Our theme for the month of October is “flash nonfiction.” Writers were asked to submit pieces that were 250 words or less.
It’s six in the morning and I rub my groggy eyes. Early morning crickets chirp and leaves rustle under my feet as I walk my bike to the road. A silver moon glows overhead.
I snap my helmet on, grip the curved handlebars, and push off. Stunned by the cold blast of autumn air my eyes drip like a leaky faucet as I coast downhill, picking up speed. Crossing campus I cut through brick pathways and zig-zag up wheelchair ramps, passing college kids moving like hunched zombies with airpods. Sanford Stadium comes up on my right, and I peer through the wrought iron fence at the modern-day gladiator pit below.
The well-lit campus fades as I cross under the railroad trestle bridge and down the path along the river. There are no street lights along this stretch—it’s mostly pleasant, but with a subtle axe-murderer vibe. As the incline steepens, my thighs and calves begin to burn, and I reach quasi–Tour de France hill climb status. Just kidding. My legs ache and I barely make it up the hill.
Down the final stretch the bike path skirts around a gas station and through an old brownfield site. It’s covered in kudzu now. I spot the lights of the shop ahead and cruise toward the finish line, blood pumping, feeling alive.
Dang, I wish I biked everywhere! What a blur this all would be if I drove.
Later that evening: ”It’s a twenty-minute walk? Let’s drive.”
Jon Gorter (‘17) graduated from Calvin with degrees in English and environmental studies and holds an MS in natural resources from the University of Michigan. He enjoys fly fishing, mushroom foraging, and waterfall scrambling near his home in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina.
