There is something magical about making yourself move as fast as you can. When I was a child I used to experience great joy from running. Pushing my legs and arms and lungs until I felt like I was flying, the world galloping past me in a blur. I thought it was the greatest thing ever, until I got on a bike.

Now that was some speed! Running was great, but pushing the cranks faster and faster and faster until your eyes start to water from the wind, that is a true rush.

Tonight I wasn’t feeling very good about myself, or my life. A bike ride seemed to be the thing I needed. What started as a run to the grocery store turned into a flat out ten mile sprint, farther, faster, harder. Traffic be damned, safety be damned, all that mattered was going faster.

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As the cranks spun, and the very fabric of the world seemed to fall away, cars were feathers to be brushed aside on the quest for more and more speed. I realized the wind was in my face, I had come 5 miles against a light headwind, it was time to go home. I turned around and felt a new surge of power, was it possible could I eek more speed out of my panting husk?

Literally frothing I pushed myself, gasping for air, moving just fast enough to leave life behind, just fast enough to forget it all.