Last night I did something I haven’t done in far too long.
In Flagstaff, we used to call it the hot lap.
Just a damn spin around the neighborhood. Usually at night. Usually after a few beers. Often alone. Just for the goddamn fun of it.
The streetlights cast an odd pall. The flickering televisions inside the homes of the sedentary masses seem like airport landing lights, and I’m in flight. It’s the closest thing I get to complete peace these days. Times have gotten stressful and have stayed there, but I’ve got the hot lap.
There’s no such thing as serenity anymore, but there’s a bastardization of it. The day cools off enough to be pleasant, and without any hesitation, without the need to strap on a camelbak or tighten straps on my shoes (flip flops will do), without a helmet and without lights, there’s the hot lap, the quick push, the only way to truly tell if you’re still feeling anything at all. Unplugged. Un-politicized. No pay. No bills. No angle. No barter. Pedal over pedal. Rubber thwapping. Chain squealing.
The hot lap.