I love my bike. It's one of those things in my life that I depend on. A martini can be made poorly. A favourite sweater can suddenly not fit, or develop a hole...but my bike is always true.
We have turned a lot of miles, my bike and I; my old Cadex Giant, with recently updated hubs, hybrid wheels, and a penchant for climbing hills that not even snow can cling to. And sailing along, beautiful stretches where the cadence is perfect; I'm getting power out of each crank but in a way that's stimulating, not tiring. Sometimes, we could go forever, my bike and I. I'll say that, "Oh, I'll just go for a short ride," but then, before I know it, an hour has passed and we're into the second.
The thing is, we talk, my bike and I. I explain my day. I share my joys. And I sob over my struggles. And through every one of these, my bike listens and gets me through. It shows me some of the most beautiful scenery in Ontario. We've seen swarms of bees, bears, wolves, newborn calves and horses, herds of Holstein and Jersey cattle; each with the most beautiful, feminine faces. We've seen fields of wheat undulating in the wind like water. And we've laughed at turkeys that act like we can't see them as they stand in that same wheat field, yellowed and ready to harvest; the turkeys not realizing that they kind of stand out...turkeys are not the smartest.
But the biggest thing about my bike is the quiet effort involved. It stretches me and tests my lungs. It shows me how strong I am, and during the effort, it lets me think. It lets me sort everything out. So when we finally pull in at home, I always, always, always feel better. It's better than church, that bike o' mine.