Pushing pedals is never the same when it's not at your side.

Everyday when she walked out of her job at the cookie factory, She transformed into the most beautiful rocket her roads had ever seen.Slinging a leg over the fine steel frame that had fallen into her possession by luck so dumb it must have been blessed, she slid her shoes into the clips and soared over the pavement.
The wind flowed freedom over her face, leaving the scent of sugar and shortening in her wake to cut through the poison clouds of the hot pavement and exhaust.

DEEP brown eyes a camera steadied straight ahead of her, her lips would fix themselves into a shape just like the start of thought. Her mouth pressed slightly open, the top of her tongue touched the spot where her front teeth met, a corner created by their pressing just barely too close together, pointing each other a tiny bit back.
The expression seemed intensely focused, yet there could be a million things happening at once in her mind. When friends would ride along side her, they'd be taken back when her stare, appearing so squarely forward, would capture some special fleeting detail well off to the side.

A panhandler's particular sign, stray cats loafing on the sidewalk, a drunk disrobing in daylight on sixth street.

Most folks with little millage can look like works of art, but she was altogether something else. Her posture otherwise was always relaxed and could easily turn slumping with a shift of a mood
( and to such shifts she was quite sensitive) But in the saddle, she was a warrior princess, stately and wild all at once. Hands set matter-of-fact on the hoods, legs altering between smooth, circular spin and a soaring coast, she was a creature naturally customized for flight. She had a habit of slipping behind other riders so far that they'd worry they lost her, only for them to turn their heads at the exact precipice of her attack! A slight smile bursting with triumph and pride as she way over taking them and sliding swiftly ahead.

Prehaps it was a result of the thousand things she was seeing through her seemingly still gaze, or maybe it was just the particular strain of bad luck she was so unfortunately born with, but in spite of her grace and control, she was horribly prone to accident. Car doors, bad valets, train tracks, every obstical on the road seemed to hunt her like a determined dog. Though in a fitful moments of whole health she'd half-heartedly whine "I hate my bike," the intensity of her true love would be proven exponentially every time she got hurt. She's limp out of the emergency room on medication and a bum knee, and ignore all advice just to put her feet on the pedals mere hours after injury. If the nurses knew, they'd probably get a bit more pissed about all the unpaid bills, but no matter how much her friends tried to shake their heads in scorn, their grimaces couldn't help but turn into grins as she took her beloved British companion for a roll around the neighborhood.

HAZY DRUGGED-UP DISCOMFORT GIVING WAY TO SUCH A WONDERFUL FEELING
if only for a few minutes.

Those minutes, after all, were always precious, since so many of her surroundings seemed designed soley to trap here. The stainless countertops of the tiny cookie factory offering too small of a task over too many hours, the rented bedrooms barely capable of contaning even the contents of their closet. The entire sprawling city turned small underneath the cycling satellite, of her wildfire heart. The warmth it radiated, it's glowing light, was absolutely irreplaceable to all that slipped into it's orbit, but sparkling a desire for her presence in so many people could be suffocating. She never hesitated to share the gift of her flame, but in the bottom less generosity nonetheless left her weary of being stifled or burning out. But when she was on two wheels, these worries faced while stationary simply could not catch her.

When her freedom turned so complete that she was a warrior princess every second and could fly without even moving, still she would ride, and still the ride would remain what she cherished the most. The atoms in the air blowing kisses to her cinnamon skin as they parted in the shape of her silhouette. The spectrum of light sacrificing all it's visions to the onyx embrace of her pupils. The rythyms in her cells dancing down throught her legs to her feet pounding out the beat to steel tubes singing their secret song of alchemy and transforming into wings soaring on jet streams of the soul no airplane will EVER know.

All these reactions, exploding into on another, essential and elemental as oxygen and fire...
a perfect moment of blinding brilliant beauty.

JUST JENN AND HER BICYCLE.

Written by the Professor.