On the road again randomly

Pick your soundtrack for this imaginary epic: either the Willie Nelson lighter-than-air pop-country hit that was played way too much on '80s radio (...just can't wait to be on that road again) or the Canned Heat blues-rock tune that some of you may recall from the late '60s. Either one will do as musical background to the rare midwinter bike ride I took yesterday to celebrate the effects of global warming.

When the normal weekend chores have been done, the dead tree once more naked and out of the house, the floor swept, bread baked, soup cooked, laundry done, containers recycled, and firewood fetched, what do you do when the temperature is pushing 60 and real, actual sunshine makes an appearance in Central Swingstate? You go for a bike ride, of course!

Luckily I had already patched the tube that gave me a flat that stopped me in my tracks about a month ago on my way down the hill on County Line Road from our little abode (that lives in the house that Jack built), so I was ready when this heat wave hit. I put on a warm hat that I didn't need and gloves that I did, and on my way to add air to the rear tire, I did the MacKenzie Wind Test. Since there was a strong south wind, I did the rational thing for once and started out southward in order to return northward with the wind at my back. If you've ever gone out with the wind, worked up a sweat, and made the turn to come back against the wind as it gets cooler and you get tired, you will understand MacKenzie's First Law.

Downtown Methodistville was quiet as I made my way down the hill on Main Street to the Alumni Creek Trail. Almost nobody was on it, it's January after all, a group of adults out for a stroll near those condos along the creek, one other cyclist with spandex jersey and a good bike. Maybe everybody's watching the Bengals and the Steelers slug it out on TV. The creek was high, but not so high you couldn't cross under Schocking Road where the trail dips down to streambed level. The only people at Cooper Park were two groups of Mexican Americans playing pickup games of soccer (futbol). As my friend AsbEstes would say, this is REAL sport.

About 45 minutes in, I reached my goal where the bike trail ends at another set of soccer fields across the road from Hideous Malltown, the faux community that one real estate huckster sold to another real estate huckster as the next big thing in urban living. Let's check it out in ten years when half the retail space is vacant, the 12-25 crowd is flocking to movies at a newer mall, and the city is desperately trying to figure out a way to salvage all those big-box stores that were once so fashionable.

The sun hits the horizon just as I make the turn and head north on my out-and-back. Familiarity makes the return trip shorter in subjective time but it still takes 45 objective minutes, and I don't notice the wind difference, probably a good sign. Just to add a little drama, I've pushed the time-envelop to where it's questionable whether I'll make it home in daylight. What's an epic without an element of danger? As I glide undisturbed up the leafy trail, I decide it's time for lights, but my batteries go dead about the time I get to Cooper Park. It doesn't matter because there's nobody else on the trail, and I can see just fine. I take it back: an older couple holding hands, a young mother pushing a stroller with twins, a beatnik in a leather jacket by himself; the soccer players have packed it in and are drinking Milwaukee's Best by their pickup trucks.

By the time I get back to Old Methodistville it's dark, so I velocipedal up Main, tail light blinking to alert whatever traffic might be turning off Cleveland Avenue - ah, made it - then use side streets through the campus of United Brethren College, overhearing some kids returning from a meeting, "...and I took a photography class in high school, so I'm the expert!" After I'd put the Schwinn in the barn for the night, my back and hips required some serious stretching, so I put on Dave Brubeck's Greatest Hits and lay on the floor to do some fiber art on my psoas major, piriformis, and latissimus dorsi. There's a piece called "Unsquare Dance" that stayed with me the rest of the evening. It's in 7/4 time, starts out real simple with bass and hand-claps, then the piano jumps in like a double-dutch jump-rope tap-dance. It's hypnotically cool and kept me company throughout my random walk with the dog.