I almost never want to ride, unless it’s night and I’m fidgety.  I wake up and my bed is… delicious.  Just stay put, my pillows whisper.

But there was a lot of sun out and a job calling and the promise of an afternoon ride home.  So I went.

And it was beautiful.  I remembered, again, why I ride. Despite the big hill, despite my own inertia.  Because it feels great.  Because there’s nothing like the bike to bring out my best.  Because I like moving, the feeling of rubber against asphalt.  Because I like the camaraderie of the route, the death-defiance, my heart racing, my senses focused to micro-noticing.  Because traveling is about being at one’s most alive.

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