It is August. Glory days at the family cottage on a lake near Georgian Bay. And today it’s windy enough for windrows—lines of bubbles streaming along with the chop—remnants of much bigger waves somewhere out from our bay. Windrows in the bay mean there is a serious wind out there.
The blue tarp on the canoe is billowing, the trees are rushing, and every so often rain (that’s not on the weather radar) blows in sheets across the water. Sneaky rain. The sky is puffed with grey clouds, that rip open every so often to let the sun stream though. Gulls and terns and turkey vultures are swirling high in the drafts.
And here on the ground, I am working myself up for a ride. It’s going to take some courage.
The route is out and back. Good part is that I’m going to fly on my way out, wind at my back. It’s the return trip that I’m working up to. Like one long climb. But there is only one way to cycle from here, and there are only three more riding days left, and no more excuses. I’ve read all (and I mean all) of the magazines I bought just yesterday. I’ve baked, finished at least two NYT crosswords, played frisbee with the dogs and started a new blog.
So, here goes! At least it will be something to write about.