It has been a long, warm winter of utility bike rides, to and from work, to and from the grocery store, to and from acupuncture and brunch and haircuts and all the rest of the regular places I have to go. I don’t have a car, hate the bus, and love my bicycle, so of course I’ve spent the unseasonably warm winter months riding my bicycle to and fro.
Spring has been about to burst for weeks now, and Sunday was one of those early spring days that just screams for a different kind of bike ride, the kind that isn’t anywhere on purpose. I headed out with bare arms and a vague plan to hit a bike shop in Federal Hill. And oh, it was such a good ride, and I was in love all over again with my bike. It was the kind of ride that reminds me that I am myself. It had been awhile.
And more than anything I wanted to park myself on a bench at Fort McHenry with the view in this picture and call my dad and tell him, like I told him so many times, so many springtimes, that I love my bike. Thank you for being so patient as I figured out that my home is on my bike, and for loving me loving my bike every bit as much as I love me and my bike.
But I couldn’t make that call or send that text because he is dead, killed by an errant driver 15 months ago. Grief comes in waves, and already there’s so much more space between the waves than even just a few months ago. On days like this one, though, it hits me again just how permanent this is. Grief isn’t something you get through. It changes you, and everything’s just different.
I spent some time weeping on that bench overlooking the water before turning around and heading home. I can’t believe he’s still just gone, and that’s just going to keep on being true. And here’s to another season of biking. I can’t wait to see where it takes me.