Sunday Cycling

The first ten minutes of my ride is like traveling to the starting line. I’m dodging traffic in the center of Dallas, hoping to not get driven off the road. On Sunday mornings, though, the streets are bare. Only the birds are up, singing their tunes to the rising sun. The city feels post- apocalyptic, like it will never recover from the reckless weekend. I am grateful just to feel the dawn of a new day. I swerve down the center of Maple Ave, and move quickly past Oak Lawn without stopping. 

Climbing up the Katy is what wakes my body up. The stiffness in my legs shoots up my hips in back to back alarms. I push through my petals like trudging through thick mud. I rotate through various gears, but feel like I’m getting nowhere. The start is always a struggle, I remind myself, and I know it will subside. My  breath quickens as I roll through a tunnel of hovering trees. In my slow pace, I greet runners and dog walkers. “Good morning,” I hear, from bikers passing by and mothers pushing toddlers back into a state of sleep. Some just smile, cherishing the silence. 

This is cycling; moving in a repetitive sequence of ordered motions. My feet start and end at the same point for hours, yet I hold no concept of time. My body works, but my mind is still. I travel around the lake, with my body propelling me forward like a machine, while I am just an observer, watching the world from above my seat. The trees are full now, and bursting in clusters of green. The grass stands tall after weeks of rain, and is running wild with weeds and flowers. I can barely see beyond it in some spots, and it makes me feel small. 

I’ll admit I’ve been so swept away by a falling leaf or a passing butterfly, that I’ve swerved off the trail and nearly into a pile of bushes. 

Most days I dismount my bike and drag it down to the shore. This is my favorite part. I lay down on a patch of grass, and feel the earth beneath me. My legs come back to me, and I feel them pulse with soreness, then slowly relax and rest. I watch the waves crash against the concrete steps that line the lake, but some days the water is perfectly still with no current at all. My breath slows and deepens as I watch the clouds form shapes above me. I am so heavy on the ground, it feels like I’m sinking into the dirt. I am so connected to the world around me that I can feel the trees branches swaying in the wind. It makes me warm and lightheaded, like I’m high. 

I used to stop for the birds, to watch them chase each other in the water, and fly to and from the floating dock. Some would dive face down for fish, while others floated away from their clan. I wondered what they did at night, or when it was cold or rainy. But they always did the only thing they knew how to do: just be. I was truly fascinated by them, until I truly understood. Now I stop for me, to enjoy the stillness, and to ground myself before heading back on my journey home.