My nice black full-suspension bike is tuned, propped up on new rubber, and shiny as new. It is ready to go. I am ready to go, though not in great shape.
The bike sits in the garage amidst a bunch of stuff that I wish did not exist. This stuff is either junk, or something that should be stored on a shelf someplace, but I am not in the mood to touch it, to mess with it, to consider carefully where it is supposed to go. (We are all materialists, aren’t we.)
So I do nothing. I turn on the Christmas lights in the front yard though X-Mas is long gone, and that’s about it.
But the next night I go to spin class at the Broomfield Rec Center. It’s not really riding, but my legs burn good. Instructor Steve, if he were an actor, would play the part of an accountant. Brown hair, parted on the side. Strong, wide face. Glasses. He leads us through nowhere, spinning our wheels (but not metaphorically speaking).
But his training CD had The Clash (“I Fought the Law”) playing, and then Iggy Pop (“Lust For Life”), and then a song by by Green Day (can’t remember which), and then one by Laurie Anderson.
Pretty weird. Surprises abound. I get nowhere, but get somewhere.
Still, I miss the dirt.