Riding

Damp. Cold. Air.
Every morning ride begins this way.
My muscles are stiff and tense.
Without fail, I think to myself, "Why didn't I take the car again? I could listen to the radio. Sit in warmth and comfort. Keep a cup of Chang's watery but hot coffee and one of his awesome chocolate doughnuts just an arm's stretch away?"
The pot holes are jarring. My visor is fogging up.
But then I hit South 19th Street and head west to Pine.
And I make that left turn, the one that forces me to spot the oil patches, gravel, whatever road debris is inevitably strewn at this one junky intersection -- and my mind kicks on.
It has to.
I glance at my mirrors, watch the road ahead, the cars at my side, look for the tell-tale signs of the inattentive drivers - the weaving, the pointlessly blinking signals, the cell phones pressed against ears, the backward glance at crying children.
But I'm not doing any of that - I'm watching the road.
I'm watching the big rigs loaded with logs, or lumber or mysterious, industrial objects.
I'm listening to my engine for any new sound.
I'm smelling the air, the diesel, the damp.
I'm using all my senses.
I'm alive.
I'm on a motorcycle racing over blacktop at 65 mph, astride a machine that is power and drive and in the grip of my hand, with a twist, I know I could do 85, 90, 100.
But I don't.
I forget about my warm car sitting alone in the driveway.
I don't crave a coffee.
I don't want for music.
I don't even care if I make it to work.
I'm just riding my bike. That's enough.