Lupe eats the miles

"Today was great weather for biking!" I enthusiastically told my roommate as I peeled off my layers. Her response was an incredulous, "Really?"
"Well, yeah, for cold weather biking. I got to wear layers and didn't overheat."
"Oh, I was walking and it was so cold! I guess biking would be different."
"Yeah, with the right gear it's awesome. I went so fast!"

Flying down Atwells from Mt. Pleasant, heading towards the intersection of River. I keep glancing behind me to make sure no cars are following, but I think doing that is more dangerous than not at that speed. My light shows me glimpses of potholes and crags in the road. I dodge them like exes at a punk rock show. Sometimes we connect, but mostly ... it's hit or miss. I tend to miss.
I can't believe how fast I feel. It's past 10pm on a Sunday. I just finished an 8 hour shift at the library, plus an hour and a half of paper-writing. I was short by a page. I needed perfection.
As I speed past the intersection at Atwells and Cutler, I wonder, "What if that car were to turn in front of me because they think I'm going slower than I actually am?" I can imagine the impact. I do this every ride, at least once. I see twisted metal and broken bones. Rubber and skin. Oil and blood. And the car doesn't turn, I barely slow down, and the road rattles between my thighs.
I have them clenched around the frame, acting as shock absorbers. I'm in a slight crouch so I don't rattle my brain. Providence has terrible roads. Providence likes to be a hard city. You don't live here if you want easy living. This is where every interaction is a struggle. Every bike ride could be your last. I've never been hit but I can feel the impact in my gut and through my head. I've never been hit but man, can I empathize.
Turning from River, making that stupid U-turn onto Westminster. One of the metal bike-part flowerpots is smashed on the road. I am angry and sad simultaneously. Why do people destroy art? I know the person that made them. If someone demolished something beautiful, something public that I had labored over, I would be devastated. It seems unfair. I ride by and up the hill.
Under the overpass. My light is the only way to see the patchwork road. A spiteful car passes close, too close, to me. I don't retaliate. I just ride. That's what I do now. I ride.

I wish I had a microphone so I could dictate my journey. It's only 20 minutes, but it's my time. It's when I get to be alone. The cars are obstacles, not people. Tonight I was reminded of SCUBA diving. With my hood up, all I could hear was the sound of my own breathing as the air rushed past my covered ears. It was peaceful. Underwater, the only sound is that of your regulator. In. Out. Harsh yet smooth. My breathing is labored whenever I ride and I wonder, "How can I be out of shape? I've made this ride almost every day for 16 months. Am I sick?" It feels good to make the turn onto Messer. It feels good to escape the obstacles of Westminster.

Poetry runs through my head as I ride. It jumbles. I never get it right later when I finally have the chance to write. I say, "I am cleansing my emotional palate. Something sharp and stinging still lays on top, but beneath it is bitter." I want to put the pickled ginger in my brain. I want to erase the past few years.
I am cleansing my emotional palate. I can still taste you, and underneath you the old flavors of past lovers. Bitter. I have tasted barely anything other than bitter for the past year. It feels like a good time to start over.
I am cleansing my emotional palate. Too long I've been scared to eat anything else for fear of forgetting these flavors. I don't need to hang on. Letting go frightens me, but I hear that's what I need. That and patience.

Wasabi on the tip of my tongue. I am empty now. There is nothing left to taste. Rice wine and vinegar.

I gobble the miles and shit them out, memories for someone else to hold.
Memories to dispose.

Then I remember another thought: "I want to open you up and crawl inside you like a pre-pubescent japanese boy would do to a gigantic mecha-warrior. I want to caress your dials and buttons, pull your levers, find out what makes you work. I want to see through your eyes and I want others to tremble at our union. I want us to be powerful, and beautiful, and terrible, and silent.
I want you to rust all around me.
I want to save the world with you and never let anyone know it was us.
I want to open you up and crawl inside and take comfort in your presence.
Our death would level city blocks."

I bet my love could do that now.