Last night I rode my bike downtown. It’s black, green and manly. I tied the garage door opener to the handlebars with a glow-in-the-dark shoelace.
There’s a real mother of a hill sixty seconds into my route to the lake shore. I realize if I gather up my legs and move my pelvis in time, the climb is easier.
It should come as no surprise that the cadence of Pour Some Sugar On Me was made for such a discovery. I repeat the hill.
The ribbon of bike path that rolls me east is twelve thousand years old. The tires get some purchase. I weave my way around runners and ducklings. It’s smooth to pedal but my tee shirt is soaked, just the same.
At the fishing bridge, a guy wearing only overalls and fat Hello Kitty headphones nearly fishhooks my braid with a zig-zag cast. I see myself in him and imagine that he too is guided by Def Leppard.
Along the main drag, no traffic is allowed, save city buses and pizza delivery trucks.
A girl on a longboard catches me a block from the Capitol. Going uphill, with a Swisher Sweet in her mouth, she passes me like a dirty shirt.
I hang a u-turn and coast downhill toward my neighborhood. If I turn my head right, I smell onion rings and Honey Weiss- to the left, Nag Champa. The combination hits your nose like thigh sweat and a bale of hay. No problemo.
All winter, we plotted a move to the South. We had almost decided.
But on May 29, we close on our new little home on the west side of town.
For now, I pledge to stay and do my part in keeping Madison weird.
Hold me to it.