Flying After a Day of Real Work

The cool air flowing over me like a constant drink of fresh, sweet water, cooling the sweat that coats my body—sweat from real work. The warm presence of thirst in my mouth. The wind rushing past my ears, drowning out the sounds of the clamoring world. The blowing past my face, the cutting, pressing, refreshing air of—

When the bike stops clicking and only whirs.

When the incline dips, turns into a real hill—

When the road turns ahead.

And the passing air keeps whipping at me, caressing me, lifting me.

It’s the burning, hateful climb up that makes the racing, breathing, living flight down so immeasurably blissful.