One of the hidden pleasures of being a cyclist is singing as I ride. True, it’s possible to sing in my car, but the sound comes back at me instead of adding to the vibration of the universe. I can also sing when I walk, but I move so slow through space others hear me. When I sing out loud I do it for me. I don’t want others to hear and they’re gladly spared my noise. On my bicycle I can send the tune out from me and by the time someone else absorbs the sound, I’ve rolled on.
Bicycle singing inspires wonderful rhythmic alteration. Coming up behind a pedestrian, whose ears I respect, I take whatever note I’m on and extend it into a soft sostenuto. My passerby hears nothing but an eerie bit of breeze.
This year’s long winter and cool spring have done nothing to elevate the soul. I’ve been forced to dig deep into my repertoire to keep spirits high. March, New England’s signature grotesque month, requires I chortle through every upbeat 50’s musical while pedaling against the wind driving down the Charles River. I’ve never met a gale that could overcome Frank Loesser’s I Believe in You. April’s storms can always been humbled by the maxim April Showers bring May Flowers.
But it’s May 1, the temperature is stuck in the forties, the rain is hard, the wind from the northwest. The calendar displays it’s time for Camelot’s Merry Month of May, but there’s nary a sign of May about. I could go depressive with Karen Carpenter’s Rainy Days and Mondays, or emotionally pathological with When You Walk Through a Storm, but I’m, trying to keep things light and spring like in my head, my heart, and my voice.
Got any suggestions?
Forsythia blooms smothered in rain