I’ll forget to enjoy the end of summer like I do every year, so wrapped up in eagerness for the soon coming fall. I’ll forget what it feels like the first few fierce pedals, acutely aware of my bare legs pumping over the asphalt, how haphazard and free it feels to almost feel the sting of a crash. I’ll forget how that soon wears off and the sense of danger fades, until maybe the wind in my ears sounds a bit like a car bearing down. Soon I’ll be paying more attention to the way the yellow leaves crunch under the tires, and after that the air will get too cold to breathe and I’ll spend all winter reading books. And then spring will poke out its persistent little head and I’ll grudgingly accept the coming summer, forgetting how nice the hot, still air feels when you’re ripping it open flying over the road. I’m always forgetting, but then I remember, kind of like riding a bike.