Fresno, July 4th 2010. cycling diary

The 72 degree air pushed me off the train and out into the evening. Biking through downtown Fresno on a sunday evening is like cycling paradise, no cars, no pedestrians, minor hesitation at red lights. At 8pm the sky is dusted blue to creamy yellow to orangish pink, it's no longer boiling hot and white glare. It is the fourth of July and as I'm moving into neighborhoods near Belmont there is still not a 4th of july picnic outside yet. I see elderly men sitting on porches, someone organizing the remains of a yard sale, cats stretched out on warm sidewalks. My mouth is dry and achey, I don't want to stop for water, but I do remember I heard once that long distance Native American runners often put pebbles in their mouths to keep their mouths satisfyingly moist. I hesitate to put a found rock in my mouth and find an old piece of chewing gum inside a folded scrap of paper and rip just enough to keep my mouth salivating as I ride.
Newly paved VanNess Ave has one lane instead of two and a bright white bike lane, it feels as close to riding in Amsterdam as Fresno can ever get and I take up as much of my bike lane as possible. Cycling safety says the closer you can ride to the middle of the lane the more likely cars will see you and less likely you are to get rear ended. Legal cycling advice also says that more often than not, if you are hit from behind by a car, odds are the driver won't get a citation from the police, no explanation was given.(Bicycling Magazine July 2010)
After reading and napping on the train for close to 2 hours, my brain is in a daze. I happened to find a Scott Carrier book at the thrift store this weekend and his stories have me dreaming about gutting houses, living with the basics in the wild, being a long distance runner, if I could ever have a shot as a professional dancer, writing my own collection of short stories and stoking my travel spirit just enough to tempt me to skip my stop.
I ride into west Fig area and the picnics are here. Families and church groups have canopies, tables, chairs, music and kids on bikes. Everyone is outside laughing and every once in awhile a crackle from a firework hits the horizon. I am house sitting this week, so I stop in at my Tia's house to water the lawn, check on the lights, play with the cat. In the backyard I can hear the neighborhood buzzing with anticipation. When I do leave the house it is dark, the fireworks are popping full force. I contemplate digging the bike lights out of my bag, but they are so buried I'd have to stop and really I'm only about a mile from home.

Shields and Hughes is not the safest place to ride, especially with firecrackers squealing and popping all over the roads, I decide to stay on the main roads to avoid Piccolo Pete conflicts, and race up to Hughes and Ashlan, fly over the canal and duck into the neighborhood, remembering that these cars probably have no idea I even exist ( no lights) and to ride accordingly. Every four houses a group of family members and friends are sitting in their driveways taking turns lighting fireworks and I brace myself for someone who is going to get wild and chuck a lit Rose into the street only to have it land on my bag. I imagine a bottle rocket flying sideways into my rib, knocking me and my bike over and burning a hole in my side, or better yet sending me sailing across the road like in the cartoons.

As I turn onto our street K and J are standing on the sidewalk in front of the house in the dark discussing which firework to light next. When I get into the house the air conditioner sighs into my sweaty edges and on the couch is a package for me with silver lettering. No Wolf has arrived and I can't put the bike away, bag off, sweaty shoes and clothes changed fast enough to sit and rip this package open. The book's brand new glossy cover and unbroken spine is an invitation. Inscription reads," Laura, The world is diarrhea and heart attacks! The trick is to feel like fire. Love, Richard St. Ofle"