Bicycle Stanford Tran

In the early chill of the morning, as I hug the curvature of the mountain on my bike, my mind is open. The baritone of the whirling wheels, the bass of the humming tires on asphalt, the tenor of the creaky chain, all punctuated by the intermittent clicking of shifting gears mingle to compose a harmonic tune. My deep rhythmic breathing lulls my mind into a deep state of rest. I do not think of the past or future. I am immersed in the singularity of the present: going up.

Three short hours ago, I left my garage in the chilly morning. I imagined I am Lance Armstrong, flying up the Alpe d'Huez. One by one, I would drop my responsibilities on the last leg of the 68 km stage. I hear the announcer over my earpiece, "My goodness, this unknown rider is pushing the pace on Alpe d'Huez and splitting up the peloton! Jalabert had crackedOlano is gone. Only Ullrich and Pantani have managed to stay with him." Bonds and shackles are breaking, making me freer every moment. "And he attacks! The time only Ulrich managed to respond. It's a two-way race now. The others are out of the picture. The unknown rider is pulling ahead."

And then a middle-aged man zips by me. I forget I am on the slopes of Mount Hamilton,...