The Matter at Hand

In the morning I ride up and over the mountain just as the mist from the previous night’s rain is beginning to burn off under a rising sun. I pedal up and over the mountain at least one morning each week; it’s one of my three preferred morning routes, and generally the one I choose when time is tightest because I like how it compresses two mountain sides worth of climbing and descending into less than an hour. And I like how the road twists its way through the forest, which is predominantly hardwood – maples, mostly, but also the occasional birch and beech, with an ash or two thrown in for good measure – and how each of those curves has its own particular character, the sharp ones, the shallow ones, especially the ones that force me to the height of the road’s crown on the descent so that my speed doesn’t carry me into the ditch. I’ve seen what happens to people who end up in that ditch. It’s not pretty.

I love riding bicycles. I love riding anything with two wheels, really, and I have for as long as I can remember. I currently own four bicycles and two motorcycles, which is three bicycles and two motorcycles more than I need, especially given that it’s only one bicycle I ride 95% of the time, anyhow, and most of my motorcycle time involves me cruising back and forth along the dirt roads of my town, not really going anywhere. Then again, not really looking to go anywhere, either.

I bought that one bicycle off Craigslist a bunch of years back; Rye and I picked it up on our way to a Drive-By-Trucker’s show in Burlington. It’s a nice bike but it’s old and was missing a few parts, so I got it cheap and I suspect part of the reason I like it so much is that I feel a bit subversive when I ride it. Which I think is partly because I got it cheap, but also because that’s just the way bicycles make me feel. Like I’m getting away with something.

One of my favorite things about riding my bike are the random social interactions it confers. Not so long ago I was humping up the hill to Flagg Pond, and suddenly there was Kyle’s father, Ricky, emerging from the woods at the side of the road, carrying his chainsaw, not yet 7 in the morning and probably already a solid 90 minutes into his working day. So I stopped and we chatted about basically nothing, and then I rode on, and I hadn’t gone a quarter mile when suddenly there was Michael, pushing an empty baby stroller down the hill, preceded by his two huge Newfoundland dogs. So I stopped and we chatted about basically nothing – not even the fact that he was pushing an empty baby stroller, which took some restraint on my part, let me tell you – and I rode on, as happy as if I’d just had tea with the queen. Happier, probably. And thinking about how much can be said when you chat about basically nothing with someone who loves a place as much as you do. That’s the key, I think: The love for a particular place, because that’s what you’re actually talking about when you’re talking about basically nothing. It’s the subtext for everything, the point of connection that can endure any difference. Or any difference I’ve come across, anyway.

I don’t have any fancy bike clothing with the exception of a pair of shoes that attach to my pedals. Usually, I ride in an old pair of jeans, because usually I ride in the morning when it’s still cool. I don’t have anything against fancy bike clothes, I just don’t own any, and I’m probably not going to buy any anytime soon. Sometimes I wear a helmet, and sometimes I don’t, and I don’t have any particular method for deciding when to wear one and when to go without. It’s just a mood thing.

This morning when I got back from my ride the cats were waiting for me, each perched atop one of the big stone steps that leads to my front door, basking in the early sun. I leaned my bike against a tree and walked up the steps past the cats, who looked to me with lidded eyes and then turned straight back to the matter at hand.