Reaching and Riding

Riding is reaching for something I cannot quite grasp. It enables the reach, supports it, but doesn't really give me a clue as to the full extent of it. The ride melds math, physics, body, mind and spirit into a singular expression in motion. It delivers truth in a way I am unable to put into better words than these.

Out at sunrise exploring the world today. The clouds seem to be breaking up from the wetting rain of the night before. I decide to take in the city scape before heading into the country. My favorite coffee shop and first stop with the bike is now closed until 7am (they used to open a half-hour earlier), so I ride out again through the varied city landscape, taking in the university district and moving into the low-rent neighborhoods and out again towards the tracks and river, where massive tarp-covered barges dominate the river on both sides.

By the time I reach the Mississippi river basin southeast of Saint Paul and start crawling the farmland backroads first south, then east, then north again, the sky changes its mind and begins to darken again. The warm wind I had been cruising through turned sharply cold and the clouds threaten and thicken again the further north I ride. I cough a couple times in my helmet as my unprotected neck takes the brunt of the bitter bite.

I decide to take the first road west and head south and back towards home again. The sun is high enough in the sky that my wife should be awake and I want to make a day of it with her somewhere fun. Still the cold wind bites hard, and I am ready for a break. It's been a couple of hours of solid riding on the bike and the ride is taking an unusual toll today. I see a passing "cafe" I've never tried before and ride back and park in front.

It's an out and out breakfast spot, but I tell the waitress I'm just looking for coffee and to sit outside if possible. She says "sure, I'll bring you a coffee outside" without much affect and so I make my way out to a plastic table to write this. I must have looked pretty worn, since she brings me a cup of plain water and a mug with an entire thermos of the hot stuff, leaving the thermos on my table.

I said "thank you" and, later, I catch her passing eye again and say "I really appreciate it, the coffee is good." I can see and feel how she catches herself genuinely smiling back at me - how that smile surprises that small but still-unjaded part of her that once believed in human beings to be generally kind and decent folks. No doubt serving thousands of impolite strangers over the years has taken it's toll. That is written very plainly on her prematurely-aged face.

I pour some more hot coffee from the thermos, take a sip, and type this... and contemplate all this stuff as I do.