Over the Hill

Shit. The light is green. Facing into the wind, I struggle. I am going uphill and I see the green light ahead. Undoubtedly, as soon as I reach the top of the hill, and the crosswalk countdown comes into clearer view, I will see I have four seconds to make it from the top of the hill to the light. That’s not going to happen. My one reprieve, my one last grasp of hope, that of being able to cruise downhill after using my every last bit of strength to get to the top, is diminished. If I attempt to run the red light, I’m battling a convoy of two ton machines that just escaped from the highway; my Schwinn frame is no match for them. The light is still green. I have three seconds. Green = go. But going ^ hill = (-)velocity. Therefore, green now = stop.  Or yield at the very least. These symbols are supposed to be clear: perfectly translucent enough for all of the population to follow for a society to run smoothly. And now? 

Now the signals are confused. Does not compute. I thought I could go, but instead must halt. Stop. All of the signals say “Go for it,” but that’s according to the old system. Stop. Begin anew. Yield to the new way. To yield: harvest, crop, produce. Therefore, to yield = to gain. To progress. To move forward. To go ahead, as green once defined it. And red?

Red doesn’t mean stop. It doesn’t mean go. It doesn’t mean yield. It doesn’t mean, but is not meaning-less. It implies: perseverance, imagination, strong will, a quick wit and ability to get back on the bull. That charging bull that sees that apparitional red, toreadored away while blood-red eyes focus on the goal. Red means keep trying. Because things change. Rejection, detraction, convulsion: it passes. 

The light turns green. I pedal forward.