glide you're alive

It was just going to be a quick ride to drop off some library items. Figured since I had the backpack to tote along the goods, I'd head right back home afterward and go running. iPod on shuffle for my rides today. Such a beautiful deathtrap.

So... maybe I'll take the longer way home. Ope, turn the opposite direction and head east. The empty backpack's no burden, and I can still get a solid run in after sundown. The suburban homes become a bit less urbanand begin to back away from the road, and I'm happy to have fewer cars out here to worry about.

Each track sets its own mood for that part of the ride, and what began as easy pedaling on the way out (so's I'd have plenty left for the run) turned into a feverish cadence on the return trip, with Chick Corea pounding out climax just as I gunned through the green light I was chasing at the home stretch mile-to-go point -- and fell out on the other side of the intersection to roll gently Brian Eno's first of three variations on Pachelbel's Canon, which, with the breeze, carried me home slowpoke easy-please.

In the driveway I dismounted and decapitated -- still swimming the same soundscape -- arched back to look upside down the trees, roofs, garages. I spit over the telephone wire coming back up, and thought about writing swimming in soundscape, just as I'd thought about writing about the climax through the stoplight. And I wondered if, just then, I had really meant my gaze at the leaves and neighborhood houses, or if I'd just meant to be the boy in the story who leans back and sighs wistfully.

I'm going running now. Maybe we'll talk more later about writing here?