Morning Ride: Sights And Sounds From My Two-Wheel Ritual

So many of us seem to have our own, respective morning ritual: a woman who writes ‘morning pages’ in her journal; another woman who does morning yoga; a fellow who always starts his day with meditation; others who feel their day goes better if they begin it with a prayer of supplication; others who begin with a brisk jog or walk; or, my wife, who likes to take a morning turn or two around her garden just to “See how everything is coming along.” 

My own morning ritual happens to be a 40-minute bicycle ride. Without it, my day is never going to feel quite right.

These rides tend to be solo affairs—a time to just roll along and ponder the many mysteries and wonders; but a time to also take in all the sights and sounds that greet me along the way…

Two blocks from home is the dog with the loud bark that always startles me. I know he’s locked securely in his kennel, but that menacing bark still strikes momentary panic.

I ride past the old, abandoned house, boarded-up for so many years now, and I can’t help wondering about the family who once lived there and why they left.

I go past the house where a kid is almost always jumping on his trampoline, and who frequently invites me to stop and jump with him. Maybe someday.

I go past the farmyard where they used to keep impressive longhorn steers, until, in the words of the farmer, they, “became a colossal pain in the butt.”  (He did not elaborate.)

I pass the yard of the elderly gentleman, who is, most mornings, tending his expansive vegetable garden. He’ll sometimes offer me something, and, on occasion, I’ve accepted; but then comes the challenge of continuing my ride while holding a large, unwieldy zucchini. 

I turn and pedal uphill, along a gravel road, past the house where three small, yapping dogs will usually give chase. I know I can outrun them, but they are annoyingly persistent, and this chase goes on far longer than I ever think it should.

I pass the large backhoe that is typically digging large rocks from the ground and  methodically stacking them. And this sight never fails to conjure fond memories of a favorite storybook, “Digger Dan,” that my dad used to read to me when I was very young… “Dig and dump!” went that old, yellow steam-shovel from my childhood… “Dig and dump!”

This gravel path veers to the right and cuts through a forest of juniper trees—a remote stretch of road where I hardly ever encounter another soul. (Though a realty sign that’s recently appeared on a fencepost, announcing, “Property for Sale,” may soon change that.)

I round a corner and there is no longer uneven gravel beneath my tires, but welcome asphalt; and there are simply not enough o’s in the word “smooth” to adequately describe how nice this feels.

And now I’m bombing exhilaratingly down a paved hill with the blueish-purple range of the Sanpitch Mountains rising majestically up before me; past the local gun-range, where the distinctive ‘pop-pop-pop’ of rifle fire is often heard.

I ride on past the goat farm and those adorable baby goats. Do they even show a passing interest in me? That depends on whether their feeding trough has any hay in it.

On warmer mornings (like this one), I might detour through a friend’s property and avail myself of his very inviting pond: stripping off, plunging in, and sharing the cool water with some very shy trout, and a couple of not-so-shy ducks.

Back on the bike, refreshed and rejuvenated, I pedal past the very old cabin with the faded sign on the front, displaying only two words: CRYSTAL and FIDDLE. What might they be offering here? Crystals? Fiddles? Crystal fiddles? I’ve never stopped to inquire.

I pass a dead jackrabbit in the middle of the road, and can’t help thinking wistfully of the very first book I ever read all by myself, “The Tale of Peter Rabbit.”  (Peter’s tale, in this case, however, ending as if written, not by Beatrix Potter, but by Edgar Allan Poe.)

Crossing Main Street, I am nearly home, and pedal past a neighbor’s house, with the excitable wiener-dog, who feels somehow compelled to chase after me for a block or so, until I roll finally into my own yard and straight into the bike shed.

And what, you may wonder, comes next on a day that began with such a morning’s adventure? Well, on this particular day, what comes next is the summoning of just enough temporary discipline to sit down and write this column.

And after that? Mow the lawn? Weed the garden? Perhaps. But, more likely, by far, is a nice leisurely lunch, followed by a nice, even more leisurely, nap.