racing heart

Shooting down the stairs this morning and swinging open the front door, I plant my feet on the second staircase. The open window of last night is now closed; the nervousness, the anxiety, and giggling have all dissipated. But I turn left, instead of the right that will take me to the street. The left leads to my green and white bike, complete with stolen basket from my sister. I unlock the purple bike lock that chains the bike to the railing with my plastic purple light up key that guides me during late night bike rides to the Malt Shoppe.

Purse in basket, feet on pedals, I exit the driveway with the few cars that brave the 7:40 am hour as my companions. Pedaling and pedaling I find the ramp that leads to the 9 hours I will waste at a desk, on a lonely floor. Past the campus workers or the Education Week attenders, I change gears fumbling with them as I try to alleviate the struggle of the hill. What I take to be a massive feat is gradual yet painful. I can see the end where the rail that separates the walkers and the riders ends and meets the special access campus road, but my breathing and pedaling are consuming my thoughts with each heave forward. I reach the peak, riding just to the sidewalk where I give up pedaling for quivering muscles and catching my breath.

My body fatigued, legs shaking I step onto the steel, sterile elevator. My body is mimicking the nervousness of the past weeks where I've tapped into uncertaintly, naïvety, and my middle school inhibitions. Inhaling and exhaling to even out my breathing, I teeter while walking to my spinning office chair. I relieve my lightheadedness with peanut butter granola bars that fill all of my daily calories and saturated fat. And breathe a little more concentratingly. But I recover, twenty-some minutes later, like I do most times I'm jittery and self conscious. I can still tap into the tinglings, the sensations of events while giving myself shivers and making my heart race like it did this morning when I rode up that hill.