Fart Smelling State Park
Today I hopped out of bed more easily than usual and was at my desk, with coffee, by seven. Work was fine. So far I have not screwed up anything major (except once) and I learn new things every day. I just realized I am past my six-month mark.
When biking in I don’t like that I arrive in the morning harried and feeling like I’ve just performed a dance with death. I don’t like seeing people playing on their phones while rocketing down the roads and brushing past my left handlebar. I don’t like tasting the exhaust and hearing the roar of cars as I cross the Mendota Bridge. The problem is, it gets worse and worse as I approach work. The beginning of the trip is that marked bike path on the river road, which seems relatively safe. Then I cross the Highway 5 bridge, which is at least protected from vehicles and is broad. Then I pass Fort Snelling, which is nice. But then I must cross the Mendota Bridge, which is noisy, too narrow to meet another cyclist safely, and only one side is open to non-motor traffic. From there it is dangerous suburban roads. This is where the real risk of distracted drivers is upon me. On these roads high speeds combined with cell phone law impunity make it truly dangerous. As I get close to work I veer around people who have obstructed the crosswalk, heedless. I see them yakking on the phone and wonder who they are talking to at 6:45 am.
When I finally get to work I am relieved not to have been maimed. But it is not a good way to start my day. Well, there are good things: I like having got my blood moving before work instead of just rolling out of bed all crusty. I like seeing the sunrise. I like seeing the fog burn away over the Minnesota River Valley. And I twice see Fort Snelling, a historical site people come from all over to visit.
The ride home is the reverse: it gets better and more peaceful as I approach home. I sometimes stop and sit on the ridge overlooking the Ford Dam in the shade of the oak tree there. Today I watched vultures and cormorants fishing and soaring above the dam. These are two despised birds, persecuted, poisoned, trapped, shot, even now in 2015. But I like them both. I like the rocking dihedral of the vulture’s flight. I like the kinsmanly rows of cormorants as they sit there, lined up on a log at the base of the dam, amid the spray, where I cannot go. And if I can like the birds that others hate, then I can muster the focus and good-nature to look left toward the mists of the valley, and ignore the roar of traffic in my ears.
pseudoisaac 