years old, another time and another place, where I rode my bike unencumbered with my friends. Traveling over hills and gullies, sometimes we rode together without saying a word, the wind blowing our hair everywhere, just enjoying the quietness and the whirllll of the tires against the pavement. Now and then we would get brave and hold our hands out, three little girls abreast on a suburban tract road, holding hands and smiling. “Weeeee…” we would say after a while “…..I’m freee!” A smile came to my face as I reached the final lap of my travels and whispered in my mind the same mantra. I am free and always will be, to enjoy the experience of the up hill and the blessed gliding down hills of life. As long as I can, I will always choose to ride. Now all I need is a chicken.
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