the freedom of the bicycle

BACK in the state of Victoria, my bicycle was locked outside my house. the old townhouse, paper thin walls. my long boney fingers reach out to scratch at the code and that’s when i realise it is chained next to yours. i can tell by the U shaped lock, the tattered handlebars and the hand that reaches out to unlock it. your hand. short dirty fingernails attached to previously broken fingers and an old gold watch covering the base of a dark hairy wrist. my bike, less identifiable. a standard run of the mill numerical lock with an easy code to crack. a black basket that mirrors all of the other baskets floating around the north. unused gears as my life continues to move forward at a painfully slow pace whilst i grapple with the impossible task at hand of moving any faster. a better job in a field I enjoy. a house with solid walls. a mind that does not falter. stuck in time with nowhere to go. stuck in my skin. CANNING STREET: just turn left at the end of miller, carry on down nicholson for around 78 seconds (full flung), and take the third right at park, next to the bike shop that doubles as a coffee front. hipster at the scene but the worst brew in this capital. the curdling type that turns to clag when you take the first swig. it’s just a front. isn’t everything, actually? anyway that's how you get there. my feet are strung onto the pedals. left shoelace is undone slightly but not enough to get caught in the spokes. as i turn the corner, i stand up over the front handle bars and begin to throttle down, overtaking the man in the suit to my left. finally the day feels less cold. the bad dream that woke me in a frantic sweat begins to fade from my brain and my eyes start to open. that icy, second hand wind slaps the face of my front runner and now cuts through me as i momentarily forget where i am which is exactly where i want to be in this point in time. in the land of the forgotten, the land of the free. i feel a drip from my nose and one from my eye. the same soothing sting you feel when you’re chopping an onion. i love that feeling. the cold trying to break through a warm face. the wind is in me now. fully inside. made its way through the button gap of my green jacket and into my cold heart, but i am not phased. i am moving at a rapid pace and my surrounds become a blur of colours. i focus my eyes on the road ahead and feel that familiar intense burning sensation in my thighs as i push my legs harder, throwing the bike forward, faster. the overwrought human on my right morphs into a shape, shifting with time, free on their bicycle in the depths of winter, mid july. i glide effortlessly around the roundabout, and into the park. the sun reaches higher and time moves forward. my breath, heavy. head, light. for now, in this very moment i am without insecurities. my guts does not speak to me. i am not jammed on the 96 tram with the stagnant, stale smell of graying hair at my shoulder height. i am not stuck in punt road traffic hurling abuse at the incompetent driver trying to turn right. i am not walking alone, half awake and half asleep, attempting to block my thoughts of you, scheduling self demolition as my insides begin to hurt again.

i, just like the time, am moving forward. moving past the chaos and disarray of the day and towards the lilac sky. for this time only,  i am a free person, on my bicycle.