The Ride

A coworker asked me yesterday "where's your car?" as he saw me wheeling my bike out of the office. When I told him it was at home, he then asked "so...you're just riding to work for the fun of it?" This is a guy (kid, really) who is 24, not married, no kids...so I just said "yeah, just for the fun of it" rather than try to explain what that glorious 25 minute bike ride home from work means to me.

The minute I am out of the office door and on the bike, I enter some sort of limbo state, wherein, I'm no longer a worker bee, answering to anyone, and not yet again a Mama...answering to everyone.

As I cruise across campus headed toward Larchwood Ave., I can feel all of the thoughts about deadlines, or annoying faculty members, or pesky code that I just can't quite get right just sort of melt away.

On Larchwood, I focus on the feeling of my legs working, warming up. On my breathing. On the sound of the wind rushing past my ears. I look at the enormous houses, each one a little grander than the next and the perfectly-manicured lawns. I notice the 'Rainbow Direct' playscapes in the backyards, that largely remain untouched by the youngest inhabitants of these McMansions.

Turning onto Berger Ave., my nostrils are filled with the supersweet scent of the blooming trees and bushes. I am warmed up by now, and the ride is just so enjoyable.

I reach Norwood Ave., and marvel, as I do almost each time I pass through, at what a strange place it is. A bizarre mix of Beverly Hills and Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. High end boutiques line the streets, interspersed with Kosher restaurants, and these ultra-hip, frummers
pop in and out of their double-parked, idling, BMWs and Escalades like busy squirrels on an autumn day. This stretch of ride is the least relaxed, for me, as I'm constantly aware of the possibility of a car door opening or a cell-phone gabbing driver not noticing me.

When I at last turn off the busy street and back onto the quiet side streets, I let myself relax once again. I wind through the quieter, back streets and admire the Spanish-style architecture that dominates the landscape. Again, the sweet smell of springtime blossoming greets me, though this time it is almost overpowering.

As I cruise through downtown Allenhurst, I think about the sense of community that I have to this place, even though we have only lived here a year. I pass by the art gallery that my neighbor owns, and the salon where my sister-in-law works and the coffee and pastry shop that has become our 'go to' place for treats. I look to the left and take a last look at the ocean, two blocks down, before turning westward, for the final stretch of the ride.

Winding through the ultra-quiet streets that hug the lake, I spot a number of pairs of geese doing their goose thing. The chirping of the birds is more noticeable now that there are no other noises to disguise them.

I make the last turn and can see our home. I cross Wickapecko and the neighborhood, in an instant, becomes more modest.

As I turn up our driveway, I see two little faces peering out the window. The little one, not yet articulate enough to announce my arrival, is waving her hands and shrieking. I can read the lips of the bigger one..."Mama's home! Mama's home!" The joy in their faces is palpable. The joy in my heart is indescribable.

Mama's home. Indeed.