Sizzle and Drip

I am limp. It is hot and thick and my soul feels wrung out. We all have days like this right? Oakley and I are struggling, and I have been so busy that I haven’t been able to take him and run him like a wild horse, which is what I instinctively feel like he needs. What I need. My heart aches. I am tired.

I lean on the counter of Lighthouse Bikes listlessly, and watch the shimmers of heat and light radiate up from the sidewalk and bounce off the store fronts all along the block. There is no shade and it is making everyone’s eyes take on angry squints as they walk by.

I wonder if I have made a mistake. What if this shop costs me the relationship with my son? What if I never adventure again? What if I become a ruthless capitalist and lose my creative spark? I long for the wilds and big sky. In addition to my squint, insecurity pulses across my brow. To be honest, I am glad there are not any bicycle tours today. I am not sure that I have the gusto for it.

Suddenly, a man thrusts the door open and the hot air washes in behind him. He is not only enveloped in it, but he seems to be burning from within as well. His eyes spark with rage and I find myself recoiling before he has even said a word.

“If one more of your red bikes cruising down the sidewalk almost hits me, I will punch someone in the face!”

I know this man, and I am shocked by his words. I hate it when people are mad at me. Tears instantly well in my eyes, but I try to hide them with a playful quip. “You will? You are a massage therapist. Aren’t you guys all peace, love, and happiness?”

“90 percent peace, love and happiness, 10 percent punch them in the face.”

His face teeters between a friendly smile and a grimace of rage. Both flicker on and off in an uncomfortable and unsettling manner.

“I will tell them to be more careful. I am so sorry. They don’t know better.” Mea culpa, mea culpa.

I do feel badly, but many of my customers at Lighthouse Bikes are fledgling riders and haven’t learned bicycle manners or much control. They don’t mean any harm, and I certainly don’t think they deserve to be punched in the face.

When he leaves, I let out a shuddering breath. My co-worker laughs at the irony of this man’s manners and his chosen profession, and we make light of his rage, but I am rattled.

I can’t always write when I have learned good lessons or found pithy metaphors. That would be cheap and unhelpful. Sometimes I need to write when I am shaky and unsure. Like today.

Okay–maybe one metaphor. I might be crashing around crazily right now, like some of my bikers, because my life does feel out of balance. If you see me and I seem not to be seeing you or nearly run you over in my haste and distraction, please don’t punch me in the face. Please don’t be angry. Instead, understand that finding balance takes practice, and an inward focus. When I figure it out, I will ride with grace again.