Filled With Flowers

If part of your gym routine is some segment of exerting yourself in-place, you get to take a pass on it if you bike fifteen minutes to get there with the expectation that you’re going to bike home again later.  Thirty minutes of leisurely biking should be close to twenty minutes on the stair master.  This I tell myself and my younger daughter who is accompanying me. 

It’s beautiful outside today.  Every tree has begun its process.  Enterprising people have driven in minivans full of flowers that they’ve set up in rows along the side of the road, carpeting the shoulder in patches of red and yellow and blue. 

There are three intersections we must pass.  All of these should have traffic light.  None of them do.  There are strata of reflector light glass scattered, documenting the archeology of accidents here.  They are dangerous to cross in an automobile.  They are even more risky to traverse on a bicycle.  I go across first.  A van turns and approaches, perhaps it is filled with flowers.  But it isn’t slowing.  Rather I do.  I nearly stop to force him (’twas a ‘him’) so that my daughter can safely make it to the other side.  He’s confused, which is fine.  He slows.  I’m certain my behavior is difficult for him to categorize.

I’d love my kids to ride their bikes to school in the morning.  But I fear or their safety on these roads where so many people drive like idiots.  I take my bike nearly out to my lane’s meridian.  I tell her to imagine that every car you see parked along the side is just about to throw open their door.  “Any one could do that at any time.  You have to be ready.  You need to always give them that much room, even if there is a car coming up behind you.”

We get to the gym and a friend is making his way out the exit as we swipe our way in.  Everyone seems surprised that the other is engaging with the gym today.  He biked over as well. 

Sunday, April 2, 2017