So I went running at the middle school yesterday and as I trotted off, Tom Petty in my ears, I saw a fire. I thought well, it must be a controlled burn. The out house behind the tennis courts was on fire. Then the banners. Then the trees. The outhouse melted away, completely gone.  No one was around. This all took place in about half a second. I ran over to the fire. I banged on the school. I looked and looked for someone. The wind picked up. The trees were burning. I heard sirens. I found a woman in the parking lot. Call 911! I said. She mused. Then she saw dark thick smoke over the school. Fire trucks came–maybe two minutes had passed, maybe five. Not many minutes.  I wondered if I could keep running…..if it was okay to run around the track while fireman put out trees on fire in a field behind a school on Friday evening in Michigan. The sky was faux-mackeral, actively mackeral. I ran and Tom was good. The police asked me questions. No one was hurt but it’s strange: any kind of drama like that and I am nervous, going back home, nervous that night, jumpy getting out of the car.

High points: dinner with T, laughing so hard with her. My salad recognition skills (not so great after all!).  And today, working on the Nightime Novelist which I accidentally called the Nightmare Novelist.  Sleeping in. Clearer, stronger, writing hard. Multiple Scrabble bingos. New running shoes. An excellent letter from Jacob, on his fourth cold in boot camp, and the letter was filled with lots of ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZs. As in bored. As in wants to be done.

Every single time I get on my bike, I feel two things: younger, wiser. Cycling is childhood perfected.

For a long, long time, I forgot about bikes.

I was married to a runner and I was a runner. When we got divorced, I needed a new context for myself. New people to be around, new friends, some version of running that was my own. I needed something to do that cleared my mind and strengthened me. Something to reset the counter to zero. I wasn’t sure who I was, but I suspected the bike would take me to her.

I bought a Bianchi because it was the most beautiful, perfect thing I had seen in a long, long time. Like most adults, I had forgotten all about bikes. Their perfection as machines: nothing missing, nothing extra. Like a poem.

At first, the Bianchi was like a lover, a rebound relationship, a summer romance. I didn’t want to date for a long time after my divorce. I just wanted to ride my bike. On the bike, I am my most essential self. I’m happiest. The bike tunes me to myself.

I teach writing and creativity at the college level, and this is what I tell my students: you don’t need this class. You already know everything you need to know. Remember when you danced? Drew? Sang? Played all manner of musical instruments? You have been an artist all along. Why did you stop? When did you stop?

Same thing for the bike.

We’re all cyclists. Those of us fortunate to have had bikes as kids know exactly what it is that makes riding the bike as important, vital, and sustaining as prayer. Riding is heavenly.

Why did we stop?