Back in the Saddle Again

Winter morning: air like glass, clear and cold and fragile. I seem to float across the earth, resting on my saddle. For the moment I have the park to myself; there is only one solitary runner on the trail ahead. I know I will overtake him on the straightaway, but he will pass me going uphill. The age-old contest between human and bicycle. I bleat my horn and put on a burst of speed. I can hear him panting as I pass.