Elsewhere in the world, Castro breathes his last few thousand lungfuls. Syrian missiles home in on Israeli jets, which could make for even more interesting times. Raul Gonzales munches on an adrenal gland plucked fresh from a dead infant, his fourth for the day. My Econ 100.1 classmates plow, brain-dead, through their corrected midterms.
But then and there, all that mattered was the long, slight uphill ahead, the downshift, the reassuring thnick of the rear derailleur, and me matching cadence; I don’t give a shit, expressed in meters per second.
Glory be to the machine, to the afternoon sun, and to my momentarily free spirit.