By Brigham Child
I biked home from campus without touching the handlebars. It really wasn’t that impressive—only .7 miles, all downhill. Nobody was out. There was just me on the dark street under the stars listening to the wind.
You have to lean when you ride without hands. If you lean too far you crash, but if you don’t lean enough you can’t make the turns. You are a yardstick balanced on one finger. Pedaling feels like someone is pushing on the back of the bike. It races ahead and your head has to catch up to it. The bike is on its way to the moon, eager for freedom, eager to take its opportunity. Usually it’s locked to a bar somewhere, so I guess I’d be eager too. For a second, I was worried I wouldn’t make it. A car pulled up to the 4-way stop just a second before I got there. But they didn’t stop, so neither did I.
There’s something special about just sitting there letting the bike take me. When I let go, something takes hold of me. It wants me to remember and forget, to look up and in and chase a thousand thoughts and a dozen dreams and a million lights. It wants me to close my eyes and see myself in a week, a year, a decade, flying down a different, dazzling street, forgotten scraps of doubt fluttering behind me. Nothing can stop me. Nothing can stop me. I cannot stop myself. Momentum is a pen with its tip on the paper.
Usually when I tell people what I want to do, they’re encouraging. “A writer!” they say, as if they are remarking on the latest movie. It’s something sensational to them, the thought of being friends with a writer. A writer can influence people, or entertain them, or even give them something to talk about. Then I tell them my major—music. They grow even more animated. Music is a hobby, they say with their eyes.
But when I let go, hope is rekindled in the cold wind. I am laughing. I can almost see the past meet the future and a dream dip its toe in reality. I see fireflies, autumn leaves, galaxies a million miles away. I taste the freedom, smelling it, waving it goodbye as I finally make it to my apartment. I touch the handlebars, and they encourage me. I lock my bike, but I have been unshackled.
Midnight is a good time to be alive.
Brigham is a freshman at BYU studying music. He has been writing since he was very young and particularly enjoys fiction. He is the second of five siblings. When he has time to spare, he usually spends it with his family, in nature, or making music. He recently returned from a two-year mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints in Las Vegas and Chile.
