Fog is suspended in the golden trees through the canyon above me as I zip up my jacket, pull the hood over my ears, and stretch the sleeves over my freezing fingers. I put one boot on a pedal and shove off with the other foot from the driveway of a kitchen where I store this gear-less bike with a basket. This is the last leg of my commute to work.

From the moment I open my eyes in the morning it is like a director somewhere has yelled out “Action!” There are babies calling out to be picked up, changed and dressed for the day. Breakfast is delivered to the couch where Jessie sleepily watches Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood while I feed Eliza then pour food in a bowl for Gabe the dog. Bags are packed up for the day and everyone gets secured in the running car as Raffi plays. I run inside and quickly get dressed, making a sprint for the door, coffee in hand, where I can finally drink it as we drive off. If I’m ever wearing make-up it’s been applied in the rear-view mirror.

By the time I get to that kitchen driveway where that bike is stored, I’m still feeling the adrenaline coursing through me, whipped onwards by caffeine. When I grasp the bike handles, the flow of my day abruptly stops and then restarts at a different setting. It’s like that same director of the film I am starring in has yelled out “And Cut!”

I coast down the dirt driveway and over Rock Creek Road, my arms jarring with the potholes, the air blistering my lips. My hood has flown back and my ears are like ice, but somehow each day I tell myself it is just early fall and gloves and hats are for later in the season. There is the smell of dead leaves in the bed of the stream I cross over, and I’m reminded of this same path in June when the runoff roars through and the trees above are green and fluttery.

Years ago, I used to walk this path at night, stopping to lean on the railings of the bridge and watch the stars and sometimes the moon reflected on the dark water under my feet. This was when I had that kind of time, when my hours were my own to squander.

But they were also the years when I wanted what I have now. This life was a long-shot back then. Those slow walks home at night were sometimes walks of grief. Sometimes they were walks of release and an attempt at acceptance. Sometimes it was a walk of longing for my younger self, that 33-year-old me who just wanted to travel and write and go for long runs in beautiful places and not be relied on. I wanted to want what I had wanted then.

All of these past selves flash through my mind in the four minutes it takes me to get to my place of work, jeans splattered with mud that I have to wipe off with a towel. I  put my hair back before opening a door and unzip my coat for the morning.

I always get asked if I want a ride, and I always say I’m fine taking the bike. It’s one of the few stolen moments I get in my days right now.

It’s like letting the pages of a book flip quickly past my fingers, arriving to where I am in this moment: racing over golden leaves, living out this long-shot life, very much relied on. I don’t want to forget that.