Feeling good scares me.
Not at the time, it just feels good. Great, even. But the anticipation of going out there again makes me want to hide under the bed.
It was 30 degrees F the day I rode to work, December 27. I saw the sun rise over frost-covered hills, buffalo and antelope* grazing in the stillness; they like the cold. Imagine my surprise to find that I do, too.
And it must be said, I loved the look on the faces of the truck drivers about to start their shift when I rode up. And of co-workers who asked what happened to my car. (Nothing, yet.) My face felt tingly and my toes numb for some time, but all day I was transported. I felt like I'd been away somewhere and returned to find my surroundings altered in some way - the light, the air I breathed, the blood flowing within me.
And after work, of course, I rode home. I don't remember the last time I rode twenty-five miles in a single day. But I did that day, to my own surprise as much as anyone's. (I left open the option to catch the bus the last leg, but then missed that turn - a happy accident.)
So what happened a few days, and again another few days, later? Similar circumstances, new knowledge of the trip's feasibility - why did I dread the ride even more? Why was I secretly glad when the weather was "too wet"? Why is it harder, instead of easier, to ride at all even now, almost a month later?
And why did I wait until that euphoria was a dim memory, almost second-hand, before writing about it?
*There's an exotic game preserve along the route.
