The Ride

Most people don’t get it. They can’t. They can’t understand the feeling of completion, the soothing of the soul, or the calming of the spirit that happens when you throw your leg over a bike. To me, it’s home. It’s where my soul belongs. Like a fish that’s been kept alive in the back of a hot truck finally returning to the stream. It’s primal.

People who don’t ride think I’m exaggerating when I try to explain it, but the truth is, I’m under-describing it. Imagine a piece of who you are vanishing every time you step off—and returning every time you climb back on. And not some trivial piece, like a toenail. I mean something vital. Like eyesight. Or taste.

My existence is less when I’m off the bike. But it’s more when I’m on. And somehow, even with the ups and downs, the general trajectory is upward. If that makes any fucking sense. (I just reread it—it doesn’t. But I stand by it.)

I work from home most days, but I head to the office occasionally. And I actually relish those days—not because I love the office (I don’t), and not because I even have an office (I don’t). I end up in a drop-in space or one of those little Superman phone booths they call “privacy pods.” No, what I enjoy is the excuse to ride.

Today was one of those days. Stressful. Heavy conversations about solving decades-old problems. Important, but draining. I followed that up with interviews for next year’s interns. I enjoy talking to the future of our industry—but it still drains me.

But then I got on my bike.

As soon as I hit the ignition, everything—every ounce of stress, exhaustion, the blek blek blues—just disappeared. It literally transformed my mood. (Not my frown, though, because mouths don’t work like that. But you get it.)

I don’t really have a point here, except this:
If you ever see me smiling as I ride past, know that you’re witnessing something sacred.
You’re watching my soul heal in real time.