I was out, riding.
That those four words were true were significant enough that it didn’t matter that the ride was less than 20 miles, or that I was home under two hours, or that turning the pedals over (and over) seemed, and felt, a surprising capability. Yet there I was, turning the pedals over (and over). I was out, riding.
I saw the young man on the corner, dressed in mostly black… skinny jeans, tousled hair, eyes focused on the device in hand. A bike case sat on the sidewalk next to him. He appeared to be waiting for a ride. As I climbed closer, a young woman ran up the side street toward him—she called out; he turned, smiled.
Timing, such as it was, had it so that I passed him, and his bike case, just before the young woman got to him. As i rode by him, I said “Safe travels and a good ride.”
He turned toward me, but I never saw his expression, and I didn’t hear a response if there had been one.
But I was out, riding, and that was more than enough for me… and I knew he would be out, riding, wherever it was that he was going, and that seemed something even greater.
A Becklund 