the lost man chronicles
the daily chronicle
(little) blinking red lights at midnight
That was the feeling I had upon going on a bike ride at midnight last night. I had just gotten home from work, when, as I was putting on my flip-flops to take out the garbage, I decided, upon a whim, to go for a spin around the block.
As I hopped on, I put on my fisherman’s cap (otherwise known as a “bucket” cap in the industry) —and let her rip.
I delighted and was depressed to ponder how we live in a society that would so readily frown upon this perilous, yet pure, act of glee. For I was not wearing a helmut, just my gilligan.
I squealed with sibilant delight when I noticed the little red globes at the end of my handlebars light up. I had plugged them in a month ago and had never seen them shine so brightly—until now.
I imagined the blinking display to be the token way a fey Fate bestowed the honor of “daredevil peddler” upon me. The pride that stemmed from this impromptu coronation prompted me to ride standing. And with the cool wind in my hair, and a breeze whooshing through my toes, I soon forgot about the long day left behind.
Feeling high and mighty, the tingle of crisp air that is becoming October reminded me that my parade was over, and that I should sit down now. Besides, not wanting to rouse all the neighbors, it was better to be seen as just some quirky and quiet guy, with sandals and half his suit still on, riding his bike errantly through the hood, than to be misunderstood as some daring rebel rouser who was going to bring the value of real estate down. Moreover, the invigorating air was real and it was much more satisfying to feel and be in the moment then to get lost in any fantasy that Walter Mitty might entertain.
I then raced down the street and up the hill, standing up for a moment again to pedal for a little more push, as I swerved about the streets in a small almost-S that swirled about and connected the rues, the three parallel avenues of strangers I call my neighbors.
As I came back in, there was a small little-wittle wabbit (boys and girls like to call them “bunnies”) parked, waiting for me, in the driveway. I honked at it with my silver horn to that I would not have to run it over.
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