Bike Ride Home

Another drop from my waffle cone falls onto the cast iron table, the sun melting it faster than I can eat it. I glare at the gates closing off Monument circle, across from the Chocolate café, which (lucky for me) sells more than just chocolate ice cream. The big crane hasn’t moved in weeks, hovering over where Lady Liberty used to watch over the center of Indianapolis.

I would rather be next to the fountain, watching the traffic circle around, clicking and clacking over the loose bricks. That was my favorite place to eat lunch when I worked in Circle center, folding and re-folding table displays and selling clothes to women I knew already had too many at home in their closet. I have always thought Indianapolis beautiful, but the circle is the climax.

After reaching the chocolate malt ball at the bottom of the cone, I unchain my bike and head home. I am a mountain bike kinda girl, but a flat tire has me using a friend’s Schwinn. It makes me feel elegant, as I try to correct my posture and imagine myself wearing a hoop skirt. But in that picture it was a bicycle built for two.

Road construction everywhere. I pass a tattooed and pierced poster boy, thinking “When did Naptown get so hip?” I remember that construction workers don’t think about bike riders as I enter and exit a huge gap between the street and the sidewalk. Under the tunnel I sing out the song playing in my ears and enjoy my echoes.

The grass really is greener, if you compare it to what is in front of the Anthem building. They have a patch so carefully manicured that I have promised to roll around in it one of these days. Across the street is the Consulado Do Mexico. I wonder how much easier it would be to get a visa to go there instead of Brazil. Walking my bike across the street, not from carefulness but because they forgot to put in a ramp, I make a mental note to learn how to make a Schwinn jump up five inches while I am riding it.

Virginia street has new cafes. I have not eaten in any of them. Shame. As I pass the Thai place, a friend calls out of his car: “Make sure to stay safe!” I laugh, but don’t slow down—the day is too beautiful. The picnic table outside of Peppy’s grill is full of smokers, talking about good times. I remember grilled cheese, listening to Garth Brooks on the jukebox. I was 17.

Fountain square has become an example of positive change, transforming from white trash central to hipster eco-artsy friendly. I made that up. From Maria’s pizza and perfect breadsticks to First Fridays, I love it. The bike shop sells the best homemade ice cream in town, and they will put freshly ground espresso on top for extra melted goodness. Every corner has surprises, and I still haven’t stopped to buy a seed bomb from the vending machine. But I have lain down in the parking lot and admired the Mother Teresa quote.

Some guy is riding his bike behind me. If I ignore him he isn’t there. Under the bridges and past my church, I am proud of the old school that we have been able to use for so many good things besides Sunday morning. Like boxing and floor hockey. Does your church have boxing and floor hockey? On the left is the gas station where I lost my phone last week—as it fell out of my pocket while riding. I remember the nice man named Alex who returned it. There are many good people in the world.

Speeding up for the downhill/uphill, I am forced to stop and go around the car that creped out into the intersection to turn. Cars don’t understand bikes. White Castle smells make my tummy rumble. I might not eat meat, but I still like to smell it. Down Shelby I pass the open doors of a pizza place. It smells like a bowling alley. Bowling alley?

I stop at the drinking fountain next to the library. In August, they are redoing the library, but it will still be my library. There are whole sections of that place where I have read every book. I grew up there. The ladies who work there know me. Perhaps because I know how many books you can put on hold at one time. I know because I tried to get 76 and they wouldn’t let me. Over the creek, I call out “passing to your left!” but still have to slow down and go on the grass as the two men in conversation refuse to take notice of me.

Church’s Chicken reminds me to Kayla, when I used to drive her home from the youth center. No matter what day of the week it was, she would talk about how many days it would be until Tuesday. Because Tuesday was $.99 day at Church’s, and that was worth talking about. There is a homeless looking man sitting on the yellow curb, enjoying his chicken. Just beyond is my sister’s house. Turning down her street I see her sweeping the porch, a little blond head just peeking over the screen windows.

I am trying to make a point of stopping in randomly to see Rowan. He is almost 15 months, and the only nephew I have. I want him to get used to the idea of having me as an Aunt. Before I leave again. Passing Laurel Wood apartments, I can hear little Terry at the youth center claiming “Lar-Wood! Lar-Wood!” over any other street.

To the left is the creek that John always wants to stop at, examining whatever river life might dare to reveal itself to an eleven year old boy. By then I am at the University of Indianapolis, rolling past the football field and track where I used to sneak in to practice my cartwheels. Two more turns and I am in the alley behind my house, so full of holes that I get off and walk my bike the rest of the way. There are three raspberries pink enough to eat, and I do so, before closing my bike in the garage, shushing the dogs, and walking in the back door. It is more than a bike ride home.