I, Bike Ride

I know where the missing neighborhood cat is.

I see single mothers sneaking cigarettes on their balconies in the early morning hours before their children awake.

I break all the spiderwebs stretched across the trail.

I can tell you how many times a couple indulged in safe sex in the Cooper Park parking lot by counting the discarded condoms.

I can tell you about coming out of a patch of trees to find the sun pulling itself over the horizon.

I know all about the chubby people sweating and gasping through their winter weight because I am one of them.

I can tell you that there are at least 7,542 rabbits between Easton and Westerville.

I can show you where young couples sneak into the woods to sit and be together near the river.

I miss the graffiti painted on the trail that told everyone "Kyle is gay!"

I know that there are an inordinate number of shitheads who drink Bud Light Lime and smash their empties on the pavement.

I see ducks swimming in streams not much wider than their own bodies and they seem just as happy there as they do in the largest of lakes.

I can show you where Jen and I found the tiniest snake trying to cross the trail, and how I prodded him out of traffic with my sunglasses.

I know who doesn't bother closing their blinds.

I hate that my bicycle seat has started to squeak because while I can't help looking like a fat guy on a bike, I don't want to sound like it too.

I know what bush he hides behind to sneak phone calls.

I like riding by the animal shelter at dawn and hearing that even there, with all the bored tenants waiting inside, the early morning can bring silence.

I know that the old man in front of me didn't used to have to walk alone.