"This is a beautiful thing here," Pete said as the light turned green.
Fifteen or so rain-splattered mountain bikers rolled across Minnesota Boulevard in the dark and began pedaling east on a side street, moving in that way that only a group of bicycles can: first a large mass, then a morphing, flexing blob that stretches out and reshapes itself in response to the brake lights and headlights of cars. Pete was right. It was beautiful.
It was as if we were holding our own little Critical Mass ride. The drivers were stuck in their metal boxes watching the rain hit their windshields and wondering why a bunch of yahoos were out riding bikes in such cold, sloppy weather. But we were out there feeling the cold raindrops, the warm blood flowing through our legs and the beautiful sensation of rolling on two wheels.
An arrogant Christian, upon hearing that my beliefs differed from hers, once told me she felt sorry for me. Sorry, lady. I don't want or need your sympathy.
Bicycling is my religion.
You want to feel sorry for someone? Feel sorry for someone who doesn't ride.