I dream that I am riding my bicycle. I travel quickly down the steep mountain highway that leads, for a fistful of miles, from my childhood farm. I hear the wind whistle and feel joy, in spite of the fact that I am careening, slightly out of control.
I realize, vaguely, that I will need to turn at some point, before I reach the crossroads at the bottom of the precipitous incline. I feel, first, confident, and then, afraid.
Meanwhile, in the back of my mind, I remember the Olympic cyclists training, sweat pouring down their faces, their breath rasping in the rare air as they slowly pumped up this mountain, in the opposite direction. I hope that, on the return, I won’t have to push the bike uphill.
I awaken to the uneasy knowledge that, as I roll through life, I feel comfort, because I can see my hands on the handlebar. As if that had any bearing on my path at all.