I spent Weds. night quite comfortably in Paula's spare room.
We were up at 5am drinking tea and watching the weather report on the tv. It had started raining in earnest in the wee hours and the driveway was wet and slick in the lingering blackness of the night.
At 5:45, Colleen knocked at Paula's back door. Colleen is the new wife of Paula's ex-brother-in-law. Paula met her at a birthday party a week or so ago, and when she mentioned the Turkey day ride, Colleeen asked if she could join us. And there she was, standing in the dripping doorway in her rain gear, ready.
We drove to the towpath, starting somewhere near Grant Avenue off I-77. It was still dark and the shapes of bridges and pipelines from steel mills flanking the park took on monumental and mythic proportions.
We rode.
I rode ahead of Paula and Colleen for a while in the pre-daylight hush. The silence was ripped open for a moment when a ghostly six-point buck roared up out of the woods on my right, exhaling panic and steam and odors, and crossed the bike path with one powerful arcing leap. He landed with a grunt and without hesitation in the dirt below the path on my left and disappeared into the brush beyond.
We rode through the puddles in the crushed limestone path barely noticing in the darkness the skim of fine gray spray that now covered our feet and bikes and jackets and ankles and socks and backs...
We saw a blue heron crouched on a tree limb.
Then another.
We saw a black squirrel race away from the noise of our bikes with a mouse clenched in his mouth.
We saw the warning flickers of the white tails of deer in the leafless glens.
We saw a few other people walking and talking quietly, no doubt, about turkey roasting temperatures and pie fillings.
When we stopped to turn back, Paula demonstrated, in the cold gravel, a tricky and impressive-looking yoga pose that involved a handstand with her knees balanced on her upturned elbows and a variation of the same that put her hips cantilevered off to one side.
We rode carward, now we saw the scum of damp stonedust on ourselves and our bikes. We noticed that the wet rain had soaked through our shoes and socks and our feet were numb from the cold. We were glad that there was no wind.
I thought about the nap I would undoubtedly succumb to later that afternoon, with my belly full of broccoli and mashed potatoes and, yes, even a bit of poultry... and apple pie.
I rode home from Paula's house in a more persistent rain. It was easier to wear my new fake fur leopard coat than to squash it compact enough to carry, so wear it I did. By the time I got home, the fur was a sad sight, clumped and matted. It was not quite the fashion statement I thought that it would be! Glory be to synthetic fibers; it was fluffy and pristine in no time thanks to the wonders of Maytag.
Thanksgiving dinner was nice. Lots of food, my plain old steamed broccoli was a big hit and there was none left for leftovers.
My little niece commanded, "An Tedie, PWAY with me!" We played with a neat collection of dolls that belonged to my cousin's daughter that had detachable fashion footwear and glittery halter tops and cell phones and baggy multi-pocketed trousers and a fishing raft(!)
I did not get my nap.
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