17 minutes.

That’s how long it usually takes me to ride home from work. That’s about half the time it takes to drive, or one fifth of the time it takes to walk the whole way. It’s about more than the time it takes though, but rather about what these 17 minutes, when I am both alone with my thoughts and forced to participate in the world at the same time, do for my mind.

This evening it started just like any other ride home, except that when I reached my front door after 17 min and 12 s, for some reason, for the first time ever, I didn’t stop. Instead this time I continued on, up Moraga, into the hills and away from the noise of the city. There’s something about a good climb, when your legs start to burn but you can focus on the strength in your muscles and not the pain, when every breath requires such effort that you are forced to clear your mind of all other things. Then somehow, some way, you arrive at the summit, tired, but absolutely refreshed.

I stayed up there for a while today, enjoying the peace and quiet, before delighting in the exhiliration of the wind filling my lungs and crashing brazenly into my face on the way back home.

Feeling absolutely and totally alive.