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Today I reset the odometer on my bike. Cleared it out. All 12,000 miles +…gone. A year’s worth of sweat, cold, friendship, work- wiped out. I should have been sad, I guess, to think that another year had drawn to a close. Still, as I got off my bike with the sweat of the final ride of the year still drying on my body, I could not be sad over miles erased. Last night I dreamed of Carrick. My husband had told me that he had prayed that I would dream of our boy…. and yet for weeks and months on end I dreamed around him. I dreamed of my dad, gone before Carrick. I dreamed over and over of my father-in-law, who left us just after my son. Last night Carrick was there, still my boy and I kissed his face over and over again. His face was soft and smooth like a peach. He had skin so smooth and fresh it was unreal. So riding today, I wanted to tell my husband that his prayers had been answered and that I had dreamed of our boy. But I could not. So I did what I could, which was to pedal. And pedal some more. Because most days, when I am unable to do anything at all, I can bike. The bike is my Prozac, my therapy, and my psychiatrist. It works for cheap. All it requires is my body on the saddle. Most of the time, I promise, I am not great at cycling. My bike does not care. Nor does my body, nor my mind, which is released from a tight, self-destructive spiral of pain to something…akin to “normal.” It’s hard to explain and I am not sure even I can understand the mystery of riding and me. I have said it time and time again- I am not, nor have I ever been, an athlete. Yet I find myself in the curious position of needing to cycle, as an infant needs to draw breath. Survival, for me, comes on two wheels. I often worry, as I begin that this time on the bike could be my last. Cars, for the most part are courteous and careful. However, occasionally, someone will come close, angry that I am slowing his or her path on the road. I am not selfish and I know what my death would do to my husband, to my remaining children. I also know the mother, the wife I would be if I did not ride. I pray for safety, knowing better than anyone that safety may or may not be granted, and hop on my bike. Because the alternative is to go mad…be mad…drive others mad. Which frankly, sometimes I still can do. As I cleared out my miles from the past year I tried to remember them all. Each ride as healing to my mind as a salve, and yet, at the end of the year, just a number on a digital device. I sighed, pressed “reset” and hung up my bike. I wonder how many miles it is going to take me to escape pain in 2008?
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