Finding the Light: A Scene from Radiant

THE HILL CLIMBS up and up, but Andy, on his bicycle, falls further and further behind. He pushes and pulls against the pedals, his chest bent deep toward the bike’s slender frame.

He hears the click of the derailleur as he shifts, feels the lactic acid building in his legs, the familiar burn as his muscles switch to anaerobic mode. The hill is a monster he’s worked months to tame, a mountain, really. He’s never made it up without stopping. He hoped today might be the day.

But his lactate threshold rarely lasts more than a minute, so he knows time’s up. He steers to the edge of the narrow shoulder, unclips from his pedals, and stops.

He grabs his water bottle and enjoys a long, slow sip. His ears ring, and his eyes burn, its taste cold and sweet.

The mountain is especially beautiful this morning, the highway snaking up and over it broad and smooth, two-lanes going up and one-lane coming down. Winter trees, still glistening with morning frost, arch overhead, forming a glossy tunnel, and the road stretches wide and open, inviting him to finish.

He takes in a few deep breaths, feeling his cardiovascular system reset for the remaining climb. Then he stows his water bottle, clips in, and sets to it.

He feels strong for the last stretch as he stands tall out of the saddle, gaining speed as the grade lessens and the road flattens. At the top, two lanes increase to four, and the trees part to reveal the sky, wide and blue. The sun warms his face. Adrenaline surges through him, a jolt in his fingertips as they relax on the handlebar stem. He rests back on his saddle, pedaling gently at the hill’s crest.

He drifts across the four lanes, advancing farther along the mountain’s broad ridge. Guardrails line the edge, revealing the valley below. Low morning clouds shadow its southern end, the patchwork of farms like an old quilt below.

It’s good to be back in the mountains. He thinks this often lately, especially when he rolls out on his bike before the rest of the world rolls out of bed. He’d have never been out at this hour before.

Before: in the city, fourteen-hour days, sometimes seven days a week. When his health was a luxury he wouldn’t waste time on, and gluttony a sin he fed like a needy child. When his bike lived in storage, and exercise was a trip to the corner deli during adjournments. When an epic view was the city skyline at four in the morning, a glass of bourbon in his hand.

When he knew exactly where he was going, what he wanted, and how to get it.

Before his life fell apart.

The road slopes downward, and he shifts into the sweet spot for the descent. The wind speed increases, nipping at his ears. He hugs the road, crouching over the bike, tucking in his chin and watching the pavement tick below, the whir of the wheels growing as his speed increases. He feels free, like he’s flying, perfect synchrony between his body, the bike, and the road—any hiccup the potential for disaster.

Andy knows disaster, but a different kind entirely. And today marks his escape from it.

Today is a birthday of sorts, his fifth. It’s true he’s a grown man, six-foot-two with a full five o’clock shadow by three in the afternoon. It’s also true he celebrated his thirty-fifth birthday back in the summer at a party in the warm glow of his parents’ back yard, with his three older brothers and their families.

Tonight’s celebration, in the dead of winter, will be small, exclusive. It will unfold under the fluorescent lights of a church basement, without games or decorations, and it will only last an hour. There will be a gift, but just one: a five-year medallion from the program that saved his life.

Andy is an alcoholic, and today, he celebrates five years of sobriety.

Five years ago, he sat in jail, his head throbbing, his mouth dry and sour. His law partner, Justin, stood outside his cell, a cinder-block room that smelled of urine, and told him, in a low, serious voice, he had two choices: jail or rehab.

Andy recoiled and rattled off a familiar list of excuses, ones Justin had heard before.

“Are you done?”

“Yeah.” Andy waited for his friend to bail him out. Again.

“I can’t do this anymore. Your career’s over. At least it is if you don’t go to rehab. Fuck, I don’t know.”

After this second DUI, the senior partner’s decision was swift and final: immediate termination and notification to the state bar. But Justin found a rehab program for attorneys with alcohol and substance use disorders—if Andy complied, he might not lose his license.

“Please, Andy. Just go.”

Andy went that day and stayed for three months. When he returned, ready for the real work of recovery, he had no job, no apartment, no money.

But he had a family, so he went home.

As the wind in his face slows and three lanes decrease to two, the road flattens and the trees thin out to rolling hills. The turnoff to the tunnel, an old railroad passage renovated for recreation, is up ahead. It cuts through the mountain he’s just crossed, and he uses it as a shortcut home.

Andy remembers the day he came home from rehab. His father was at the house to welcome him, but his mother was not.

“She’s at the tunnel,” he told Andy. “She’s nervous. You understand.”

He did. The fights had gotten bad near the end. The last time he’d seen his mother before finally sobering up, he could barely stand. He remembers how she stared at him, long and hard, like she was memorizing his face. Like she never expected to see him again.

His dad drove him to the tunnel, where he found his mom.

They walked the 4,347-foot path, out and back, silent for more than a mile. Then they drove home, still quiet and afraid. Andy had so much to say, but even silence was a comfort—the war was over.

He pauses outside the tunnel’s east entrance and stares at the gaping mouth through to the tiny light at the other end, the west entrance. Even in the middle of the tunnel, where you can’t see your hand in front of your face, each entrance allows a dash of daylight, so you know where to go. Just follow the light and keep going.

His phone buzzes in the rear pocket of his jersey.

“Happy birthday!” His mom’s voice is clear on the line, and he can hear her smile, picture her sitting in the morning sun of her kitchen, steam rising off her first cup of coffee.

“Thanks, mom. Hey, you’ll never guess where I am.”

“The tunnel, silly. I can track you on my phone.”

He laughs. When he came home, he allowed his parents to track his every move, even though the intrusion annoyed him. Eventually he forgot about it, realizing when you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.

“So, are you ready for tonight?”

“Mom, it’s just a regular meeting. Chips come at the end, remember?” Of course he’s invited his parents to the open meeting.

“I know. But we can go out for a bite after, right?”

She’s going to bring it up, he’s sure. He’s surprised she hasn’t already—it’s been almost two months, and his mom has never been known for subtlety. He braces himself against his bike, closes his eyes, and waits for it.

“I was thinking you should call Alice. You seemed to hit it off. You talked all evening at Ruth’s party. And I gave you her number.” Her voice rises, like a schoolyard song, and Andy has to laugh.

“Mom, I don’t think dinner with my folks after an AA meeting is prime first-date material.”

Well, third date, really. But his mom doesn’t know that.

“All right, all right. Talk later?”

“Yeah, sure. Love you.”

“Love you.” There’s still a pause, sometimes, before she says those words. Like she’s remembering how much she feared she wouldn’t get to say them again.

In early sobriety, old timers talked about promises that would come true for him if he worked an honest program. He bit back his cynicism and listened, but he never believed it would happen for him.

Turns out they weren’t lying. Riding his bike in the mountains, a friendly, casual call from his mom—these are gifts he didn’t know to hope for. Could Alice be a promise, too? He doesn’t know. He hopes so.

But hope is slippery.

For now, he clips back in, and sets off into the tunnel, eyes on the west entrance, the light leading him home.