2 posts tagged “endorphins”
On any paved surface used frequently for vehicle travel are grooves, slight indentations breaking the thoughtfully constructed arch of the road, where the weight of daily activity is impressed. I slip along the far left side of the street, too light to leave my own impression.
It’s no secret. The brain likes repetitive behavior. It wrinkles up in excitement leaving huge canyons which direct the flow of behavior. Even the motivations that lead my wife to break her commitment were the spark of childhood memories and a complete reliving of her late teens. In the last months of our marriage, as she swung in a playground swing, she was so lost in reminiscing that she was only vaguely aware of me and children, trap in an idealized past, stuck in the ruts of good memories and childhood lovers now miraged by a 31 year old department supervisor/death metal drummer.
But just as routine can be the ruin, it can also be salvation out of trying times. As I transverse the complex intersections, I catch myself lost in thought, using only lower functions of the brain to negotiate the traffic and am made slightly nervous by the realization, but the sense of satisfaction derive from the morning ride now reduced to subconscious activity is so complete, that I feel an overwhelming sense of well being, the triggers for all the insecurity of the last three months washed away by endorphins. It is a daily cleansing so satisfying that even the sharp pain emanating from my right foot, possibly broke from the strain of running on concrete bare foot at a water park, isn’t enough to keep me from the ritual.
Just as much as the grooves in the road are caused by the barrage of tires, they seem to hold those wheels on course. Such is the way with wrinkles. This is healthy behavior that transforms the ruin of my life into an optimistic future, and even though the weight of my vehicle leaves no visible impression on the concrete I travel, there is a rut there, keeping my course fixed.
There are two types of people who can be seen biking the streets of downtown. The first group ride shiny new mountain bikes or high end ten speeds, wear all manner of safety gear, and travel in straight lines. The second commute on a variety of two wheeled contraptions with the majority being old Schwinns, sport Hawaiian shirts, and meander across sidewalks, roads, and traffic. And then there’s me.
I don’t own a Hawaiian shirt, and even though my legs are slender and muscular, the idea of wrapping them in skin tight polyester for all the world to see isn’t appealing. I’m self conscious.
In the mornings I travel in straight lines, but on the way home I meander. I have an old Schwinn. I shun safety gear, but my motivations are more allied with the first group, I hate my car and am addicted to endorphins.
The straight liners are social, successful people, professionals sporting their way to work every morning, and nod or wave as I ride past. Those that meander never look me in the eye as if ashamed of failure, and I imagine their choice of locomotion isn’t voluntary, the result of a DUI or some other nonsuccess.
But in the perilous concrete landscape where we scurry about like rodents amongst larger more vicious and potent creatures, I have yet to identify with any fellow biker. Be it that I am a “professional” tackling yet another challenge, I evade the image with my corroded bike and casual appearance. I have no desire, or capital, to accomplish that, yet when I cross the path of another rusted Schwinn with a middle aged, greasy guy in a flower patterned button down and blue jeans, I recognize the superficial similarities, and it conflicts with my self image. I am torn.
Social creatures long to identify with each other, but as I search the rectangle jungle of metal, noise, and hard, unforgiving surfaces, I can’t find that comrade to re-enforce all that I believe I am. I am alone, lost in a wilderness of ambition and circumstance, fulfilling a desire while distracting myself from the harder realities of life.
