Riding at Night

I used to think my measly 100 lux bike headlight was sufficient. While in Chicago there were always street lights—even lining the Lakefront Trail. Sure there were pockets, curves where a raccoon might accost me, but for the most part it was lit. The sky above Chicago because of light pollution is never without a simmering glow.

In Eugene, when I leave my daughter’s house after visiting her and the baby, I have to head downhill (steep) in darkness with only the advantage of a few porch lights. Black pavement under my wheels, a blank landscape around me until my headlight picks out the backhoe planted at the side of the road by the utility company for the continuous pipe project underway on Donald Street. I quickly steer around it and the bike-eating holes. I careen down for what seems like a mile, the wind making my eyes water, usually no traffic, just me and darkness cut by a small headlight.

Once past the Safeway corner I head into more darkness and continue downhill. I shortcut through Tugman Park where one time I rounded a turn and came upon two fawns, obviously not startled by me as they barely flinched as I passed. I cascade downhill like a skier working switchbacks until I cross over a pedestrian bridge into the park proper where there are street lights. Next to Hillyard Street I continue north until I cut over to the Amazon Creek bike path. Here, once again I am in darkness.

I am shocked by the number of people walking dogs at night. Shocked and often startled by the fact I will ride almost upon them and have to swerve to avoid hitting them. I keep going, outracing my headlight, meaning I can get ahead of the light, its diffused arc only a fraction of a second ahead of me. I find this feeling of sudden disorientation, thrilling. As if I have stepped off the planet into another realm, a slipstream. Just for a second until I am “found.” Emptied out onto High Street and 18^th by the other Safeway.

I love that place where darkness presses in and I am reminded of my status in the universe. That there is no control, just . . . what is.