Moment

In coaxing my advisory students into getting comfortable with writing, I had them take ten minutes to write anything about any one of three objects setting atop a table in the classroom. The overwhelming majority chose the bicycle handlebars I keep in the room and use as a hall pass. I opted to write something about them, too:

Under the crystal blue of the south Texas sky, the stark contrast of black anodized aluminum and white cork wrapping attracted my attention. For a moment, I was withdrawn from the sound of wind racing through my ears and across my eyes, causing the latter to tear, the faint scent of salt penetrating my nostrils. For a moment, I contemplated the light stickiness of the cork tape, finding comfort in the feel it gave my hands as it numbed the vibrations of the cracked and painted miles of asphalt speeding beneath the wheels of my bicycle. For a moment, this was all my world—not the scenery, not the traffic—just the glint of aluminum and cork, gripped like a vise in my hands. While it was only for a moment, it proved to be a moment too long, for, in that moment I was distracted by the handlebars, another driver in a more monstrosity of a vehicle also became distracted. Distracted to the point that his vehicle impacted with mine, disengaging me from both my bicycle and the world in which, for a moment, I lived.

Whether or not I'll do something more with this, I don't know. But I did want to share it.

Thanks for reading.