Leisurely

The good thing about getting slower with age as a cyclist is that you get to spend more time on the bike.  

A commute that used to take ninety minutes now requires almost two hours.  That’s close to another hour in the saddle a day, which means that many more opportunities to turn the pedals and admire the natural world.

Or when out with the bike gang of Thursday night in late summer, you get to take enough time longer to arrive at the chosen destination that not only are you able to enjoy your own leisurely pace throughout, it’s also the case that the fire is already blazing by the time you get there.

It’s no doubt just a matter of time before your lack of alacrity requires the remedy of an electric motor, but that eventuality is to be postponed for as long as possible, knowing, of course, that once it’s availed of, there’s no turning back.  However, it is a good piece of advice, courtesy of the child friends’ friends, that one should reserve the motorized cycle for the onerous tasks, thereby providing less incentive to “flatten the hills,” as it’s often put.

As long as you know where the group is headed, you’re never really lost; you’re just on your way to being there.  And if this entails an interim stop at the home of departing old friends, so much the better.  You’re not in a rush if you’re not in a rush and if the journey is the destination, then you’ve always arrived.

As the dog days of August come to a close, you want to squeeze all of the last remaining nectar out of summer in every way possible.  That means you never pass up an opportunity to swim nor a chance to do the crazy old man dance around the fire.

There are probably things burned that don’t need to be burned, but if that slows down departure, why not?

Meteor

Well, we didn't see any flaming rocks illuminating the heavens, but you-know-who was plenty lit up, so...success!

Also, "Pleiadeez-nutz" does get funnier after the 7th or 8th time.

That is all.

Measured

It’s reassuring to note you can still sufficiently derange your consciousness with the latest iteration of the homemade shortbread weed cookie that you’re unable to light the ceremonial departure joint; it’s not quite couchlocking to Larks’ Tongues in Aspic, but close enough.

And it’s heartwarming to have friends and acquaintances who are sufficiently thoughtful and appropriately ambivalent about wayfaring that they’ll circle around traffic circles and campus fountains to give you time to catch up.

So, who cares if the rent-a-cops in their military-grade bullet-proof vests care a lot more about where you’re permitted to hang out than you do?  

After all, there’s a great big world out there, complete with its very own freshwater lake perfect for barely-waning supermoons to rise out of, so even though that concrete platform five stories up would be perfect for catching the last few rays of sunlight while quaffing a cold one, the prudent thing to do is just—as is so often the case—let the baby have their bottle and head elsewhere.

No point in arguing with those who won’t listen to argument, as Monty Python reminds us.  

If they’re going to cite unjustified rules to justify their position, then they’re no longer doing philosophy, they’re just doing their job, whereas you get to ride away and still enjoy the downhill corkscrew, which was half of the point, after all.

I can see how it must seem that having this much fun and beauty and natural wonder ought to be against some rules, somewhere.  

If I were on the outside looking in—especially if I had to gear up for my hourly (no doubt, non-union) work in polyester olive drab and combat boots—I’d probably want to put the kibosh on such shenanigans, as well.

But that’s why you’ve got to get out on two wheels instead of the company-issued toy jeep; when your head’s in the clouds instead of your ass, you see whole lots more.