Story 35 of 52

By M. Snarky

We wake at dawn,
often begrudgingly,
and load up the bikes,
and the necessary gear,
and drive the road,
barely awake,
to the edge of land,
to the edge of the sea,
where the two collide,
is where we congregate,
to set out,
on our weekly ritual.

We ride, we ride.

With skinny tires,
and spoke and wheel,
and chain and gears,
we hop on our saddles,
and grab our handlebars,
and we ride the weathered,
asphalt ribbon,
that strings along the,
Pacific Ocean,
and crisscrosses,
the coastal mountains,
that are dotted with,
century old oak trees,
that are covered with lichen,
and black walnut trees,
with resident squirrels,
and holes in the ground,
with other resident squirrels,
that often scurry,
frantically,
without apparent reason,
out across the road,
directly in front of us,
making us flinch,
and miraculously,
with nowhere to hide,
they somehow avoid getting run over,
at the very last second.

We ride, we ride.

With hawks, crows, and condors,
soaring overhead,
and sometimes,
a turkey buzzard or three,
on the road ahead,
dining a creature,
that was formerly living,
this is what they do,
we also spy mule deer,
and an occasional coyote,
out in the periphery,
of the living canvas,
and we see,
the tumbleweeds,
waiting for the wind,
to set them free,
and we see the purple sage,
and the green wild fennel,
an invasive species,
that is hard to eradicate,
and the orange poppies,
and the purple lupine,
and the yellow coreopsis,
the rainbow of colors,
and the richness of textures,
is pleasant to the eyes,
as we roll by,
side by side,
and keenly observe.

We ride, we ride.

Looking out across,
the shimmering azure sea,
changing hues by the moment,
we see the dark kelp beds,
just beneath the surface,
that protect the little fishes,
from the big fishes,
who want to eat them,
and we see sailboats,
and fishing boats,
and we see whales,
and dolphins,
and sea lions,
surfing and playing,
in the briny blue,
and they smile at us,
and we smile back,
acknowledging each other,
in the fleeting moment,
as we glide down the road.

We ride, we ride.

We ride in the fresh salt air,
and in the warm sunshine,
and in the biting cold,
and in the pouring rain,
and in the gusty wind,
that nobody really likes,
and we fix flat tires,
regardless of weather conditions,
because we must,
and we talk and laugh,
about all sorts of things,
sometimes serious,
sometimes humorous,
but always engaging,
and sometimes we cuss,
to emphasize a point,
and sometimes we deride,
the ones that are deserving,
of our scorn.

We ride, we ride.

We ride along,
through the open space,
between heaven and earth,
past the verdant fields,
and up and over the hills,
and across the valleys,
and through the mountain passes,
and down the canyons,
sometimes too fast,
and through the tunnels,
and over and under the bridges,
and sometimes through water,
that’s a little too deep,
that gets your shoes and feet wet,
making them cold and squishy,
and year after year,
we meet and we ride,
for endless miles,
with the people that we love.

We ride, we ride.

This is how we meditate,
and naturally medicate,
and how we heal,
and how we make sense of,
our complicated lives,
until the fateful day comes,
when circumstances conspire,
to weaken and wither our bodies,
and we can ride no more,
then we’ll dream,
the wonderful dream,
the golden dream,
the infinite dream,
of the adventures past,
and the stories told,
and the laughter,
and the comradery,
where time stands perfectly still.

And we ride, we ride,
endlessly.