BIKE RIDE TO WHITE RIVER STATE PARK
Sunshine and perfect breeze, blue skies and fall weather. Marathon runners, couples on bicycles. The Cultural Trail, packed. White River State Park, teeming with inflatables and groups with matching T-shirts and orange and green and balloons and food. Feeling the air on my face, the wind on my skin. Pedaling, pedaling, pedaling. A husband and wife, their blonde-haired, two-year-old daughter between them. They point me to me, ask their child, "What color is her bike?" "What color are her shoes?" Red. Green. So much green, still. In the grass, in the trees, in the shrubs and plants. They will yellow, soon. Yellow and dry and decay, fall to the ground and collect beneath the benches. There's a homeless man sleeping on one now, on Virginia Avenue. His shoes are off, neatly placed on the sidewalk next to him. And he slumbers, twisting his neck slightly as I pass by him, pedaling past him. There are families, there are hipsters. There's the girl my age with the Fixie, the green Fixie with the white, glittering tassels. She answers her phone while paused at a crosswalk, hobbles and wobbles to gain control of the handlebar. I smirk. I smile. I stand on the pedals, breathing in the Indiana atmosphere. Pedaling toward the river, across the river. Indy, I am in you. And today, with the sun on my shoulders and on my knees, with the sidewalk beneath the tires and the sounds of people and talk and laughter and cars and even Frank Sinatra--as I cruise past a restaurant--I can let go.