Changing

The weather is changing.  The summer scorched flora, left a shriveled shade of brown, has rejuvenated in recent autumn air.  The grass is green again and life seems to have survived just long enough to flourish for a few moments before it begins to rust into the magnificent colors of fall. 

Cooler air has also brought out a swarm of cyclist, buzzing along sidewalks, trails and streets.  I see children riding to school in the mornings, older couples cruising on a sunny afternoon, and weekend warriors finding their cadence in a group.  Their colorful jerseys seem to herald the coming color of fall.  I find myself staring at them all as I pass them in my car.  I probably look like a stalker memorizing every detail of that blonde on a Schwinn, but in all actuality, I’m really just interested in the Schwinn.  I gaze at the glorious geometry of the frame, the rotation of the crank arm, and hold my breath to hear the sound of shifting gears.  The bike and I connect, drawn together by some magnetism.  However, I am quickly overtaken by something else.  Envy.  You see, the grass is not the only thing that has recently turned green.

I cannot seem to control it.  I am overcome by this brute that lashes out at the fact that anyone, seemingly everyone has a bike but me.  I secretly curse the couples on their cruisers.  Do they know what a majestic machine they ride?  I quietly berate children on their Huffy bikes.  Do they realize how fortunate they are?  I even found myself jealous of a little girl with pony tails on a small pink bike with training wheels and grumbled to myself that she probably didn’t even appreciate how cute her pink and white handlebar streamers were, but she should.  

My children have bikes.  They cause me more internal anquish than all the rest.  They are thrust in my face every day, abondoned in the driveway or garage where I park my car.  I am forced to see them, think of them, even touch them as I make way for my vehicle.  I wrap my fingers around the top tube and I feel the pulse of energy within the cold steel.  Speed begs to be unleashed.  It calls for someone to climb aboard and blast off.  But it doesn't call to me.  I drag them into their corner of the garage and turn my back, trying to forget them.  But I can still hear the whimper in my mind.   I promise myself that one day, that empty space on the wall will be filled with my own aluminum animal, purring softly for attention.  Nothing thrills me more to think that some day, I can answer that call, head out into the crisp air, and maybe cause someone else to pause, admire, and even turn a little green.