Inspired to Ride

The bicycle is in the basement.

I don’t know how it ended up down there. I was riding, relishing the breeze on my face and the strength of my legs, burning those muscles I’d ignored so long, and then somehow, one day…well, I was too busy. I didn’t feel like it; it was too cold; it rained. I saw a better bike, realized how shabby mine looked. I watched the Tour de France in jealous dismay, and parked it.

But tonight all of a sudden I’m wanting to throw my leg over the seat and pedal around the block--or around town, or maybe even twenty miles, if I can make myself keep going…but the bicycle is in the basement. First I’d have to clear out all the junk that’s piled on top of it and all around and beside, and then haul it, heavy and awkward, up the narrow stairs, and then it’s all dirty and I’d have to find a rag, wet it down, wipe off the seat and the handlebars.

So instead I turn on the TV and find a race to watch, admire those cyclists pedaling furiously, flying through towns and over mountains, muscles doing the work they were made to do.

I can’t do that. My rides aren’t nearly so smooth, so quick. And yet the more I watch, the more I wish I was riding. I unearth my bicycle and climb on, grimy handlebars and all. The seat is dirty, but so am I, and this is work I was made to do.