Because I have a Dream
Honestly, I can’t wait for this sultriness to abate and for winter to creep in. Every day, I check the night air for that long-awaited nip in nature’s mood. I have planned a slew of things to do when the mercury starts dipping. From quiet barbeque evenings on the beach to going on long drives to cycling around the lake, I have it all mentally charted out.
But on top of the list is cycling. At the first sign of winter, I will go down to our basement parking, and dust up my year-old bicycle. It is a pretty little thing; very girly-girly, I must say, maroon in colour, with a basket in the front. I will get its tires filled and once it is good to go, I will roll it around for a while to renew our acquaintance. And then, I will tentatively perch on the seat, almost like I did on my very first day last year, afraid of what might befall me if I lift my feet off the ground.
You don’t forget cycling, they say. But trust me, I can forget anything, even to walk on two legs. I can stumble and fall on an even floor, so what’s a cycle that I haven’t touched for nearly a year since I first learnt to ride it?
It had taken weeks for me to get the balance that everyone said would come in a single day. Perhaps, I am a lot more lopsided than normal persons are and balancing isn’t among my best suits.
In the prolonged period that I have been out of touch, I must also have gained some bulk on my butt, and balance might be a thing that I will have to work on all over again. It is possible that I will tumble down as soon as I begin to pedal and I will add some glorious scratches to my wobbly shin. I will rue the fact that I didn’t learn to cycle when I was 15 and ask myself if it isn’t a bit reckless to attempt it at 51.
I am picturing it all in my head. People who saw me roughing it out last year will see me again a few days from now and suppress a snigger at my struggle to keep the handlebar straight. They saw me through winter then, and here I am again, striving through what even a six-year-old can effortlessly attain.
I may feel chagrined about my lack of skill and there will be enough reasons for me to give up and say, ‘I tried, but the limbs weren’t obliging’. And fat chance that anyone in the world would care if I copped out of it and left my cycle to rust away.
‘Quit. Quit. Quit. It doesn’t matter. It’s too late to pursue such youthful dreams. There’s a time for everything and that time is past in this case.’ The persistent refrain will rattle in my head. But I know, despite what my intellect says or how strongly it dissuades me from taking up the venture fearing a fracture or a sprain, my heart would still go after it.
When the winter slowly crosses the season’s threshold and sweeps over the desert, I will go down and dust my maroon cycle up. And no matter how many days and how many frustrated attempts it takes, I will learn to ride it as if I was born with pedals in place of feet.
Because I have a dream.
A dream to cycle around quaint Alpine towns when the Fall colours smear the hills and dales, with my partner in all madness, the husband. When the pandemic becomes history, we will get on a plane again and go where the church bell rings upon the hour to drown the jingle of dairy cow bells. We will traverse the countryside, stop by brooks and meadows, smell the lavender and wild roses, and fill our lungs with rustic fragrances. We will pass by windows framed in flowers and steer towards the paths strewn with pinecones. Life will wear pastel shades and turn into an exquisite painting.
It’s a dream that I have kept tucked in for long and I know —
for its sake, I will bear the bruises and falls, and slug it out till I make it. Because at the end of the day, it is not about learning a skill that I passed up in my prime. It’s about having a purpose so dear that I step out and squash all self-restricting prompts that sprout from nowhere.
It’s about making every mile in my journey count.