Ten Miles from the Magic

I stepped out of the car into the thirty-two-degree wind, plugged in to the music of Blue Highway. Its mood was slightly tense and almost martial. I pull my bicycle out of the car, not knowing how many more miles she has left in her before her pedal shaft locks up. I put her together dutifully and pull up the seat, locking it into place. The moment I begin into the stiff air, the music changes to a calm repose, and I get that rush of motion along with the distinct impression that things are perfectly okay. It doesn't take many pushes on those pedals to get my allotment of inspiration. I pass a deforested field to the right, quickly overtaken by red-brown growth. The sky is blue. A half-moon hangs only slightly above the denuded treeline. I marvel, as I have done many times before, over the indestructibility of beauty. It is the daytime in what would be expected to be the dullest place in South Carolina, but here is this ethereal scene. There is always the sky, and in the south, there is always the comradery of the warm sun, no matter how the north wind may rage.
As the music changes from a country-hall-dance violin in its playfulness to a contemplative shimmering introduction to The Seventh Angel, I am caught, as are the pines, between my eyes and the half-overcast sunlight. It is captivating. These winter pines caught between me and my southern sun, vivified by the muse coming from the headphones got me thinking I should pair my bicycle rides with music more often.