Out Before the Cars

I usually leave around seven. Fifteen miles, sometimes twenty, depending on which way I feel like going.

The first mile is always the hardest. My legs are stiff, and for a minute I wonder why I thought this sounded like a good idea. It happens every ride.

Then it doesn't.

The roads start to open up, and before long I'm passing the same farms I always do. The horses are already outside. I don't know if they ever sleep late. Most mornings they're standing along the fence, watching the world wake up.

People always talk about how quiet the mornings are.

I don't think they are.

The geese have been awake for hours. So have the songbirds. Sometimes a rooster joins in from somewhere I can't see. The whole ride has a soundtrack if you're paying attention.

The difference isn't that it's quiet.

It's that there aren't many cars yet.

Without them, you notice things you usually miss. A screen door closing somewhere down the road. A dog barking behind a barn. The wind moving through the corn. My tires humming over the pavement.

Around eight, the morning changes.

One car passes. Then another. A school bus pulls out, and someone's headed to work with a coffee cup in one hand.

Before long I'm not alone on the road anymore.

I turn toward home.

By the time I pull into the driveway, the neighborhood is awake. Garage doors are opening. Somebody's mowing. A delivery truck rolls past the house.

My bike goes back in the garage.