Riding and Deciding

It's a little cold, but I want to ride. I need to ride because it has been awhile and I need to feel and think. I back my bike out of the garage and push it into position. I check the headlights, blinkers, rear lights and brakes. I put my on leathers like a gladiator and I am ready.

A lot of the road to my destination is not pretty. In fact, it's downright ugly. Ugly plastic mailboxes that resemble ET. There are barren, brown cotton fields with pivot sprinklers standing as sentry until next planting time.  Other fields have the remains of dead sunflower stalks standing, but the Grackles as a black cloud swoop in and begin feasting on the seeds left behind. The Mesquite trees are spindly. The Old Farmers Almanac says not to plant a garden until the Mesquites have budded. By these Mesquite's way of thinking, it's going to be a long time before I can put a spade in my flower beds.

The oil derricks along the road are pumping a song of their own, almost a waltz. One two three up, one two three down. Someone's gold is being pumped. Someone's land is being drilled. I wonder if this is a good thing.

The stripes of the highway below my left are running. They have a rhythm of their own, even though they're silent. LineLineLineLine. LineLineLineLine.

I pull up to a stop sign and get ready to turn left, but that car is coming. It starts to slow down and it looks as if it's turning right, but there's no blinker. It still thinks it's turning right because it now has drifted into the bicycle lane. But still no blinker. I'm not going to move, but keep my bike in first gear in case I need to. It does finally turn and the window is down. He's an old man, I should keep my mouth shut, but I can't stop myself, "You don't have a blinker??" I yell.  I feel bad, because my Dad was once an old man driver.

I like this part of the road because there are animals living along it. There is a vet up on the left. There are horses in his stalls. Sometime I think if a vet has horses, it is probably not a good thing, but I spot the farrier getting ready to shoe. There are donkeys on the right. Cute dappled donkeys and the not unpleasant smell of manure in the air. Up ahead, there's a sweet pooch who sits by the side of the road watching. He just sits and watches me drive, no chasing in his mind. I wave to him and he smiles.

I turn again and drop down below the caprock. Now here it's warm. This is another world from before. Rocks and crags, hills and draws. Some of these Mesquites look happier.

I look for the sign. Gospel Ragtown it says, but that venue is not what I'm looking for. As I turn at this sign, the road is rough, pocked marked, rutted. I drive slower because my bike is lower than some and I don't want to bottom out. The drought in my state has been horrible, but down here, in the draw, it seems to be a memory. There is green here and there, especially after the recent snow and now warmer sun. The maple trees, though still naked, are stretching across the road to touch each other, as if to say "I remember you, I'll wait for you." I turn to the right and travel to my spot. I know I've not been the only one here, but I pretend that I am. I pull to my stop, get off my bike and walk. It's not too far now.

The spring is still running. In this desert of a land I live, water is life, water is precious. I find my rock and sit. I sit and gather wool, daydream and remember. I remember back 12 years ago to the week. I was taking care of my Dad; he was dying. He had put up a valiant fight, but he was now ready. He had been without his wife of 56 years for six and he was ready to go. He had smoked for a part of his adult life, but had quit cold turkey over 40 years ago. He hated that I smoked, not for how it looked, but for what he knew it to do. He had lung cancer and hadn’t smoked in over 40 years. “But your Mother smoked forever and she was able to quit,” he would tell me, encouragingly. I wanted to say, “Yeah, but she died, even the same," but I never did. The excuses are piling higher in my mind than the stacks of  cigarette packs I’ve bought; other ex-smokers are stronger than me, I enjoy it, it keeps my weight down. Everyone who has known a smoker, or even is an ex-smoker has heard or said the same. But I know my excuses are empty. I have just made my up mind here and now that I will quit. Not just try to quit, but to quit. I’ve picked my Daddy's death anniversary which is in a few days as my day.

I will do this not for my Daddy, but because of him. I will do it because he told me I could, oh those many years ago. This time I will succeed.