pedal pushers

On late summer days, the kind when there's nothing to do and everything to do all at the same time, we'd hop on our bikes and head north, pedaling like there was no tomorrow. We'd ride to our favorite street, the one with the perfect slope and the newly remodeled house on the left. Slowing at the bend before easing west with a slight turn of the handle bars, we'd make sure there were no cars, then in unison we'd begin.

Cranking our pedals with childish calves, we'd churn and churn until pedaling was no longer necessary and we could coast. Like performers on a tightrope, we'd take our hands off the handlebars and balance. Stretching our arms out into our trouble-less childhood world we'd raise our palms to the heavens, offering up our young hearts to the gods of summer. The warm breeze ran through our hair and across our faces. We were prayers in motion. Riding against gravity and fear, we were small gestures of innocent self-mastery, the graceful uprise of victory imprinted across our chests. Heads back and faces towards the sinking sun we were all smiles down the tree-lined neighborhood streets. One block. Two blocks. Then three, until our bikes slowed beneath us and we'd have to take up the pedaling and steering. Without talking, we'd glance in each others direction. Again.