Cracked Window

More than one thousand bicyclists crowd beneath the Broadway Bridge, waiting for the annual Night Ride to start. Some sway to the sound of fifteen young people pounding away on drums and cymbals. When the din ends, bike bells ring in applause. Red and white bike lights are flashing, mine included. Bewildered Amtrak passengers leaving Union Station next door tow luggage through the throng.

My grown son Zack, visiting from Florida, and my wife Suzame, fiddle with their glow stick necklaces, proof of registration for the sixteen-mile ride, a benefit for the Bicycle Transportation Alliance. We’re among the bland riders, though Suzame has attached fluffy animal slippers to her helmet.