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This Moment Trisha Petrella |
Sometimes we ride for fitness, other times to burn stress, and of course, sometimes just to have fun. Some of us go out to be alone, and others, to have a few laughs with friends. Often, we ride simply for that feeling of freedom and joy that comes from pedalling. Tonight, however, I was riding as a personal memorial to a dear friend.
The street lights glowed muted orange through the mist. I was sitting on my bike in the heart of the city; it was nearly midnight. The darkness invited a respectful silence and even the constant noisy rush of traffic seemed to quiet under the heavy calming touch of the fog. Flexing my hands experimentally, my gloves crackled a little from the damp and cold. The chill in the air was beginning to seep under my warm layers - a sure sign that it was time to get moving.
My
bike and I passed through the hushed whiteness, weaving smoothly through the
forest of glass and concrete. At first I slipped through the streets oblivious
and lost in thought, each set of stairs or cement railing bringing back memories.
But as my ride progressed, the magic of the bicycle took over, and I started
to outrun my melancholy. The focus and clarity that riding requires chased away
all my scattered thoughts, and left me only the wonderment of the moment.
The past week had been hard, as saying goodbye always is, and I had been looking forward to this solitary time on my bike, not just to find peace of mind, but also to honour my friend. Some people want to be remembered, others want to be forgotten, Brad wanted neither. He was the kind of guy who existed in the present. He was drunkenly, joyously alive, and it was obvious in everything he did, especially riding. I knew that by falling in love with life all over again through the joy that comes from just being on my bike, I was paying him tribute in a way he would truly appreciate.
Maybe it came from that stubborn determination to savour every moment, or maybe he just walked through life with his eyes a bit wider than the rest of us. Whatever it was, Brad was a consummate 'bike philosopher'. From cheesy lines like, 'Go BIG or go home!' to showing me that there was more shame in never trying than in trying and failing. If there were lessons or analogies to be pulled from biking, Brad would find them. Don't get me wrong; he wasn't a sideline coach, sagely dispensing wise advice. He had an irrepressible enthusiasm for life and for riding that was infectious. Sometimes when we would stop during a ride, he would suddenly spout off some incredible thought and start laughing, amazed at his own discovery. Riding with him was like riding with someone who has just realized they are in love.
Brad was a guy who found significance in the simple and mundane. At the end
of a ride, we would all emerge sweating and panting, whooping at the top of
our lungs, and Brad would suddenly come out with one of his characteristic random,
deep thoughts and blow us all away. Of course, at the time we would all laugh,
still too high on adrenaline to really appreciate his little epiphany. But,
they were the kind of thoughts that would circle around and return in quiet
moments over a steaming cup of coffee.
The focus he had while riding, his ability to be entirely consumed with the present, showed me a secret to surviving life. Brad wasn't ignorant or unaware, but he never dwelt for long on the past or future because he felt the only place his thoughts and actions would have impact was on this moment. He taught me how to learn from mistakes without agonizing over them, and to anticipate the next adventure without fearing it.
So I rode, allowing my bike to consume my thoughts, and losing the painful what-ifs of the past, and worrisome what-ifs of the future in the only time I could do anything about.
I sped through our familiar routes, not to bask in fond memories or kill old ghosts, but to live intensely in the present, and in that place to once again feel close to my friend. To enjoy this ride, on this night, and possibly, to learn another profound lesson from a sport we both loved.
Brad always said, although I think he was quoting some movie, that there were worse things to fear than death, he said, 'I'm not afraid of dying, I'm afraid of never really living."
