The glory of riding is losing yourself, leaving care and trouble and jobs and heartache on the road somewhere behind you. They'll find you on the way back and climb up on your shoulders again, push their way back into your life and consciousness, but for those precious few moments they disappear, left behind in a chaotic pile, and all that seems important are the road and the circles and the hum of the tires and the click click click click click of the metronome that begins to set itself inside your mind. The gears shift as if by magic, the world comes alive in a burst of Maxfield Parris colors along the edges of the tunnel of the road directly before you. An invisible hand pushes you along. Deep in your rational mind, you're convinced its is the wind, pushing and guiding and helping you up the grade. You also know, deep within your pocket of fear, that as soon as you make the turn toward home that same hand will place itself directly in your face, no matter what direction you ride, and make you work for you rest and comfort. And the metronome in your head continues to grow louder, more insistent: click click click click clickclickclickclick.
And you ride, to who knows where, carried on a wave of joy.