I used to run this town.
I have conquered its sidewalks, roads, and bike lanes. I have taken well suited young professionals downtown, lest they get too sweaty biking or walking in the August heat. I have helped tourists misidentify the monuments and snap pictures in front of the Department of the Treasury, thinking it the White House. I have brought you back from work and happy hours and school. You have welcomed me as a friend into your home to recharge while you sleep.
When one of my brothers erupted in flame, I continued on.
Yes, I used to run this town.
Now I am decapitated. My handlebars sit just inches from my body as I lie, unceremoniously, in a patch of grass off 14th Street NW. I should be taking you to boozy brunch, like I did in my salad days, but no, I am decapitated.
I always knew I would one day scoot off this mortal coil—we all do—but there was so much more I longed to do. I wanted to circumnavigate the Tidal Basin in spring. I wanted to go leaf peeping in Rock Creek Park. I wanted to race a moped.
Oh, how I long for the warm touch of your hand! For the quick, furtive glance of a QR code scanner. I wanted to bring you from one Metro-less neighborhood to another. Just one more time.
But alas, I am decapitated.
Will Warren writes Scene and Heard. If you know of a location worthy of being seen or heard, email him at firstname.lastname@example.org.