Having always loved the practicality of riding a bicycle, because it had the quality of freedom—the expansive peripheral vision, the ability to notice and dodge small rocks, the fluidity of being both pedestrian and vehicle, becoming an animal or a bird, or a ghost with a body, or an organic machine pumping up and down and up and down and to and fro and there and back again—I was glad to be riding home tonight in the twilight, feeling the whole expansive sky press and pull me. The mountains stood independent of everything, not leaning or grasping or holding anything. Like an old old-fashioned man, watching a youth fly free around the front yard, arms out and the breath of life in and out and in and out the lungs; he knows liberty and grandeur; he knows the mountains. In a car the mountains are weakened by the frame of the windshield: skyless, decapitated, boxed. Now, on my bike, it is borderless and comfortably stretching and yawning at the sunset. I delighted in its massive and heavy weightlessness, taking my hands off the handlebars, stretching my own arms into the cool, open fading sky.