I road fifty not one hundred but this is the thing about the bikes. Distance happens to you—it’s not really the thing you are after.  One hundred miles, fifty miles, it doesn’t matter. For me the Holland Hundred was a perfect ride this year. I was, literally, in a way any of us rarely ever is, along for the ride.

I had no distance in mind, no goal. I didn’t even look at a map or think about the ride the night before. In the morning, I got on my bike, and rode down my street, and out Sixteenth, and that’s how I pedaled out of town.

It’s not that easy.

You get on your bike and it’s chilly in the morning and the first couple of miles are fine because there’s lots of chatting and adjusting and for me, a good deal of energy spent trying to memorize the clothes/bike/helmet of the people I’m riding with, so I have a better chance of finding them again, since I have no face recognition skill, zero.

Then, after the chatty rush, it’s a work-out—it’s hard going up the hill, and it takes work to avoid the potholes on Lincoln. Then, a red truck swerves at us, cursing, “Get off the road!” and then a kid on a moped shoots a bird, “Get on the sidewalk.” A kid on a moped! Have to navigate through all this bad energy, car-smog, and not get caught in it. People-potholes. No problem.  Just requires some energy, a little paying-attention.

I rode the half-Hundred with Randall Z and he’s a good, good rider—knows how to keep a line, never joneses to go faster than I can go; he holds a steady pace with his bike and his conversation. So I can sit back. And enjoy the ride.

It’s always after about fifteen miles, maybe a little more, that the ride opens up. It’s just like church for me, or a date, or any old day—I drag my butt down there, flustered or cranky or whatever. I show up. I work, and duck badness, and work and wonder why am I doing this?

And then the day opens up. We were riding past the cornfields out East of Hamilton (or somewhere, I really never know actually where I am in Michigan because of THE GRID) on a flat wide stretch of road. There were super heavy folks on small bikes and a kid on a trike.  Sleek cats sped by on super-machines, little Bruce Springsteen songs flashing by. There were couples on tandems with grumpy looking women in the back position. And me and R, steady at 17, cross wind, the sound of the corn like a prayer hush hush hush. Cotton and dark clouds, like ideas the world needs more of, packing the sky. And the day opens up. And the road does the work. There’s no struggle, nothing to be against, nothing to duck. Nothing to fear or pray for. This is the moment of perfection. And then the rest of the ride is informed by that blessing and I can’t understand why I ever walk around on land on feet.

This is what is meant by the phrase: live to ride.

The Holland Hundred. It was a perfect ride.

I’m not a fan of spring. I’m a winter person: I secretly loathe spring.  Loathing spring is, I know, on par in terms of Bad Form with loathing small adorable children, loathing pie, loathing one’s own country. (I do like my country, I really, really do very much.)

But I find it hard to breathe in spring and I don’t like mud or feathers.

Last night, as we gathered in the parking lot at the Christian high school, at 6:15 pm, for the Thursday Night Ride, everyone was complaining how long winter had been. I wanted to say, “But not that long. Not long enough.” I love winter. I love snow and snuggly excitement and flannel sheets and Scrabble and cashmere and stew and cross country skiing. Spring—it’s so insistent. It’s loud. It’s unnecessary. It’s huge. Let’s get rid of it. I vote for Winter and Summer. I hate transitions. (See Students and Love, Above.)

I saw the first tulips on Tuesday, April 13. Red, screaming, they seem like citations. They seem like self-help books: BE HAPPY RIGHT NOW ALL YOU IDIOTS.

(I am however, brought to my knees, quite literally, in order to see exactly how many petals, by the carpets of blue violet scilla and and purple-blue chionodoxa.)

And last night, riding down 66^th, with the wind as escort, snug in the middle of my pack of thirty co-cyclists, (so many of us!) I heard the acres of peepers. That sound, the sound of summer. I saw hawks and blackbirds.

I hunkered down and blew past Code and Mahaney, tucked in behind Jeanne and the Beck-inator, tried to catch Prudence on that amazing new Italian stallion she is riding…I rode hard as I could, like a kid, like a flag, and I did thirty miles. I am so proud of myself. Thirty miles, and strong! I always feel strong at the end, like I could do the whole thirty one more time.

Okay so hello, Spring. Hello, forsythia, blooming on the bushes today for the first time in a year. I see you. I hear you, shouty, perky, and crooked, zig-zaggy cross-cut saws of yellow-yellow. Yes, daffodils. You goofy cups. Hello, hyacinth—could you be any lower to the ground? Could you smell any more overtly beautiful? Last night, there were lovesick cats warring outside my bedroom window. Today, peepers, peepers, peepers.

It’s light until 8:30 pm. I’ve got my sunglasses on, my tax refund on the way, and also a sneeze on the way, which will become a month long event, and I am cruising down my street, hard, fast, and true, and inside the houses, all the televisions are on, and I remembering how sweet it always is, this world outside. Those true invisible frogs. The legs, the hopes, the bike.

And I see it could be real sweet again in some whole new way.

Spring.