Rain slapped the pavement. Wind blew inland from the lake,
whipping flags through soggy seizures, the spray into my eyes. There was no
relief in going down. Puddles found fissures in the road to pool and arrest
rivulets in no difference between my skin and shiny tarmac. We churned.
Reaching the parking lot at the first gate, stuttering to a
slow stop over the chopped pavement and grieving patches of slick tar, turning
left to go up again, hunched forward, leaning into the gear.
The machine leapt forward. Shiny black metal polished with
embrocation and thigh stubble, it was a cat closing on prey. No need to get out
of the saddle. No need to push harder than smoothly, to shift to a larger cog,
to hunch or gasp. No need to do anything beyond a subtle wrapping of light grip
around the tops of the bar, and a coaxing (more in myself than of the machine)
toward the grade.
