 |
| A subtle start to a dramatic hill. Courtesy of Google Maps. |
Perry Avenue runs north-south down the spine of Manette. It
is one of my favorite hills in the area to ride my bicycle down. If you’ll
allow me, I’d like to tell you why.
It starts pleasant enough. The hill starts on fresh pavement
where Sheridan intersects Perry. The shoulder is wide and smooth. The incline
is so slight that it feels like you’ve simply gotten a second wind, that your
legs are suddenly stronger than they were moments before. The road stretches
straight ahead, tires whir, legs pedal, the wind rushes.
As you pass Mountain View Middle School, the fresh pavement
gives way to old and the wide shoulder vanishes into gravel. The hill proper
begins here. The incline becomes obvious. You can stop pedaling and still roll
forward at a good pace, pulled downward by the gentle tug of gravity. In the
distance, the road vanishes, tucks into the horizon.
The vanishing point moves with you, slips farther away as
you wheel ever closer. At last, the vanishing point dips into the sparkling
waters of the inlet, and the remainder of the descent is visible. There is a
fraction of a second where you can enjoy the water dancing in the sun before
you must make a decision. Because there are really two ways to descend Perry.
You can descend with caution, hands gripping brakes, metaphorical heals dug
into the dirt against gravity’s insistent call to dance. Or you can dance with
gravity, yield to its call, let the screaming wind be the sound track to your
revelry.
There is nothing safe about dancing with gravity. There is
nothing secure. Blood and pain and violence await the unwary and unlucky
cyclist.
Drop your elbows. Flatten your back. Tuck into your bike so
that the wind flows around you, so you fly faster. Grip the bars tightly and
hover over the seat in anticipation of the rough road ahead. The wind is rushing
now, howling, taunting and celebrating. The pavement becomes rough, torn,
tattered. It is a battleground.
The bike jumps and bucks beneath you. Rattles and shakes
along the road. But your torso is still, smooth, an island of peace in the violence
of the descent. You let the bike roll and pitch beneath you, allow it to flow
along the surface of the road. This is not a fight. This is a dance. Follow the
rhythm of the road.
Fly. Let the world become small. Forget about the water.
Forget about the houses and trees rushing by. Watch the road. Anticipate,
respond. Scan for cars and pedestrians. Let your fingers hover over the brakes.
Do not pull them. Above all, fly. Let wheels become wings. Become part of the
wind.
And then it ends. The road flattens. Gravity bows and
leaves. A stop sign demands. The wind ceases. The dance is stilled.
Comments