The mass of cyclists descend
at Fruitvale Plaza
the BART station buzzing
and warm before pushing off into the dark
cutting through the night alone
and together
slicing the road over potholes
past industrial warehouses across
the bridge into Alameda where you
backbone the bay’s belly
at the shoreline
lights flaring indigo lifting your heart lime
fluorescence filling tangerine joy your tank
the sweat on wing’s heartbeat
your protection
The front of the caravan waits at the red light and pedals forward when it’s green, but three hundred deep means the light turns yellow and red again but we roll through, the reflective bright vested protectors standing to block the intersection, past highway on-ramps it is terrifying and thrilling and the tears pool in your eyes, welling your chest heaves knowing you are doing this, claiming space, coexisting with cars and subverting the power relationship with them.
It is sixteen years since you suffered a traumatic brain injury, a TBI from an unknown aggressor who flashed his lights, revved his engine, charged. A hammer on hot iron, welding you to your current self but it does not burn you now.
The holidays come and with them two high profile vehicular assaults, in New Orleans and through a Christmas market in Berlin. You can’t take for it granted, not being hit /hurt but you go to the next bike party anyway, first one of the year. It’s Friday and the parking lot at El Cerrito BART station is filling with cyclists of all types, all of you brimming with excitement. You roll through neighborhoods and the people come out of their homes to wave, cheer, record your journey on their phones the glitter of friendship and fame, celebration. Through the tunnel at Point Richmond, dancing against the deep blue curtains of the earth, you feel the light of the moon on your face. Looking up you see the stars you are biking under the stars across the curved planet with ducks in the marsh to your left and seagulls at the shore to your right, a chorus of frogs in your ear until nature fades into the freeway’s soft roar. Smoke from the Richmond oil refinery billows and fogs lift off the hills studded with lights mirroring the night sky.
