Bike with Me.

Bikes are the best. Pulling the pedal back with balls of my feet and hopping onto the seat sends me back in time. I drew out a bike from the caverns of the shed and made my way down the swerving drive. The house I grew up in passed on my left, but it isn't the home I remember. The present people have neglected the finer points, like cutting the grass and cleaning up garbage.

Once I hit the road, it was a straight line to Concession four. I opted for the least hilly terrain since it has been a few years and these knees have experienced little of such activity. A bug smacked my forehead and I closed my mouth to prevent potential consumption. The ride was surreal and nostalgic. All my senses told me that I was back home, but my desire to greet two old men on porches with "Buenas tardes!" reminded me that home was two places. So much was the same and so much was different. The masses of stables along the way boast of the success of the near-by racetracks and their accompanying slots. Old man Larry's place is boarded up with plywood and the drunk has probably passed out for his last time. The ditches are still hemmed with Queen Anne's lace and the fragrance of ragweed and honey thistles still sweeten the air. A bloated diaper expands on the gravel side, a common sight in Bolivia, but the seven Tim Horton coffee cups tell me where I really am.
I know where I am but, I don't know where I'm going. A bike ride can be a random diversion through country blocks without a real destination. The point is the ride. The idea isn't to get anywhere but only to absorb the passing beauty and enjoy the exertion of muscles long laid fallow.
I will absorb this blessed life, enjoy the surrounding beauty, and I will find my way home again.