Barely able to stand, I put the bike between my legs and pray to be an eagle’s feather for all eternity. There’s a charge in the air, as endorphins mute my cowbell heart and offer the words light as a feather, stiff as a drink. To the people in cars, I look like every other cyclist switching gears with precision and ease in a colorful jersey and padded bike shorts. They either love us or hate us by riding so close we choke on carbon monoxide. But it doesn’t matter— I can’t feel my arms or legs. What creeks underneath enables the momentum, the enabler I pair with wine better than cheese or sex because I float freestyle with a Merlot mustache after being part of a heavy head and hooked beak during the work week when I don’t have legs running down the side of my glass.