A year away from home isn’t something to be proud of, a year of extreme highs and lows doesn’t make much sense until you decide to test if people can fly, but aren’t prepared for how hard the ground is.

            The midwest summer weather is thick with humanity. Venting, volatile thunderstorms that drag out of the sky like a teenager discovery grief for the first time. But its warm, the sky is an effortless blue, the clouds dot the landscape, as if everyday is this perfect in the summer. I always say I’m visiting family, but I’m not home, truly, until I get on my bike.“Have fun at the track tonight sweetie! I love you!” my Mom says as I walk out the door. She has more faith of a 47 degree, wooden velodrome, than any stretch of road. Splinters hurt like zits, road rash is a tattoo that I never wanted to pay for. Its Thursday, while some people dream of late Saturday nights, I seem to get lost in the day dreams of Thursday night racing.

             I set my bag on a red bench, the paint chips away like age. My 17 year old, pissed off ghost, rides around on the railing, in search of friends who walk through the tunnel. I still listen to the same bands when I was 17, but I don’t hate the world as much. Doomtree, P.O.S, Nispey Hussle, and Gwen Stefani play like a personal anthem. Its time to race.

            The chaos of racing dances gracefully, like a ballerina. We spin, up and down the 47 degree banking. The marriage of elegance and body breaking brutality that is closer to boxing match than a endurance sport. It’s beautiful. “You’ve come a long way,” A friend told me in passing. I’m never sure how true that statement is. Working with 8 year olds, and squeezing rides in when the sun rises or the sun sets just makes a tired athlete and an exhausted person. But still I believe in a dream that looks down at me like the red tail hawk I see on training rides. After 3 hours of pushing to physical extremes, the racing ends.

            I melt in the parking lot, still sweaty. A cold, baby sized burrito, stains my face. The lights over the velodrome turn off like the ending of a book. The National Sport Center Velodrome makes my heart rumble. I have fallen in love, once, and it felt like the infield. Goading for a sarcastic response while gears are changed. Stinky, sweaty hugs are given after races. A demand to be excellent for someone else’s applause. Moral lessons are shared like home made cookies, and unspoken promise of support for each other turns between everyone’s spokes. People joke about how distance makes the heart grow fonder, and I wonder if there is some truth to it. The salsa from my burrito stains my shirt.

            Some nights, some days. between van rides, make-shift locker rooms, the Chipotle burrito in a different city, when the rhythm of bike racing has shifted, just briefly. I see the blue line at NSC Velodrome. Remember looking down at the infield, I’m 17, and thought I might understand why birds love to fly. It is no secret that the NSC Velodrome is more to others, and less to some. But I find the black line, the race line, bends my left atrium into a life I can pull a novel full of stories. As young men, growing old has pain, plans that never happen, torn muscles that never heal, and a laundry list of next times that will never happen. I am 25 now, and will never regret riding the track for the first time. I remember, holding the handle bars, like I held someone else’s hand. Relaxed, squeezing when I needed just a little help, like its the only thing worth holding. I remember diving from the railing, feeling gravity push me into the turn, grinning like a child pretending to fly, and thought all night, that maybe, just once, that we were all meant to fly, too dream.