April 11, 2011. I’ve biked two towns over on a stolen sense of adventure. The wind shoves my hair into my eyes as I pretend I’m riding a galloping horse. Homes get further and further apart. My phone is in my dorm room, currently being blown up, but I feel six hours away.
My legs have been begging me to stop moving since 20 minutes into this ride, but I urge them on. “It’s been a long time coming, but I know a change gonna come.” Puffing the words out with each breath, I chase the feeling of excitement that only comes when you’re naive enough to think you can outrun your demons as easily as the cows in the fields you pass.
The fields abruptly changed into sidewalks and signs. Hopping off and pulling my bike alongside me, I wander the streets of a small Midwestern town I still don’t remember the name of and pop into a tiny dive bar. Almost entirely empty at 3:45 on a Saturday afternoon, I order cheese fries and a shot of whiskey. Pull a tattered novel out my bag and settle in to read. At 5:30, I wave to the bartender, grab my bike, and head out again. Ride off and chase the sunset home.
I will never return.
In my ideal life, I’d never work a 9–5 job or side hustle. Contrary to those who enthuse that if I just find the job that fits me and surround myself with colleagues I enjoy, work would be great. That I’d be…
