The Rider's Remorse

Used to be, he would take off early in the mornings, when the sun was just a hint on the horizon and the grass was wet with dew, and he’d ride out into the countryside. Some days he would hunch over the frame of the bike on an endurance run. Other days his fists would clench the handle bars as he stomped the pedals up the hills. No matter what the day’s regimen, though, he always found himself in a zen-like state, deeply in tune with himself and the world. It never felt like work; it felt like … harmony.

Used to be.

Now, he still gets on his bicycle every morning, but he no longer rides out into the countryside. They say he may ride again some day, but since the accident his legs haven’t worked the way they used to. It isn’t the pain so much that bothers him; it’s the way his legs feel distant and unresponsive, as if they aren’t his anymore.

Now, though he keeps his eyes clenched shut, he still feels the sunrise on his face, and he smells the morning dew on the grass.

But he no longer feels the harmony.

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