Morning Ride
Robert Thorpe, Editor
We all love bed, don’t deny it. The way that we snuggle into the covers and wrap ourselves into a cocoon, safe and warm and comfortable. And yet, we are called by a silent voice, a rhythm of life that beats in our chest and drives us. The drug that runs in our veins and wakens us and forces us out of our bed and into the dawning of a new day.
It’s time to ride. The air outside is cool and a slight dampness hangs as the sun is still warming the earth. Fixing the bottles into the cages, I clip the pedals and place the gloved palms of my hands onto the bars. Slowly at first, as my body is shaken into life, and then I begin to draw a pace and follow the beat of my heart as the tarmac road falls before me. The roads are empty and my only companions are the birds whose voices signal the new day. I am finally free and my mind is empty of all thoughts, save for the aches of tired limbs as they break the bonds of sleep and set themselves for the ride.
Eventually, country lanes framed by trees give way once more to still quiet Georgian streets and the historic cobbled square. I slowly cross this, the beacon of a known stop calling me forward, and the bike placed safely against the wooden stand. The clip of cleats against the cobbles is the only sound as I walk over to the cafe. Cappuccino and a Danish.
I sit outside and stretch out the now awakened legs and I watch as the rest of the world begins to join me, and I contemplate the ride home and my activity for the remains of the day, as the coffee hits its mark and I smile. Life can wait, for now at this moment in time, I am simply a cyclist and the world is good.