Heading outdoors, something feels amiss. Dust, leaves, bits of discarded matter and unidentifiable, unaffixed objects swirl mightily.
Hair whips across the face, blinding, and whipping half-closed eyes, as the carried bike lands firmly on full circles of rubber. Clothing is zipped up tight, glasses pushed against a cool temple and gloves velcroed shut, firmly hugging encased wrists.
The bike is rolled toward the street, gradually, as a strong wind presses poundingly to prevent forward motion. A stray, solo sheet of newspaper, reminiscent of days gone by, flaps against shins, refusing to budge – as if glued to the legs – thrashing steadily to prevent walking freely.
Mounting the bike, another gust strikes, causing an off balance, clumsy maneuver to straddle the top tube. Standing with full weight on the front-most pedal, the bike barely budges from its place of rest.
Motionless, the other foot is called to assist. Sitting briefly as the first pedal is moved down half a turn, the second pedal is thrust almost horizontally with a half-standing stroke to gain some momentum.
Then, the bike begins to roll, sluggishly, wobbly, looking for a straight course. At last, the bike begins to roll forward. Going is slow as another gust of wind takes a shot at the unprotected human body.
Riding along, a smack of wind approaches abruptly from the left side, nearly knocking the cyclist off the bike to the right. Pulling up sharply on the handlebars, the cyclist veers into the headwind, challenging it to a contest of strength. Standing firmly on the pedals, body erect, arms taught with flexed muscles, the cyclist fights to maintain progress.
Another swoop hits from the right. The bike swerves, front wheel turning involuntarily in response to the heavy hand of nature. Leaning into the pocket of air, the cyclist struggles to remain upright.
Without warning, the forceful wave of wind dissolves, leaving the cyclist leaning against nothing. This sudden change in equilibrium creates the beginning of a crash. Falling sideways, the bike begins to fade away. Unclipping one foot from the pedal, in a desperate attempt to avoid hitting the ground, the cyclist skates on the left foot while pulling up on the bike to right it.
Changing direction, a savage headwind slows the bike. Nearly upright now, the low speed movement keeps it in line. The solo rider worms through gaps between gusts, looking for a strategy, an empty piece of space with no resistance.
Sailing along, clothes whipping and wrinkling, pressed against shins and chest, wrapping around straining calves. Fluttering fabric beats rapidly in sync with labored breathing called forth from exertion.
Swoops and swells of rogue gales roam the streets looking for a victim. They toss and turn and tumble dryly – soaring upward only to crash back down to the ground in a wild turbine of ventilation. It’s a vortex of velocity, an atmosphere without bounds – blending, bending, shoving, stopping. Leaning left, leaning right, arrested air causes a tilt to one side and an infinite adjustment in balance.
Coasting downhill the wind pushes faster and faster, forcing a race against the slope. Rapidly, the bike cruises with the current caught in the broad sail of the cyclist’s back. Gliding, riding, rolling, swerving, the speed increases without pedaling.
Thighs tremble with fatigue from riding against an invisible wall. Heaving through the bicycle dance, the cyclist reaches his destination, dismounts and steadies his legs, glad to be on solid ground.
