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.