A year ago, I rode my bicycle wherever I went: to and from work, trips to the store, weekend rides up into the mountains. If I went to the bar, I would ride swiftly there and wobbly back. While riding, I would constantly chant something I saw once in the window of a nearby bicycle shop: "When I see an adult riding a bicycle, I do not despair for the future of the human race." This wasn't something political or about any personal green movement. But there is a perspective of the world that can only be achieved from the seat of a bicycle. Repeating this to myself was enough to propel me up mountainous roads and through snowstorms.

In the past year, however, I moved to an apartment that is farther away and uphill from where I work, so my daily rides turned quickly to weekly rides. Then I bought a scooter. And my rides, weekly or brief, are no more.

A few weeks ago, Joli and I rode to the store on our bikes, and we bought a new pasta pot and rode home again. It was sunny and glorious. I missed it.

Today, I went to the bookstore, and I found a small book entitled "Bicycle," written by Paul Fattaruso. It's beautiful and strange, and it has enough power to propel people up mountains:

"If the bicycle squeaks, that means something is trying to kill it, however patiently."

"With a little doctoring, a bicycle can indeed be made to gallop."

"We traveled like this for two quiet weeks: only the sound of wind purring in the spokes of our wheels."

Beautiful. ( )