The sound moves my eyes from the pavement.
Rhythmic. Metallic. It comes from above me and to my right, where an invisible current yanks an American flag. Unrelenting. Enduring.
There is other motion. Unrelated. Unpredictable. A girl glides on a staggered line at the crest of a green lawn, a butterfly net extending from her right hand. She lunges and turns, a spring dance.
In a moment, the sound fades. The girl falls out of view. I ride on.
It’s been too long since I’ve returned to this place — of riding, of seeing, of writing. I have traveled other directions, a part-time job draining me of time and energy, so that I spend the currency that remains with forethought and prejudice. Often that entails not getting on the bike.
That can be a good thing.
Not long ago I returned to a field where I hunted arrowheads as a boy. It’s a place I have walked for hours, sometimes alone, other times in the company of friends. This time, however, I paced across ridge lines with my daughters at my side, telling them stories of my youth, of perfect, sunny days and great finds.
We returned to one of those fields yesterday. Like the week before, there was not time to both surface hunt and get in a bike ride. My decision to forgo a ride was repaid when my daughter, who is considering a career in archaeology, found a Paleo point nicer than any Indian artifact I’ve discovered in 40 years of looking.
It was a defining moment for her, possibly one that will seal her desire to spend a lifetime searching for a better understanding of the past. In that instant, it seemed a transition was made, a passing of a torch from father to daughter.
No bike ride could compare to that.
Her discovery put into perspective the importance of making right decisions. It validates the time spent with my children, who are no longer little girls. And, it increases my desire to hone my senses when on the bike, to find in each ride something of value, like that perfectly chipped piece of flint my daughter added to her collection.
Today I’m seeing again. Hearing again. The pirouettes of a girl on a hill. The cadence that comes from a flag blowing in a stiff breeze. The sun is shining. The wind is behind me. It’s good to be back on the bike.
26.38 miles — Henry and Rush counties
