Dear Kurl,
Thank you, thank you, thank you! Kurl, I can only imagine what it must have taken to recover my bike from that horrible cesspit of a creek. What I like most about having Nelly back: These mornings that aren’t quite frosty but smell like frost, when I put on my woolen gloves with the extra mitten-flap to pull over the fingertips and my faded red silk paisley scarf with the fringe that flaps behind me like a flag when I coast downhill. If I time it correctly, for part of my ride I can join the fleet of commuters heading downtown to work—those dedicated cyclists who don’t quit merely because the temperature has begun to plummet. I love the briefcases strapped to the racks, the saddlebags with umbrellas sticking out. I love those little ankle clips holding the trouser cuffs safe from the chain. The chorus of bells, the arm signals, the “on your left,” the censorious glares at cars that cut too close on right turns.
Cycling is one of those experiences that, for me, points to life beyond high school. I may have to park Nelly a few blocks away and walk onto school property, so as not to lure the bike bashers back for a repeat performance, but at least I am regularly reminded again that freedom is waiting, less than three short years away.
That’s all I’m going to write for today. I’ve decided I need to impose austerity measures upon myself so as not to drive you away entirely. It wouldn’t be fair to Bron and Shayna, for one thing. They’ve grown almost as fond of you as I have, Kurl.
Yours truly,
Jo