the streets

it's chilly--the fan has been brining in the cool night air for hours. my cell phone chimes out Oh When the Saints for lack of a better tune while a light flashes lurid purple-red-green-white, some engineer's "clever" idea splashing all over the bare walls and sloping ceiling of my little room. it's my morning wake-up call. i am up before the sun.

I slide into shorts and wool socks and my trusty Africa-and-back hiking sweater. cornflakes. pack my uniform: shirt, pants, pager, watch, workboots, socks, black ball-point pens, shears, log book, glasses. packtowel, soap, deoderant. bike lock. breakfast is cornflakes. it looks like lunch will be apples.

I think I'll take the red bike today: the roads are smooth, and Red Fuji is built sleek and narrow for speed. It'll be the January '05 mix CD, I think.

the streets are mine. I cut into the cool breezes, breathing deep and settling into a quick cadence for warmth. I know the backroads now--their potholes, deep curves, the shortcuts through parks, the timing of the stoplights at Kensington and Wehrle. the first two miles are quick: all sidestreets with old trees and blue collar houses and a few silent cars passing quickly, almost respectfully, as if they feared to intrude.

The last leg is longer: a two-and-one-half mile straight on Wehrle, a series of flats and uphills. today I'm flying. the CD shuffles from Ben Folds to Bush to the Crows to the Beatles with a dash of Moulin Rouge's Roxanne and Johnny Cash encores "Hurt" with "When the Man Comes Around." In front of me, the stars bow out to the sun's fiery entrance--there is a determined force in the oranges and reds and yellows burning through the predawn gray and clouds and making a way for the deep, deep blue in her wake. my legs are aching but determined as well. the day is coming. I coast into Post 64 and watch the sun across the airport--the sound of engines washes everything out as the jets thunder their way over my head and into the sky for destinations unknown. it's the sound of freedom and purpose and adventure. i stand there in the middle of the parking lot and soak it in.

the nice lady in Medic 12 skips the usual good morning. "You're wierd." I smile. I know. I think about a sunset seen from an island in Algonquian. I wouldn't have it any other way.



Epilogue the day holds another treat. we work late on a pleasant old lady with chest pain. the nurses take forever to find her a bed. i hit the road at eight, moving slow, low gears, taking a few new backroads, letting the bike take the long winding curves of the meandering dusky streets. i don't really want to get off my bike. i don't want the music to stop. i share the roads and sidewalks and paths with no one. i drift through the park no hands as the sun sets. life is good.