It took a few hours, but finally, while making a turn, only in second gear, I leaned with the bike and it was the euphoric high I've experienced after a great run.  The sun on my back, the amount of control in my body leaning to the right while the wheels stuck to the ground and I made a lovely whoosh sound as I changed to third...and everyone keeps reminding me people die on these things. And it's true. I know. My childhood friend, James, who I had a terrible crush on in my early teens, and who grew into such a kind, handsome young man, died in a head on collision on his bullet bike.  I found out while in study group through a text message.  And I hate open caskets, because that isn't the person at all, it just makes everything worse...I visited his grave once.  It was near a chain link fence and someone on the other side was smoking and life can be snuffed out so quickly and suddenly we are rotting bones with feet on top of us.  People talk about where he might be in life now, but I think about all he did. How happy he was.  And though he died young, at least he died doing something he loved.  And maybe that's better than being slumped over in some nursing home being fed apple sauce...
I know what love feels like, what life feels like, and I think it's a little silly not to do something because it's risky.  Because if I make it to the nursing home, I'm going to have some fucking great memories.  Hopes and dreams that may or may not have come true, triumphs and failures, and risks taken that make me joyous and broken and filled with gratitude.
So, whoosh...