All my life, I’ve been a biker.  As a young girl in the country in North Carolina, it was sometimes my only transportation.  When I wanted to see my girlfriend, who was three huge hills away, I struck out on whatever rickety bicycle happened to be in our yard.  Sometimes it may have belonged to one of my grandfather’s customers.  We had a small country store.  

If I started late in the afternoon, the valleys between the hills were quite chilly.  There was one particular spot where I felt “spooks.”  I didn’t know why this feeling was so predominant.  As I coasted down the first hill, a small decrepit cabin peeked out at me from high weeds.  A rusted screen door announced that no one cared about this building.  I never saw anyone there, but the feeling that a very sad – or mad – ghost was lurking just behind that door pushed me to peddle a little faster.  I always knew what it was like to wonder if Boo Radley would come out and grab you.

Now, I have a lovely bicycle that is lightweight and allows me to speed along, with the same feeling of flying independence I had as that young girl.  I simply love it.  Time to stop writing, and head out on the bike.  I’m taking a camera with me today.  Spring is blooming.