7:24 pm and there's a break in the rain. I push off down the side walk and roll out onto the street, wrong way up the one way to the corner and then left onto Anderson. Everything's wet, the asphalt is black and shiny, the grass is green and shiny, my fenders are silver and shiny, everything's shiny even though the clouds are so heavy and the sky is so dark and gray.
Right on Elmwood, down a block to cross St. John and the light turns green just as I get to the corner. Four kids are crossing from the other side on my left, they make some wisecrack at the skanky girl digging around in her car across the intersection, one of them makes a bark at me and a little lunge like he thinks he'll scare me into taking a fall and I smile at him and raise an eyebrow like "gimme' a break" and he laughs.
Down Elmwood to the bottom of the hill, then left onto Scarritt, down through the gears and up the hill slow. My rearview's clipped to my glasses and it makes them lean a little so that my right eye can't focus right. The humidity's so high that when I exhale the bottom edges of my lenses fog. Down in first gear, no hurry, up to the top of the hill and coast on over, down again and up again, and Scarrett crosses Askew and now it's called Gladstone. Coast, barely pedaling, everything's quiet in the heavy air except for my freewheel ticking and heavy drops of rain falling from the trees.
Past the museum, just before the gates there's a gap in the trees and I can see out over the bottoms to the top of the new Paseo bridge. The clouds and mist are wild and gray and ominous, lit with sodium light from below. Lightning in the distance pulses purple/pink behind the construction cranes.
Through the gates, ease down the access road on the brakes all the way, curve right, then hairpin around to the left. Down some more and then take the fork to the right, let off the brakes and coast. Quiet. Thunder behind me, no rain still, but drops from the branches overhanging the road smack the pavement and fall on my shoulders. Through the trees to the left, down the cliff they're linking up rail cars, they come together with an anvil drop slam that's theatrical shorthand for the fist of fate coming down in tragedy, and then quiet again.
Down here the mist is thick, shiny gives way to matte, all the colors are dark and rich. Everything's wet, the air, the pavement, the leaves, the cliffs, everything feels somehow primeval. The air is cool but not cold, almost but not quite the temperature where you can't even feel it, incredibly comfortable but just off enough to still know it's there.
Pedal along in silence, the occasional roll of thunder, the occasional anvil drop of fate from the rail yards, the occasional fat drop of rain on my forehead, tick of the freewheel, hiss of wet pulled up from the pavement in a bead on my tires. Glance in my rearview, nothing behind me.
Out of the mist a guy on a racer, kicking along at speed. I nod, ring my bell. He waves and tears on past. I remember riding like that, like riding a broom, but that's not where I'm at these days. Crest of a rise, up a gear, give a good push, glide, glide, glide, like flying, like soaring.
I've never dreamt of flying outright, but I've dreamt this, of taking a step, leaning forward, laying out on the air and falling ahead, never touching the ground. This is like that.
More thunder, a brief shower, just a few seconds, and I wonder if I'm going to get soaked before I get home, but it passes. Pick up the pace. Past the little parking spot, that car was there yesterday, weird, nobody in it now either, on a ways more, past the DeCapo fountain throwing it's usual spray through the thick air, water streams across the road, shiny on matte, big drops through mist, lightning flashing through dark, thunder through the quiet.
Up the rise, through the gates, bear left out onto Gladstone. Right onto Elmwood, left on Sunrise, right on Lawn. Up the street the big ditch by the school is full of water. Four kids are throwing limbs into it, they want to know what time it is, 8:00pm on the nose.
Up the hill toward St. John, old dude in a pickup in my rearview comes on around, impatient but polite about it. Across St. John, almost home and it's sprinkling now, but only a little, cross Anderson, half a block, up on the sidewalk, and I'm up the porch and inside. The house smells like split pea soup and brownies, the kids voices from the kitchen, it's warm, just a warm enough to feel it, warm and dry.
I've never dreamt of heaven outright, but I've dreamt this, of taking a step, leaning forward and stepping into this warmth, this light, like flying, like gliding, like soaring.
