I have been biking more lately, waking in the hours before dawn and setting forth, schoolwards, just as the first sun falls on the tops of trees, the snow-covered ridge. It is cold, very cold, but wonderful to be alone in winter’s spare palette, coasting down long hills and huffing back up them, my knobby tires grinding and crunching and bee-swarm screaming. I see as many cars in an hour as I used to see within a block of leaving our Brooklyn apartment.
Each morning I pass a field, home to a handful of horses who stare at me as if I’ve just done something unspeakably rude.
I am, in part, fulfilling Matt’s dreams of being one 0f those people who rides around with a boombox taped to their bike frame– I go here and there with iFung blaring from my pocket, Pavement or Arcade Fire or New Order or some other hip young thing that these streams and trees and chickens haven’t heard before. Through the mesh and the zipper and the winter wind it sounds like it’s creaking out of a record player, or from a station with too much static.
In the last mile before arriving home in the early evening, crossing Stone Creek on the bridge slick with packed sleet, Fin plays and my muscles remember coasting home to the same song in Nebraska, endless corn waving in the low sun, trees green, early fall, empty room.
When I return I see my breath indoors. The Me-Meow scampers over, hungry.
On this grey grey Saturday I wish you shared milkshakes and smelly noodle soups and ice boats and Django Reinhardt and cats who hobble and wobble, examine the birds outside. I am already looking back on this fondly.