As I type this, my fingers are stiff; I have just returned from a bike ride that stretched from the main street in Parker to an empty field 10 miles south, then back again. After a morning of reading and writing, I was eager to stretch out and move, to push myself to where people were scarce and the sky was wide open above me. There was no wind, and as I wound down to the Cherry Creek Trail the cottonwoods stood at silent attention, naked branches brittle against the sky.

The trail was mostly empty, and I found my rhythm in the stillness of late afternoon, beginning to trust my new road bike and lean into the curves, remembering to pull-push-scrape each pedal rotation so that my legs would maximize their effort. Rabbits moved in the underbrush, sometimes running parallel to the path, as if pacing me. Snow from Thursday's blizzard streaked the fields and melted into icy pools of water that ran slowly downhill, sometimes crossing the path, splashing my back and legs. As the trail rose and fell the air would grow suddenly colder as I emerged from under a bridge, or would warm as I entered a stand of trees. When I reached my turnaround point, the sun had disappeared, so I tucked my sunglasses into my jersey, took a drink and began my return trip north.

When I was nine, I saved quarters I would find on the sidewalk, my allowance and birthday money to buy a light blue beach cruiser. I had found it at the bike store near my house, like my friend’s that I had borrowed and instantly fallen in love with. When I had trouble falling asleep, I would picture myself riding around the neighborhood, exploring cul-de-sacs, finding clues and solving crimes like my hero, Nancy Drew. I would learn to ride with no hands, casually passing by the older kids on our block, pretending like I wasn’t trying to be as cool as them. They would stop me and want to see my bike, I knew it. Wishing: if only I was old enough to baby sit and save more quickly. It was hard not to be impatient, the money grew so slowly. I would take it out and count it, hoping that I had counted wrong the last time, and that there was more in my savings jar than last time. I got good at forgoing packs of gum and the other luxuries that my money used to buy me, but was pained by the slow crawl of time.

My beach cruiser was a happily-ever-after story, even though when I had saved enough money, my dad wouldn't take me to buy the bike. He was too busy, he said. What he didn't say was that he had bought it the day before, and it was hidden in the garage of Art and Donna, our neighbors. Christmas was three days away. I pouted until Christmas morning, when it appeared in the living room. I rode it that afternoon in the balmy Southern California winter, finally beginning to teach myself how to ride with no hands, not knowing then that I was learning to propel myself through autumn sunsets, into the cold of a Colorado night.

On my return trip tonight, my fingers grew so numb I could barely grip the brakes. My wicking sweatshirt invited evening to breathe onto my sweat-damp torso and I unsuccessfully willed myself not to shiver. Puddles near the narrow path were painted with deep pinks and oranges, reflecting the sky's quick movement toward night. As I pointed my bike off the trail, streetlights began to click on, and TV screens flickered in houses I passed by. Houses flew by me, but time again moved painfully slow. I wasn't watching the sky deepen into this late-October night; I was counting the blocks before I would be out of the cold.