Thursday, Feb. 21, 2019 @ 3:34 pm
At My Pace
I spend the evenings of the week packing.
I have these moments of reaching for my phone, wanting to ask him a question.
Where are the fittings for my pannier rack?
Last year, he removed the rack from my bike in a fit of exasperation, in an attempt to decrease the weight of my bike so that I would ride faster so that he wouldn't have to wait for me.
I don't text him. I have to do these things myself now.
I find an old yogurt container in the cold room that contains miscellaneous bike parts. Gears, bolts, lengths of cable. I dump it all out on the floor and pick out the pieces for my rack.
The rack installed, I pump up the tires, spin the rear wheel, click through the gears, and check the brakes. I stand back and look at my bicycle, and it's like looking at the face of an old lover. The shape of the frame is etched in my retina, my soul, and when I look at it I am comforted and feel, for a moment, complete.
I can feel it beneath me, how it responds to imperfections in the pavement. I can feel the wind on my face. I can smell the creosote of the foreshore and the faint evergreen wind from the forest.
I trust my ability to learn how to do things myself. I am capable, adaptable, and brave.
There is so much to look forward to, and I get to do it all at my own pace.