second year jake head

Often, when looking for new ways to stifle boredom or romanticize life, I choose to hop on my bike for a ride. Milledge Avenue seems more lively with the trees and estates and terraces whizzing by in close proximity. I like to pretend I am the star of a movie when I’m biking down a busy street: it’s the intro sequence, and I am waving to the fellow citizens, cheery, all-American instrumentals are playing in the background. Or maybe it’s not that kind of movie. Maybe I’ll imagine that the one row of cute store fronts in Five Points is actually a row of shops in a small Italian village — perhaps I am flying through a perfume scented countryside on my way to pick up a fresh loaf of focaccia. Suddenly, I spot the person of my dreams. I fling my antiquated bicycle onto the nearest railing, and I create some sort of poorly formulated excuse to talk to this seemingly perfect person. Of course, this is an illusion, for the closest thing to a medditerranean village happens to be the Medditerranean Grill across the street, and the only romantic scene on Milledge Avenue usually involves cheap booze and fraternity brothers. Nevertheless, I persist with my two-wheeled illusion.

Countryside Bike