Bike. Tired.

Riding today with my son through the flesh-melting heat of a Montana summer afternoon, I marveled at this beautiful new age he's entered into.
Semi-independent, on his own bike.
No more a passenger in the yellow Bob trailer my brother sent when he was born. ("Don't let Motherhood slow you down!" was the written admonition accompanying his gift.)
I felt proud and happy and a little cautious - as any good mom should - riding between him and traffic, skirting parked cars and encouraging him to stay to the sidewalks where there was a dappling of shade.
He did well.
A little off-balance, a little shy of the process, better the only way to go.
I am pleased.
En route home I told him how happy I was to be sharing this with him. Biking, I told him, was flying to me, was a manifestation of all the joy I hold inside transformed into pure motion.
I love to bike. I haven't for years. Circumstances and lack of a two-wheeled steed kept me grounded.
I am working, now, to get one going - a frame to fit my frame. Wheels to give me flight.
I am pleased to share this with my son.
River paths, mellow evenings, cool mornings in birthing sun - all can be goals of our summer's journey into mobility.
I am pleased.