No. I am not quite past the default of my ultra-careful demeanor. This is Michael’s Ducati. My fast and furious cousin roams Manhattan with blaze.
But I do have a brewing urgency to break off from my turtle-paced orientation. And so, I gravitate towards the fantasy of speed.
It does not take much reflection to sense the advantage of those who are quick. They build their stacks in volumes, heaving sighs of triumph. The losing field is left to watch their climb while settling for acquired indifference.
I’ve always wanted a bicycle. I was eight years old, when my uncle handed me a used one. Oh, the experience of learning the intricacy of balance was invigorating!
I rode and rode and rode.
It was my version of world exploration. I took on every road-less traveled.
It seemed like I started the trend for bikes in our neighborhood. All the kids were suddenly on wheels. It was fun and grand until it evolved towards spotting who’s got the best fixie.
I took the challenge seriously. I stripped the original red paint and sprayed it bold-blue. The chrome was whistling. The saddle was taut. I was ready to run.
It was no longer about looks but velocity. A race was set one Sunday morning. It was a gathering of at least twenty. The route was just about a circular mile around the neighborhood on gravel and dust but it approximated the hype of le tour de France.
The chase went wild. As I pedaled to exhaustion, I somehow wondered why I was being driven towards the tail end. As I proceeded with leftover adrenalin, I hit the accelerator while hitting a loose rock causing me to fly up and down a ridge. My bike got snapped!
When the dust settled, the boys gathered in some post-race huddle. One smart aleck jeered: “How can you win? Have you not realized that you are actually riding a girl’s bike?”
The sad realization that one’s inferiority has been sealed by way of acquiescence is most cruel. My uncle, of course, was clueless of my peloton dreams. All he did was pass on his wife’s leisure bike to a nephew.
If such was the rule of life, I am dead finished. I imbibed multiple handicaps that hinder me towards haste. I am slow to act. In the field of faith, this is most fatal.
Life in Christ is trail-blazing fast. It moves alongside the speed of light. When Jesus declared that he is the light of the world, he was not kidding. He meant to demonstrate this claim through radical obedience. Living well is not for the faint-hearted. It is earmarked for those who are willing to run with tenacious hope.
That expectation is not towards winning. The race is over. Christ already finished. The struggle is no longer towards the pedal but towards the will to believe that He will push us to where there is tetelestai (consummate victory).
In my present crawl, I find much reflective reminders whenever I spot appearances of speed. I am compelled to seize moments of grace and mercy.
My zoom must come from the Lord who covers the blitz of our rising sun from both ends of the earth with fleeting splendor.