Flying is Nice

Flying is nice. I could fly forever. Forever in the midst of a cheering crowd. From up here I can see everything and everybody. Every heart in the audience-filled coliseum is sputtering towards the flight they wish they were out having.

I can see from here the three lives of Evel Knievel. There’s the Bobby version where he was at some point born, played with little plastic motorcycles; at some point was a teen, at some point had fears, at some point will age and die. Then there’s the Evel Knievel that everyone comes to see. The cyborg Knievel who was born on a roaring bike, lives to fly through the air, and will live forever, invincible to any tough spill or landing. Last, there’s the man behind the helmet. The man who could die. The man who has to keep up the show of an Olympian while soaring through the air towards a possible death. This is the version of Evel I am being right now.

I know what I need to do to hit this landing right. I know what I need to do to survive and get a good cheer. However, the temptation of the invincible, flying, goddess is hard to not get swept away in. The crowd thinks Evel can do anything. Can I do anything?  Could I just keep flying? I don’t need to land. That’s the dangerous thought. I’m invincible. I don’t have to land. I can just go up in the air and burst into flames like a phoenix before I hit anything. I am the cyborg melding with my motorcycle, the steal-eyed hero, the fearless immortal.

I look ahead of me with this newfound blaze of forever-flight. But at the edge of the landing ramp is Evel. At my desk. Staring at my pad and paper. Waiting for the first question. And I realize I will have to land, and I will have to land right.

For now though - as long as I don’t forget about the final part - the cheering, the confidence, and the flying is nice.

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