Wandering

Last night, on my way back "home" from dinner with friends I just had to keep riding. I had been on Phil's monster of a cargo bike all day, all over Portland and my ass was tired and my knees were tired and the balls of my feet had spent enough time pushing pedals but I just had to ride around. The air was that special clean that only comes from rain falling through trees and the night sky was playing peekaboo through the clouds. Everything smelled alive- not just the green smell of the trees but the gentle fuschia scent of the flowers and the dark brown smells of outdoor grills and the lovely grey smell of wet concrete. Light spilled out of the little clapboard houses of NE Portland and kids were still playing half court basketball in their driveways and the streets, not bothering to stop the trash talking of each other as they suspended play to let me pass. As I rode along the streets I could see into people's living rooms and kitchens as they watched television or washed dishes or talked on the phone to people far away. All of life is lived at ground level here. I had to keep riding to see more of it. I can't tell you why, it just had to be that way. This is an easy place to be a voyeur, I suppose, and when you visit other places that is what you become. Or at least I do- a voyeur on a bicycle.