4 am Bicyclist

And so the story continues. The 3-hour drive from sunny Carmel Valley to foggy San Francisco, arrive at 7:30 pm and a few hours to unpack from one life and re-pack for the next. Then up at 4:00 am and off to the airport. On the way, thinking about all the cars— not many, but still enough— driving around so early in the morning. Why? Where are they going? What is their story?

 

Then I noticed a lone bicyclist and really wondered about his story. Was he sneaking out after a rendezvous in a torrid love affair? Was he a baker coming home from work? Was he on his way to early-morning meditation at the Zen Center? That would be a great assignment for a school English class— imagine what’s going on and tell the story. 

 

Meanwhile, my story was much more boring. Got dropped off at the airport, got to my gate, got on to the plane to Chicago and then another to Traverse City. Got picked up by my daughter Talia and my granddaughter Zadie, both of whom I love to the ends of the earth. Zadie is almost 14 and after a few explosive years when she hit puberty way too early (4^th grade!), she is the most delightful young person. I just feel happy in her presence without a word being spoken. And when the words are spoken, they often are intriguing or hilarious. For example, I asked her about a visit to my nephew on my wife’s side where she dog-sat for him and his wife up near Seattle and then took a train home all by herself to Portland. I asked whether the train trip all by herself felt exciting and she said, “Well, I sat on the train and it moved.”

 

The power of understatement. Maybe I should have her write the bicyclist’s story. 

 

“It was 4am in San Francisco. I got on my bike and rode home.” —The end.