This is me and Schwinneola. I bought her for $74 at Walmart on Old Country Road on Long Island so I could have a bike to ride around where I grew up (Mineola, NY), so I could live and write the epilogue to my book, Traveling at the Speed of Bike.
A lot happened inside me while I was riding her, and then at 30,000 feet, my face pressed against the window as my plane hugged the west side of Manhattan where eight cyclists were killed last week (not to be confused with the hundreds killed by traffic violence all over the USA every single year). And the feelings keep coming this morning as I sit here, trying to process it all, not yet ready to wrap up the book.
I’m thinking things through at this particular crossroad in my life and the world’s crisis tipping point. Computing the value of my time on earth and how to account for that. Deciding how to get from sunup to sundown while feeling like I maybe made something or someone just a hair better or happier or planted a seed that may someday grow into something bigger than me. Trying to live God’s purpose for me, and accepting the humble manifestation of that reality. Maybe even just figuring out new ways to connect as a human across the great divide of negativity permeating our society. And somehow committing to be truthful and fearless about it while I’m still learning what lies I live and fears I harbor.
I’m thinking, once again, about the time machine known as a bike and its ability to take me back and move me forward . . . and wondering where it may take me — and our world — next.
Traveling at the Speed of Bike 