The power went back on the eve before, the storm had passed, leaving behind streets slick with rain and puddles that mirrored the shifting cloud formation above. Then, the sun came out and the streets began to dryout. Like an old friend calling my name, the road beckoned, as the world waited for the next wave of weather to roll in.
The wind picked up as I reached the open stretch of road on the creek trails. The hills glowed a deep emerald green, their slopes dotted with rivulets of water trickling down from last night’s downpour. The creeks that had been dry just a week ago were now rushing, their voices merging into a steady, calming murmur.
I pedaled harder, my body warming against the cool breeze. Clouds still loomed ahead, but for now, the blue sky above held. A hawk soared overhead, its wings outstretched, catching an updraft. I followed its path, feeling a sense of shared freedom—no deadlines, no obligations, just the steady cadence of my pedaling and the road stretching before me.
I kept riding, threading the needle between storms. The road was mine, the air electric with the promise of more rain, and I was exactly where I wanted to be—on the move, on my bike, on the road again.
