Grasping the handlebars I steer the bike up and off to the right through a neighborhood of tall trees and colorful flowers planted across front yards of quite handsome wooden homes. A Chipmunk crosses my path and I admire the red dirt the little furry fellow darted off towards as well as the ominous darkening clouds in the distance.

These bike rides transport me through time to being 8 years old and living in the Woodlands in California. Plastic streamers at the ends of the handlebars and multicolored plastic tubes affixed to the spokes pedaling through the parking lot past the jungle gym and onto the path that cuts behind the pool. I can hear children squealing with delight as they splash one another and also listen to the territorial squawking of birds as I ride under trees along the pathway. The earth smells clean and sweet and is redolent of anise and herbs.

I usually begin and end every ride by going up the hill to make the ride a bit…meatier, then finish by heading down the steep drive, standing up on the pedals and swerving the bike gently side to side across the roadway.

Once home I pour myself a glass of cold sparkling grapefruit water and FaceTime my mom. “You rode your bike” she says, a fact made obvious by my pink flushed face. We chat and do our daily catch up. Sometimes I take a screenshot of us, her face in the larger frame, smiling and mine in the smaller rectangle, as these are such nice moments.

Then I turn on the tv, to see what is going on in the world…………..

Aaaaaand, I no longer feel 8 years old. The weight of it all makes me feel more like 108. The remedy, of course, is more of the former, and much less of the latter. Back to the Woodlands and among the shady trees and back in the saddle again…