nights

i remember the first time i rode this path in the dark, a small paved trail following an old water course next to the railroad tracks, slipping under highways that sound like distant rivers and crumbling slopes choked with vines. i didn't believe in running lights, but i'd also never tried to navigate an unfamiliar path so blindly. i stopped and pulled off into the grass because i saw an approaching eye in the next set of curves. the rider stopped and yelled when the beam passed over me, just as startled as i was.

'are you okay?'

'yeah, i'm fine.' i waved the other rider on. just spooked. didn't want to talk to anyone.

tonight, my battery flickered on and off, my pants moist and clinging to my legs after a recent downpour. my shadow spread long in front of me, cast by an approaching rider from behind. at the same time as i was getting passed, an animal darted across our paths.

'holy crap! a possum! yee haw! what a great night!' yelled the other rider.

'hell yeah!' i replied, giving a honk on my rubber horn.

Permalink
16 May 2018 22:40

songs

i tune my bicycle the way i've tuned pianos, violins, guitars. there's a physicality, a rhythm, a sonorance that i need to understand. this front wheel is old enough to vote; dented rims compromise my braking ability, and the spokes freeze in place even as i rotate the nipples. i pluck each spoke and listen to the sound it makes, knowing by feel what is too tight or too loose. they snap with a startling pop when the most recent set of adjustments settle in.

wheels can be assessed for trueness in three reasonable ways: lateral centering of the rim (if you roll the wheel, does the rim seem to drift from left to right?), radial consistency (is the distance between each point on the rim and the center of the hub the same?), and dishing (is the rim centered on the axle?). guides that describe how to check trueness refer to spinning the wheel in place and checking for uneven scraping; over time, i've learned that this is an auditory cue, rather than a visual one.

i spent weekends one summer riding over to the shop, locking up my bike, and going straight to the stack of trashed wheels in the corner that no one would touch. the truing stands were unfortunately located in the middle of the workshop, so i had to learn to tune out the chatter of other mechanics and visitors if i wanted to have a productive wheel truing session at all. sometimes, i wore headphones to tune them out, keeping a finger against the calipers so i could feel the vibration that the scrape would make. i worked with my eyes closed; the spoke wrench fit into my palm so well that it felt like turning the nipples with my bare fingers. the wheel hummed as it spun, and i hummed back. each click of the calipers rang out through the hollow rims, a steady rhythm that cued to me exactly which spokes needed adjustment.

but when i learned to tune my piano, it was by taste, not sound. upper notes had three strings per key, middle notes had two; when the strings were not aligned perfectly with each other, my mouth felt uncomfortable, like tasting a rotten pistachio i didn't expect. i'd bring each string up, down, far past the correct point to taste the worst it can get, then ease it slowly into harmony with my tongue pressed against the roof of my mouth, tasting a cool, creamy smoothness when the notes were corrected.

my mother cooked fish once while i was trying to tune my piano, and the briny smells distracted me so much that i needed a piece of chocolate in my mouth to counteract the fish, and then hoped to taste the strings by leaning my cheek against the wood and feeling the vibrations through my cheekbones, wiggling the roof of my mouth, settling in my sinuses.

this is touch, maybe. this is sound and smell and taste. sometimes, i wonder, if i ever use my eyes for anything at all.

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15 April 2018 22:47

blooms

umbrellas sprout in the rain; they swing across the sidewalk, blindly, and i careen through them on my bicycle. i know if i tuck down over my handlebars, i can slip under the taller ones. it's a game, and i laugh.

one student walks towards me with an umbrella patterned like a daisy, wearing orange rubber boots that cover her shins. she swings out of my way while i swerve.

the grass swells, puddles glistening. my phone blows up with half a dozen flash flood warnings. it's still cold out. it's april.

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03 April 2018 21:11

broom

i needed to bring a broom from my house to the studio; it laid laterally across the top tube, the bristles comfortably nestled between my panniers on the rear rack. a bungee cord wrapped thrice around it kept it in place, but i kept knocking into it with my knees.

i had to straddle it, like i was riding a broomstick, like a witch. pedestrians stared.

this was not the strangest thing i've carried by bicycle.

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13 March 2018 22:20

broom

i needed to bring a broom from my house to the studio; it laid laterally across the top tube, the bristles comfortably nestled between my panniers on the rear rack. a bungee cord wrapped thrice around it kept it in place, but i kept knocking into it with my knees.

i had to straddle it, like i was riding a broomstick, like a witch. pedestrians stared.

this was not the strangest thing i've carried by bicycle.

Permalink
12 March 2018 18:51