#stayingalive

#stayingalive

545pm On Rochester Avenue in Brooklyn.

I coast down the steep hill on my bike. I zip past pieces of broken glass and blots of oil spills. The flutter of pigeon wings, bits of rocks, and passing comments like 'she's serious' are the dust of my tracks. I am really on the Tour de France and the only black woman to come this close to winning. The families and couples I fly past are supporters, and their cell phones are paper cups filled with water they're handing me. I am attempting to break the record of fastest time not only from Grand Army Plaza library to my house on Fulton and Utica streets, but the fastest 3.5 mile bike ride in history. 


But the shards of glass I zoom past could get caught in one or both of my tires, and like the millions of times Wiley the Coyote, Daffy Duck, or Elmer Fudd's plans were foiled due to a flattened tire that sent them soaring in the air and crashing on concrete, my wheels could spin out of turn and skirt my face along the tar of the street. Or an oil spill could spin me into a frenzy and I collide against a Mack truck at any one of the busy intersections on St. John's Place, Bergen street or Atlantic avenue. 


"What the f*** is she doing?!!" 
A woman yells from a passenger seat in a black Ford Explorer as I screech my brakes. 


"Oops. I didn't know there wasn't a STOP sign." I say aloud, hoping I can be heard by the older woman moseying behind me, or the woman clutching her gray purse waiting on the corner with poise and staring ahead. I ease up the hill, then begin to zoom down, peddling with the wind. What if someone runs a red light? A fiery red car and its dare devil driver want to make the light but it turns just as red as the car is, then the driver pumps up speed just as I'm peeking out to get ahead of the cars behind me, as my light turns green--SPLAT!--it could happen. 


STOP. 


I pull the brakes at my next red light. I place one foot on the ground and hear, "What is. See what is, Pam." 


I am riding my bike down the street. I have peddled fast. Cars are driving around me. I stop at red lights and I ride at green ones. Broken glass is in the street, but it has remained there. Puddles of oil spill sit at ever other traffic light, but I have rode around them. I almost ran into traffic and I made a woman mad that was in the car I was nearing. I caught myself and turned my front wheel towards the curb. I have not been hit by a Mack truck, I have not spun and flew into the air. I am not on the Tour de France. I am two blocks away from home and riding fast because I stayed at the library longer than I planned to and I want to start dinner for my husband, making pizza as a surprise since we never eat it because I'm allergic to cheese.


My imagination is thrilling many times because it places me so close to death. Being present keeps me alive. Alive to the moment. Being with the ride I am on. Sometimes it is not as loud or as colorful as my mind but it gets me home, where I always want to end up.