Road Trip

My bike is a baby blue Schwinn. Two years old, it was a present for my birthday a couple summers ago. It didn’t get much use last summer – too busy, I guess – but I was down the road and around the corner on it today.

I see bikers speed down the hill in front of our house.  I don’t ride like that.  I ride slowly and even a little tentatively from time to time.  I live my days at top speed, so this Tuesday afternoon I pedaled like a Sunday driver.

All the time in the world and hardly a care. I left all the cares I owned back at the house.  

I’m a tourist in my own neck of the woods.  I know which neighbor’s fence was damaged by the plows this winter. I can show you where the most vibrant bush of forsythia grows. I biked down roads I’ve never been down before, waving to folks out mowing their lawns, and admiring tiny daisies planted around a mailbox.

On my baby blue bike I can see and be a part of  what I might miss otherwise. The shape of a leaf. How many shades of gray color the rain-filled clouds. A reflection on a pond. Tree after tree abloom and alive.

It was quiet.  And I could hear myself think – if I wanted to hear myself think.

Which I didn’t.

Sometimes hope needs a road trip.

2 thoughts on “Road Trip

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