09/27/04’s illustrious band:

The Bridges of Hennepin County

Brought to you by my faithful two-wheeled steed.

Yesterday after buying groceries, I turned left instead of right as I left the parking lot. It was another buttery fall day, my battery was wound, and I wanted to drive for a bit with the music up and the windows down. As I passed a high school football field upon which a flock of migrating Canada geese had assembled as if awaiting the kickoff, a profound thought struck me: I have a bike. Why aren’t I on it? So I beat a hasty retreat to the Acres and saddled up.

This was my second bike ride of the summer. Why only the second? I have no good excuse. I’ve been complaining for months that I haven’t been out riding, yet I keep spending my Sunday afternoons in the hammock, buried by books and cats. But yesterday I managed to do both. It was a perfect combination.

After a quick stop to air up the tires, I headed west on 90th St. The terrain was pretty flat until I crossed the freeway, but then I encountered hills. One particular monster almost got the better of me, but I kept chanting Lance Armstrong to myself until I wobbled to the top. No amount of T’ai Chi ever prepares me for pedaling up long, steep inclines.

I coasted until I reached the end of the road (which had magically become 94th St. sometime when I wasn’t looking). As I scanned north and south, trying to decide which way to go next, my eyes snagged on a discreet gap in the hedge. I rode through it, up and over a little wooden footbridge spanning some railroad tracks, and just like that I was back in Maine.

Thirteen years ago, I was a brand new teaching assistant at the University of Maine, exploring the small town of Orono on a hastily purchased bike. Colorful New England trees lined endless winding byways, and the campus boasted several miles of paved trails maintained by the forestry students. I rode through foliage tunnels, crunching maple leaf and pine needle potpourri beneath my tires, inhaling deeply the scents of a foreign land that smelled a little bit like home. I remember being amazed at seeing girls actually wearing short plaid skirts and boys carrying lacrosse sticks -- clear signs I wasn’t in South Dakota any more. It was exactly what backtoschool ought to be.

So when I crossed that little bridge from paved suburbia into evergreens and wildflowers, I knew exactly where I was. I swooped around curves, handlebar streamers aflutter, down past the lake, and up over a rise -- where, as in Maine, the autumnal trail spat me abruptly into the wintry grey parking lot of some light industrial enterprise. So I reversed course and enjoyed it all again (especially breezing down that mammoth hill).

The mental journey down memory lane took a lot longer than my actual bike ride. Although I felt as if I was out for several hours, I made it back home in about 90 minutes, legs tired, mind refreshed. I still had plenty of time for a literary buffet -- which included a tart dish from that rarest of chefs, an art critic with a sense of humor -- and for phone calls to two different time zones. I interrupted Princess Jocelyn at her dinner but got to speak to her mother and both grandmothers instead. Night fell, candles were lit, and I drew the shades on the sweetest of days, past and present.

Today around the world: September 27 is Dominion Day in New Zealand.

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