I was playing around on it last night, just stalking people and minding my own business, when I got a message from a voice from my past.
Lovely Ivan from Puerto Rico was a student in my English class when I was a grad student at Ohio University. He was funny and talented and beautiful then, and he still is now. Just 20 years older.
But I am not.
We had a great time catching up.
Since I am in the throes of Middle Age Crazy, I not only set my alarm for 6:30 this morning, but I GOT UP so I could get my bike ride in before L-Ro (my father) goes for his morning fitness walk.
I love, love, love the bike path here. Round trip the whole path runs about 20 miles. But since I have not had my butt on a bike since last August, and I am now in the Coughing-Up-Lung phase of a cold, I did the short loop. Which is about 12 miles. And I did not try to break any land speed records today.
The route goes through all that is best about My Part of Ohio.
There are creeks, complete with blue herons. I saw the heron today. He sends his regards.
There are woodsy areas that smell damp and lush. I always think, "The woods are lovely, dark and deep . . ." when I ride through there. Lots of bird song. Little creatures crashing through the underbrush. Cotton tail bunnies that just sit and look at you as you go by.
What were corn fields last year are soy bean fields this year.
The best part about the bike is how quiet it is. So you can sneak up on deer without startling them off.
I saw a mama and two teenage fawns. Then a big fat doe. Then two young deer with antlers.
Sorry, but that is my visceral, hill-billy ancestry response to fat, young deer. Thems good eatin'.
Fish gotta swim . . . bird gotta fly . . . Expatresse gotta eat meat . . .
Let's all join hands and sing a chorus of The Circle of Life, shall we?
Seriously, however, I saw Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom on the corner at the house where the Russians live (yeah . . . there are real Russians in my neighborhood). Their yard has a chain-link fence. Outside the chain-link fence, on the side of the house, sat Mr. Rabbit. He was a big rabbit. Maybe even hare material. Is there a Peterson's Guide to Wildlife?
Anyhow, I stop my bike in the middle of Charles Street to observe Mr. B. Rabbit blithely nibbling away at the tender grasses that are damp with the dew and last night's gentle rain.
And sitting there on the fence, not three feet above Mr. B. Rabbit . . . is Hawk Dude. La-la-la-la-la.
Hawk Dude rolled his eyes, gave me the finger, and flew up on some nearby telephone wires.
"Um, you might want to move it along," I said to Mr. B. Rabbit.
He ambled, lippity-lippity, under the hedge. Oblivious to the fact he just missed out on being someone's Breakfast Buffet.
I'll be he makes it onto the lunch menu.