I Need to Ride
For one thing, walking sucks. Not only is it too slow, I always seem to fall victim to the worst possible walking scenarios—for example pacing about on concrete for 10 hours at a time. Maybe it’s just my fault for wearing improper shoes or something, but I always end up lamenting my barking dogs as though I were an aging postal worker instead of a rough and tumble 27-year old urbanite.
My body has grown accustomed to exercise! I’ve always been rather susceptible to dust, pollen and other such allergies, but anytime I get my lungs cranking to full capacity I can at least temporarily kiss my sinus-induced suffering goodbye.
By the third day of marching from the hotel to the convention center I realized I was dragging my feet with a complete lack of enthusiasm. My muscles felt tight and any attempt to stretch was either thwarted by the onset of undue tension or the invitation to participate in another Vegas-style display of domestic beer abuse. I’m not claiming to be a boundless ball of energy every waking moment, but you’ll seldom catch me wasting time between point A and B. I take two stairs at a time going up and I like to jump down as many as possible coming down. A few days without jumping logs or curbs—without bunnyhopping or riding wheelies—left me sauntering like I had just shot Ole Yeller.
But I believe the physical effects of not riding are terribly outweighed by the strain put on my brain. As much fun as I have on my bicycle, I regularly use riding as an outlet for my aggression. Let’s face it, I play punk rock for a reason and I’m not the most sociable guy in the industry. With no “me time” available between the convention and subsequent parties, I often found myself restless and agitated even with all the creature comforts I could desire at my fingertips.
So at long last, after what seemed to be a marathon of travel (and subsequent down-time on the couch) I finally got to throw a leg over my commuter bike this Thursday morning. Joel and I seemed to pedal slowly out of the ghetto, enjoying every pedal stroke. We gained speed thorough Morningside and tears welled in my eyes as we screamed down Baker Street and out into traffic. While changing lanes on the bridge a joker laid on his horn while chatting on his cell phone—I just waived. I did the same to the next angry motorist. I didn’t care; I was back on two wheels.
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