On the Road Again

The path connected city to country. I set out one morning to follow his path. I wanted to see what he had seen. 

I started slow. I wanted to feel my muscles burn but I knew I needed to be realistic about my limits. I hadn't biked in years, besides languid trips around the neighborhood. I had to pretend like I was going around the block, then the next block, then the first block again. I had to trick myself so I didn't feel exhausted at the thought of what I was trying to accomplish.

What was I trying to accomplish? Biking to nowhere for no reason, turn around and come home to nothing. I knew the facts. I knew what had happened. I heard the official statement and asked questions and read all of the news articles that populated Nextdoor for a few days before being forgotten.

I thought riding was supposed to be zen. I thought I would hit my stride and be elevated to another plane. Instead, I was constantly aware of my inferior body, my shallow mind. I couldn't stop thinking about him taking this same route but more efficiently, more purpose-driven. I wasn't even making a statement.

It took hours before I reached the end of the paved path. I had to decide if I should turn back or continue on. I wasn't far from where he ended, but I still had to make my way home. I wondered if I'd make it back before nightfall. 

People put teddy bears out as memorials for children. Flowers for women, or maybe any adult. What would they have left for him? I wanted to know and didn't want to know. Would knowing answer any questions? I didn't have anything to leave; I had already been left behind.

300 words