The dorkiest thing on two wheels is a middle-aged man in a sweatshirt and jeans riding his bike uphill with a bright sun that makes it feel like eighty degrees beating down on him.
I swear, it was sixty degrees when I set out.
Oh well. It was only three miles out and back to the bagel place and the road is all along the river and the river was the bright blue of the reflected sky and there was a great blue heron on a rock out in the water and the roadsides were blue and purple with chickory and New York asters except where they were yellow too with goldenrod and the bagels at the bagel place are always big and fresh and a small bottle of orange juice works wonders and I'm home now on the front porch with a fresh cup of coffee on the table beside me, admiring the play of light and shadow on the petals of the black-eyed Susans while I'm waiting for my cranberry bagel to cool, and I've recovered enough and am in a good enough mood that I hardly mind the noise from the neighbobor's lawn mower even though it's awful early on a Sunday morning to be out disturbing the peace just to lower the height of the grass in your front yard half an inch but knowing how hot the sun is already I can't say I blame him for wanting to get it done before the day really heats up and anyway his yard's not that close and his mower's not that loud and I can still hear the cicadas and the broken-bed spring squeak-squawk of some blue jays who are annoyed at something going on in the maple trees across the way and I'm rested and content and have half-forgiven myself for having been such a dork earlier and for being a dork now because if the dorkiest thing on two wheels was me huffing and puffling and sweating like a field hand on my bike, the dorkiest thing at a keyboard is the same dork describing his dorkiness on his blog in a string of run-on sentences and expecting people to read the whole post with interest and without getting really, really annoyed.
How's the weather where you are this morning?