This was what I whispered to myself as I began bicycling down Bushy Park road, seeing the dual boat-landings and power lines aligned in the distance open up to my view. It had been a seemingly infinite period of time since I last came here and tore away the soles from my old shoes that saw me through the mountains last year. Red Bank Road has always been just something to get through. It gets promising at the boat landing and gets more golden all the way through Strawberry. The wild growth to the side of the road was strong as before, and the air was just right. The road was rough and unsmooth, but so was I. I remember not having as much stamina though. I was tired by the end of Old US Fifty-Two, where the bridge passes over the rails stretching onward to Florence. I just looked up and down the tracks from the bridge countless times, resting. I then did something unprecedented:
I got off my bicycle and walked
This tiny road ending in a loop off of the main road, partly paved, partly dirt and gravel. I remember the sunshine. It was special and all for me. Open and green, but also small and intimate. I saw a brook of a stream, and you can imagine how much this delighted me. Just like the railroad tracks, you can't exactly find the beginning of the stream.
I really ought to put some more wear in my leather than in my rubber from time to time.
No comments:
Post a Comment