Rides like water

I like to navigate by landmarks. Here in the Lehigh Valley, it's all but impossible to get lost as long as you maintain a bearing on the sun, and keep track of the east/west ridges. Riding home, often, is a simple matter of riding east, parallel to South Mountain, on whatever roads seem most appealing.

This navigation by topography also means that I'm constantly reminded of the physical realities of my home. The streams flow down from the ridges and collect in larger creeks that crisscross the valley floor, and the rivers that flow to the ocean. Sometimes, on longer rides, we'll cross over the ridges, riding against the flow of water, and drop into neighboring valleys. Sometimes, like a snowboarder on a halfpipe, we'll splash up against one vertiginous ridge line, arcing higher and higher before rushing back down toward the next one south, progressing ever west, or ever east, bouncing between those imposing walls.

We talk a lot about flow. We joke about flow, too, but it's a real consideration: does the ride let you carry momentum into the climbs, does the ride have intersections with good visibility that let you know if you need to stop -- or if it's safe to roll. Some rides flow better than others, where roads seem to naturally come together in logical spots, allowing us to suss along without unneeded stops or breaks, where the climbs build into a crescendo of burning muscles and panting before releasing all that pent up tension into a beautiful descent, which then, in turn, drops us off onto another road, in another shady valley.

I was thinking about all this when it rained last week. It rained hard; it was the kind of storm that turns the sky black, whips stout trees horizontal and send rain screaming at window panes like so many harmless bullets. Looking out the window, I could see the water, driven by the wind, flowing across the roof of a neighboring building. I could see it sluicing across the parking lot and pouring into a storm drain.

There was supposed to be a bike race. It wouldn't happen, even though the sun broke through not long after the rain had started, leaving a bright, cool, afternoon in its wake.

I got dressed to ride and headed out on my own. The roads were already starting to dry, but I tried to follow the patterns left by the water that had fallen in such volume, cutting straight across hills, and sticking low in the gutter where the rain had pooled and cascaded downhill. Water is wise in its flow; it doesn't waste time with obstacles, it simply goes where it must to maintain its gravity-driven march toward the lowest point. Sometimes it goes over objects impeding its travels. Sometimes around, through, or below. Sometimes it simply picks up the object and takes it along.

We can't always ride like that. We are bound by the yellow line, by gravel margins that mark the edge of the road, and by prudence that tells us that the most direct downward path is not always the wisest route.