Promptly at 6:10 a.m. this morning, after a respectable night’s sleep and the welcome absence of fermented potato juice contaminants the evening before, I hopped onto my trusty Electra 9-speed bicycle and headed towards the Village of Appleton along my customary route. There was a great deal of early morning traffic, mostly large, noisy vehicles like dump trucks, school buses and half-ton pickups, the trades making way sometimes at alarmingly high speeds to their respective destinations. As I ride against the traffic, whenever one of these mountains of steel comes hurtling towards me, I make sure to drift onto the gravel shoulder, as far to the left as possible, sometimes having to slacken my speed considerably if there is a prevalence of loose stone, since otherwise I might easily lose my balance. It merits observation that many of the drivers go out of their way themselves to move over from the shoulder of the road as they pass by me. When this happens, I raise my index and third finger together (in the manner of the “peace” sign) as a token of my appreciation (though I might add it doesn’t deter me in the least from taking my precautions). Sometimes it is impossible for them to move over, when for example another vehicle is coming in the opposite direction. The younger automobile drivers, especially young women, seldom deviate an inch from their lawful territory, whether or not there is on-coming traffic. When that happens, I find myself muttering some philippic or other under my breath, though I suppose I have no right to expect any courtesy whatever from them.
Monday, May 24, 2010
As though to punctuate the importance of this day (and to purge myself of regret for all that is miserable within), I began by riding my bicycle at 6:30 a.m. this morning to the Village of Appleton and back. The air was extraordinarily still. The sun was at times hidden behind small clusters of ominous grey clouds, but for the most part it is a sunny, hot and humid day. Because today is a holiday, there wasn’t much traffic along the ribbon of road. As I pedaled, I reflected upon the state of affairs within my private domain. The prospect of personal renewal is never lost on me, likely because it is so worthy of consideration. I have once again set upon today as a day to mark my victory over all the demons which so regularly plague me. I should of course be laughing at myself instead, because this is hardly the first time I have done something like this. However, I persist. There was after all a time when I thought I would never be able to quit smoking, but I did. And I have never revisited the habit, not once.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
I listened with interest this morning as two CBC radio personalities agreed with one another that they have never got over the anxiety which accompanies Sunday evening and the prospect of Monday morning. As one reporter said, he was awake throughout the night wondering whether he had overslept, regularly checking the alarm clock to be sure that he got out of bed in time for his early morning appearance on the show. This, even after having done it for years. I found this all terribly encouraging, because it illustrated that I am not the only one in this world who obsesses about Monday mornings. And as hackneyed as it is to say it, the plague is distinctly peculiar to Monday mornings (especially rainy Monday mornings, as today), rather than any other day of the week. Once, however, I am back in the proverbial saddle, and the work week is under way, my discomfiture invariably dissipates quickly.