I want to write about my day, because it has been at least one day since I wrote about my day. But first I will share an obligatory image.
I live in a cold climate. I feel lucky (I almost typed ‘licky’) if the temperature here rises above zero Celsius. And I promise that if I ever adopt a panda, I will name the fellow Zero Celsius Radnitsky. And I will take him for bike rides after I purchase and install a panda-ready basket on my mountain bike’s handlebars.
I own a black mountain bike with more than seven speeds. This afternoon, when I walked outside, I noticed that the temperature was above the freezing point of water, and that there were no tidal waves hurling toward my apartment. Apparently, saltwater has slightly different properties than freshwater. So I went on a bike ride.
Now I will enumerate the things that I can remember from my travels. My first memory is that I pushed my bike over the snow and ice that had besieged our driveway. I mounted my bike only after I had evaded these obstacles. The reason for my cautious behavior in this instance is that I did not want to fall and shatter my pelvis.
Whenever I encounter a stop sign, I remove my boots from the bike’s pedals and let both of their soles touch the ground. This way, I can be sure that I have stopped for the stop sign. If I neglect to follow this ritual, I fear that I might end up rolling through the stop sign (instead of legitimately stopping), and thus invite a nearby vehicle’s driver to curse my existence.
Sometimes, when I ride my black mountain bike to the park, I enter the park’s path and gaze longingly at the forms that exist beneath the surface of the ocean. I usually bike with a companion, on account of the fact that solitude spurs my anxiety; but, today, I biked alone – therefore, I chose to avoid the park: I did not enter its path.
I am not proud to admit that I frequently worry about experiencing a heart attack or stroke. When I ride my bike, I think to myself: “You are unaccustomed to engaging in physical acts of this intensity – peradventure your body malfunctions!” This voice of apprehension often casts a blemish on my escapade.
Now I come to the part where I have to turn right. Turing right is different than turning left. A left turn is easy: you just put out your whole arm straight to make the signal, and then you maneuver like a pro. But a right turn requires that you bend your arm and make sure the Minivan behind you is not going to demolish you because its driver is scolding his children instead of watching the road. So turning onto the path that promised to lead me back to my apartment was risky business.
Also, let me tell you this. The first sight that I encountered, upon entering the path that led to my apartment, was a human being who was walking his tiny little dog. The dog was either happy or unhappy to see me, for it was yelping and jumping at the end of its leash: and it was aiming these yelps and jumps in my direction.
I pride myself on the way that I alight from my bicycle. Without fail, I always pretend that I am dismounting a prizewinning horse. I let the bike’s momentum carry it forward for a few meters while I stand on just one pedal, with my blonde hair flowing in the wind, and then I descend with a graceful gesture as if I am employed by the circus. At last I open the wooden gate of my apartment complex and navigate my bike into the garage, which is sadly unheated. I think that mice are raising their families in there.