On a Morning Ride

I am up early today – only because I have an early morning appointment with my trainer. But when she texts that she is too ill to be there I decide to go for a bike ride.

I love my bike – a gift for my birthday last year. We bought it in a unique shop called Lifa, in the quaintest of quaint little towns on Lake Winnipeg while we were visiting Sweetie, The Lion, and dear Little Man.

It is an aqua, new-fangled, old-fashioned style Electra Super Deluxe Cruiser with whitewalls and wicker saddle bags. It also boasts a chic bicycle bell on the handlebar that goes BING-BONG like a doorbell.

I start my ride while the cats are still prowling and ride for 20 minutes before the first of the dog-walkers appears.

A half-ton backs out of his drive and turns in my direction. I pull further over to the side of the street as I think that the bright sun behind me is blinding in his eyes and, mixed with early morning grogginess, he might not see me.

That would be a tragic and painful end to this lovely morning ride.

And it is a lovely ride. I breathe in the fresh air and feel benevolent to all mankind.

I take time to look around me. (I try looking above me to watch the sky but I’m not that gifted with balance)

Oh! That pink and white mixture of petunias is pretty, trailing out of those pots. I might try that combination next year.

I drive down paved and non-paved alleys and find myself wondering who decides when the pavement in the alley ends? And why?

Nearing the end of my ride, I finally see people. A couple sits on the front steps in T-shirt and bathrobe, coffee cups in hand. A few doors down, an older man moseys down the driveway looking rumpled and dreamy, and carrying a pail of water for his annuals.

I turn down my alley which, as it happens, is not paved. But I like it that way. And I love the predictability of Ace, the neighbour’s dog, who barks at me through her fence.

I see home and our mature backyard checkering through the dark fence as I ride by. The oak tree stands guard near the gate while the russian olive’s branches whisper over the fence. I glance at the tallest tree in the yard – the kindergarten tree. People who have lived here since the birth of the neighbourhood tell me that one day over thirty years ago, all the kindergarten kids came home with tiny evergreen saplings. And so, everyone has an evergreen somewhere in their yard.

What a nice place, I say to myself.
Cozy. Homey. So thankful for my lovely home and for the job provided to The Cowboy, enabling us to enjoy our comfortable home.

For a while now I’ve been wondering if I am no longer a morning person. Lately my mind and my energy have been revving up in the late afternoon and at bedtime.

I used to write best in the mornings.

But I’m reminded why I love early mornings.
It’s the quiet. The air. The tranquility. The freedom. The ideas. The words …

The words.

I put my bike in the garage.

In the house I look at the clock, surprised to see that I rode for over an hour. I grab a glass of water and sit down at the table. Open my laptop.

And the words flow.