One-two, three-four.

That’s my cadence. When I’m riding my bike and my body starts to fail, my world narrows to four simple numbers.

One-two, three-four.

“One” starts my right leg, pushing through pain to force the pedal down. When it reaches the bottom of its journey, “two” kicks my left foot into action. As my right foot rotates back to the top of the circle, there’s the briefest of pauses, so small I’m not even sure it’s real, and then “three” sends the right pedal forward. “Four” is my left foot’s final journey.

Except it’s not.

The cadence doesn’t end. It’s a merciless beat that keeps me moving forward. When I’m in the cadence, I’m not thinking about anything. My mouth is dry. My muscles are burning. My lungs can’t get enough air. The edges of my vision quaver and dim.

One-two, three-four.

There’s no future or past, not really even a present. There’s just pain and numbers. The road rolls under my wheels. Trees drift by, offering shady places to rest. I don’t stop. I can’t. I’m in the cadence.

But every once in a while, as the numbers are driving me forward, I’ll see another cyclist in the exact same situation. Mouths hanging slightly open, faces locked in slack-jawed grimaces of pain, our glazed eyes meet.

Suddenly, neither of is alone.

We don’t know each other, and probably never will. We might not speak the same language. It doesn’t matter. Gender, age, politics, religion… nothing matters. In that moment, we share a space that’s beyond all intellectual constructs. We understand.

Sometimes, there’s a finger wave or a head bob. A tired smile is always nice. Regardless, the moment doesn’t last. We pass each other, and the cadence returns. How can it not? We each have places to go.

One-two, three-four.

I don’t have a cadence when I’m writing, but I do encounter the same level of exhaustion. I’d imagine all creators do. We drive ourselves forward, often past a point that is either healthy or helpful. We find ourselves in places where there is nothing but the act of moving forward. Text glows to life on a screen. Ink dances across a tattered spiral. A brush strokes a canvas.

There is no “me” in those moments, no sense of present or past or future. The work is all.

Sometimes, just sometimes, we encounter someone else in the exact same space. We might be working in different mediums, different countries, or even embracing conflicting thoughts, but none of that matters. What’s important is that we share a space.

We understand.

The moment won’t last. It can’t. We each have our own paths to ride.

Even so, if you’re in that space now, please know that I am right there with you. As we fly past each other, doing whatever it is that we do, let’s take a breath together. You hold to your cadence. I’ll hold to mine.

We may be alone in all other ways, but in this space, we are connected.

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