Sometimes in the morning in between unlocking my bike from the banister and swinging my foot over the seat, I would think about all the many times I’ve done this before; and what lay before me would either be a road gravelly and cold with salted streaks running down the cracked and bumpy macadam while trucks would roar past me, not knowing how loud and smelly they were, and I’d tuck my nose into my coat to prevent the wind from biting it; or I’d wear a sweatshirt with only light sleeves, as the singing whir of the cycle picked up leaves, brown and orange, and I would think about Jessica, and how when she smiled at me her eyes glossed and the excitement I’d feel on the ride home ready to see her would encourage me to pedal faster; or even the day before me, limitless but confined to a cubicle and monitor upon which I would type for my own sake and theirs, insofar as it would allow me to return at night, to those nights when she and I wouldn’t be together and I could dedicate myself wholly to becoming better at my craft and that would provide the balance for me to see her the following night; and how this was the way many other writers must have felt upon waking and leaving their homes in the bleary morning sun or the stark winter gray, in St. Petersburg, in Paris or London, in New York, Chicago or Rome, and how this feeling, this eyesleep-crusted hazy awakeness could be the best and worst part of my day. And I would wheel the bike backwards out the door and pick it up, and see the factories with their doors open or passersby walking to the subway and set out down the road to take on the day, not yet excited or even self-conscious about the thoughts that I would soon have while riding, which, once upon the road with only time before me, inevitably led to deeper and more metaphysical insights: insights, which upon reflection would allow me to come home and work on my work and be excited to continue practicing the following day and the next; in the same way the farmer goes to work in order that he may one day reap a crop, but the ploughing and the loamy blackness of the earth, or the watching of a tender green sprout is enough to give him joy and incentive to continue in his pursuit, day in and out, and provide him with satisfaction and pleasure in doing so.
Published by Daniel Ryan Adler
Daniel was born in Brooklyn, NY, and has lived in Portland, Oregon. He studied literature and philosophy at NYU and creative writing at Edinburgh University. He is finishing an MFA in Fiction at University of South Carolina. View more posts