Buffalove

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This is a call out to you.

This is a neatly written thank you note: letters swirl in 1950s’ cursive.

This is echolocation.

This is a kiss at the door and you taste like tea.

This is sinewy strings of connection from you to me and back again.

This is a note under the desk in lopsided letters.

This is a flashlight signal from my room to yours, “I’m here. You’re there.”

This is to whoever put that note on my bicycle.

This is a thank you.

Thank you for reminding me that I live in a city where a stranger would tie some yarn onto a note that says, “I kind of love your bike” and put it on my old red bike, so that walking out of the Lexington Co-op, I would discover it and exclaim out loud to myself, “Oh cool.”

I have been a stranger in a strange land of bikes.  Last summer at Campus’s Tuesday Night Rides, I could barely bike ten miles.  I could barely run two miles. I was twelve pounds heavier. I sat in an office all day. I knew no one in the group. My bike cost forty dollars and was made in roughly 1983. I rode with the C group and I got ice cream and I was scared on the curvy pedestrian bridge but I realized that something clicked. I liked going up a small hill. I liked the way the wind felt in my hair. I liked the energy of this group of people.

Now, last night I ran 4.75 miles. I biked twenty-nine miles on Friday. I am learning to race on a team. I am trying to ride fast. My bike is much better. I have a lot of cool gear. I have made some lovely friends who ride bikes in all sorts of ways.

But, your note took me back. Your note took me to the beginning of the journey. The journey that began with a red bike. They journey that continues with a red bike.

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