When I bike I can hear the gravel crack below my tires. I can feel the cool wind move passed my face. My legs feet the miles with each turning of the gears.
I tell myself, “I’ve earned this. I’m working for this destination.” When I arrive I might be out of breath, my toes might be numb, my fingers could be swollen with cold, but I got there. Even if the place is work or a corner store to grab beer.
Sometimes I like doing things the hardest way possible-not for the story, but to show myself that I can.
I like the weight of my legs on solid ground. I can keep steady this way, no matter what ailment moves me.
I’ll be driving a thousand miles each way too and from Boston. I will have a complete journey in between when I get home. In some weird sort of way it makes me feel like I’ve earned it.
But I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wasn’t also dreading it. Going back knowing that the place, while familiar is kind of a stranger, my friends will be strangers, my family as well. In that regard, Chicago is safer- knowing I’m not supposed to know here just yet, but I should know home and don’t.
I wonder if those thousand miles will bring the guard down, or make it go way up.