The earth smiles as she experiences as gradual thaw. Spring is inching closer and a shy dreamer pokes her head out of the chaos of life to try and make sense of it. The open air bites at the wheels that smoothly travel on the tar, and the dreamer takes notice. Pale yellow of early blossoms, stretches of emerald, the slick black of tar, and the comely whiteness of the skies above….color is returning to the world in all vivacity. The legs push harder on the favorite machine as she continues to travel, absorbed in the awakening enigma around her.
It takes little time to get used to the faint sunlight of the early March days and the very fickle winds. But things were different in autumn before the winter had set in. Autumn’s magic had a different flavor to it. The unusual trick of the stubborn autumnal October days had been an extraordinarily inconsistency in the weather. October had pretended lovely summer with splashes of unexpected rains in between. And as I passed the same tarred parking lots that were once slippery after rainy days, I remembered a very photographic journey from 4 months ago....
It is an autumnal day that has come with the rains. I open my eyes to see the raindrops collecting on the panes, knocking invitingly. I rejoice, evasively slipping out with camera in hand. The rains persist pleasantly, and the damp earth is thriving to the rare autumnal rains—a celebration of epic proportions. A key was unlocked, and a door yanked open. A bike is pulled out enthusiastically and then the world was pulsing to my rapid rhythm. I peddle relentlessly, a lone cyclist in the deserted gloom of the wide outdoors. A panoramic view of the hills add to the experience. The same roads. The same bike. The same person. And a different world.
If there was one thing I;ll never grow tired of, it is biking in the rains. Although it is an activity I thoroughly enjoy and savor, it is like that rare treat one has to anticipate. Firstly, it doesn’t rain every day. Secondly, it is very hard to evade my very guarding parents. I have never fallen sick because of biking in the rains before, not that I am very scared of the possibility of falling ill. It is the moment that matters and to see one slip away being locked up warmly at home is absolute anguish. But today is a lucky day indeed. The knowledge smiles on my lips as I peddle away.
The maples shiver helplessly, succumbing to the mighty force of the steady rains. They litter the street side, the beautiful tawny standing out against the black of the tar. The bike skids to a halt and I crouch next to them, the rain dripping off my very long hair. Believe me, those of you who haven’t seen the beauty in the webbed vein of a maple have missed out on much. I pick a soggy one up. It clings limply to my palm. The rain is like dew, collecting in very different ways on each maple. The fearless camera finds its food. It has become a moment which has stayed picture perfect.
Further along the road, I find something curious. A rose petal is quivering tenderly as the rains splatter mercilessly. It looks like the brutal winds haven’t managed to kill the little petal yet. She is the coy pink of an early bloom, stolen by the winds and tossed unfeelingly to the ground. It is a pity she has to find an end this way. I watch her suffering, feeling delicate myself. I’m forced to leave her there, tremulous and weak under the rains. Abandoned, she cries alone under the weeping skies. I have no choice but to walk away.
The bike is wet, the hair is damp and tangled. The far side of the fence is dancing to the rain, and the heart is enthralled. The ear is enjoying a melody and the mind is awake. Wide-eyed, I gaze at the bleak horizons and the planes which are hardly visible. It feels like nature’s little secrets lie just beyond, and that I’m unable to grasp it.
As time crawls steady, the rains subside and comforting, sleepy lull descends. The thirsty ground has been fed, and is yawning loud. The dreamer in me also retires and creativity is slowing. Understanding that the euphoria is evanescing with the rains, I turn back. I return home shabby as an old dog to receive an earful for my mischief.
But the mind is elsewhere, wandering in and out of the autumnal rains, reliving.
