This is my bicycle. It hasn’t moved an inch in six weeks. But I have. I’m walking again. Most days for two hours. The tracks are down the street. I leave the driveway, make a right turn onto the rails, and head south. In less than ten minutes I’m in the woods.
Whatever I get from riding I also get from walking. The pace isn’t important. The decision to get up and go is. On wheels or by foot, I’m easily transformed out of a routine and into a place where I have a moment to ponder. I’ll put the day under a lens. Or, I won’t.
Like the rides, some walks are exercise, some are therapy. They give me the tools I use to tighten some thoughts, or disassemble others. I can talk to myself or just rearrange an idea. Or rethink an opinion. Getting away from myself also brings me closer to myself.
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