Imaginary Race

It was late at night and after chewing the fat with my best friend Dan, I hopped on my beloved Kona Lava Dome mountain bike circa 1991, turned on the rear LED flasher and the front LED headlight and started my cruise. It was 11:30 pm, the air temperature was comfortable and cool, and after an intensely sunny day the breeze that made the day's heat bearable had calmed, and the streets of my city of 75,000 inhabitants were quiet.

The ride started from the top of the canal swing bridge beginning a continuous descent with a few plateau's all the way to the bicycle trail built upon the old railroad bed through the middle of the city, less than one kilometre away. I passed by Al's Pizza/Yee's Chinese Food, considering a future order of his home-made pizza rolls. I breathed deeply, the night air replenishing and revitalizing. I pedalled hard and smooth, hovering over the saddle to hop the curbs and cracks and potholes, my feet held snugly in the toe-clips. The blood pumped through my legs and my heart beat strongly, an energy I once knew only in my youth returned to my body.

At the bottom of the hill I cut an arc south from the westbound curb-side onto to the trail and plunged into the darkness of the tree-canopied path. My headlight only cast 20 feet forward and I pushed the thoughts of colliding with unseen night walkers aside and continued the imaginary race.

The soft tangerine glow of the streetlights were a dull illumination, playing strange shadows everywhere. The lamps left the advantage of a diminished darkness with which one could still clearly see a car's approaching headlights, useful when at the trail's intersecting cross-streets as I barely slowed my speed. A quick left-right glance confirmed the absence of traffic, and I returned to my pedalling that now approached a fervour. The quiet houses stood guard, quietly watching me pass, their occupant's sleep undisturbed by the whispers of air eddying behind me.

I hammered my way down Bethune Street, swerving around the fissures in the asphalt as a car approached from a few hundred feet behind me. The car caught up to me at Albert's Scrap Yard and as it was about to pass I cut across a parking lot, hopped over the curb, signalled a left turn and continued south down another subdued residential street. Stop signs and intersections were merely markers meant for another time, another place, my swoops and turns and arcs slicing the pavement like a skater on ice, my tires gripping with surety, my confidence rising with every revolution, my spirit countering the gravity upon my flesh.

The asphalt and concrete, a curse and bane in the daytime, dominated by cars and trucks spewing poisonous gases, transformed this night, it became a magnificent gift. It was as if the city planners had designed this street-scape for exactly this reason, for exactly this purpose, for exactly this ride.

I breathed and pedalled and glided and cleared my mind. I was calm. There was no anger, no anxiety, no worry for safety, no ruminations of a car-free city. This was the car-free city. It was here for me all of this time. Waiting for me to join it. The city reached up to me and I connected with it's majesty. The city embraced me and provided a ride of abundant spirit.

I arrived home and put my bike away in the shed, but I feel eager to go out again and join with the city of the night.