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.