I awoke with a great revelation.
Despite my hang-over and the steady throb of a rather poor evening, I felt optimistic. My bike was back. I had spent the previous day shaving off the rust, oiling the chain, patching holes in the inner tube. Over the course of last winter, the bike sat neglected below a Kent balcony, slowly rusting away. I rescued it and, following a recent slew of sunny days, garnered the motivation to fix the thing, once and for all.
Following my repair work, I took it for a ride around the block. That was enough to make me winded. My legs were rubbery and I felt, briefly, like the shit had been kicked out of me. But riding a bike is like, well, riding a bike, and it will only be a matter of time before it whips me back into shape. Then the world will be at my disposal. I’ll feel the wind whipping past my face, as my mobility and independence increase exponentially.
All this ran through my splitting head as I rolled out of bed and made my way into the kitchen. I poured myself a cup of coffee. Last night’s failures came flooding forth. Too much beer. Too many damned excuses. Every word slurring into the next. I would have chalked the night up as a loss, but reconsidered. I had accomplished at least one thing that weekend.