The Bike

Early Sunday morning,
The weather hesitates.
So do I.

I stand in the empty street.
There's a fine rain.
The bike ride home takes half an hour.
Twenty minutes if I go fast.
I rarely do.

Will the rain stop?
Grow heavier?
Does it matter?

I look at the bike station.
There's only one bike left.
I slowly walk towards it,
Still thinking about the rain,
Staring at the sky,
Using my non-existent knowledge of meteorology
To evaluate the probability of the rain stopping.

I do my usual bike check.
The brakes,
The tires,
The gears,
The seat.
This bike is perfect.
I don't even have to adjust the seat's height.
This probably influences my decision to take it.
It's almost waving at me.

Ten minutes later
On the Saint-Germain boulevard,
The rain is heavy,
My hair is damp,
The wet pavement reflects the street lights,
My glasses are covered in raindrops.

I feel tired,
Slowed down,
There.
My legs start to hurt.
A strong wind plays against me
And I forgot to change the gear.
I notice it
And don't change it.

I smile at my inability to predict the weather,
At my ability to be surprised,
At the physical effort I have to make.
This awareness
Along with the elements around me
Make me feel very much alive.
Streets are empty and mine.
I drive where it's not allowed.

I cross a third bridge and hear seagulls.
I close my eyes for a handful of seconds,
First making sure that the road is straight and clear.
I see and remember Bréhat,
This small island off the coast of Brittany
Where there were more seagulls than people
And cars were forbidden.
Everytime I hear seagulls I go back there
For an instant.

I'm almost home.
I hum Summertime...

"Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high"
 
...and feel grateful.