There are bike rides that you do for fitness, the ones where you’re chasing stats on your watch and pushing for a personal best. Then there are rides you do for the simple joy of it, the wind in your ears and the world rolling by. And then, there are the rides that you can never plan for—the ones that stop you in your tracks and remind you that you’re just a small, soft-shelled guest on a very big, very wild planet.
My ride last Tuesday was one of those.
It started like any other. The sun was beginning its slow dip towards the horizon, painting the African savanna in hues of gold and orange. The dusty track crunched satisfyingly under my tires, a rhythmic sound that had become the soundtrack to my evenings. I was cycling on the perimeter of a local game reserve, a route I’d taken dozens of times. You see the usual suspects: a skittish herd of impala, the occasional warthog trotting away with indignant snorts. It’s beautiful, predictable, and peaceful.
Until it isn’t.
I rounded a bend shaded by a broad acacia tree and hit the brakes so hard I nearly skidded off the path. Standing not thirty feet in front of me, partially obscured by the thorny branches, was a skyscraper of an animal.
A giraffe.
Now, seeing a giraffe isn’t entirely unheard of here. But usually, they’re distant, elegant silhouettes against the skyline. This one was different. It was right there. And it was looking directly at me.
My first reaction was pure, unadulterated awe. Every rational thought evaporated, replaced by a childlike wonder. Its legs were impossibly long, like a supermodel on stilts. Its patchwork coat of brown and cream was a masterpiece of natural camouflage. But it was the head, held so high it seemed to be consulting with the clouds, that truly captivated me.
I stood frozen, one foot on the ground, a hand gripping my handlebar so tightly my knuckles were white. The giraffe didn’t move either. It simply watched me, its enormous, dark eyes fringed with eyelashes a movie star would kill for. There was no fear in its gaze, no aggression. Just a deep, profound curiosity.
Slowly, deliberately, it tilted its head. It was a gesture so human-like, so full of inquiry, that I almost laughed. It seemed to be asking, “And what, precisely, are you? This strange, two-wheeled, huffing-and-puffing creature?”
The world went silent. The cicadas, the birds, the whisper of the wind—it all faded away. There was only the space between us, charged with a quiet understanding. Here I was, a marvel of human engineering and Lycra, and there it was, a marvel of evolution and grace. We were two completely different solutions to the problem of living on Earth, suddenly face to face on a dusty track.
It took a slow, deliberate step towards me. My heart hammered against my ribs. I remained perfectly still, a silent pact passing between us: I won’t spook you if you don’t spook me. It lowered its head slightly, its powerful neck moving with an improbable fluidity, and sniffed the air in my direction. Perhaps it was trying to figure out the scent of sweat, sunscreen, and chain oil.
The moment stretched on for what felt like an eternity. It was a standoff not of tension, but of mutual inspection. I wasn’t just a man seeing a giraffe; I was being seen by a giraffe. And in that quiet moment, the roles of observer and observed blurred completely.
Finally, as if it had gathered all the information it needed, the giraffe blinked its long lashes, gave one last, lingering look, and turned. With a swaying, hypnotic gait, it ambled off the path and disappeared into the bush as silently and suddenly as it had appeared. The branches swayed for a moment, and then it was gone.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The sounds of the bush rushed back in. I was alone again, just a man on a bike.