fall chicken

I can tell when I’m going to be undone by the weather: when the mudroom – the exit point for the farmhouse – is a good twenty degrees chillier than the rest of the house. It tells me something. Like – perhaps this isn’t the best day to ride Rosie.

Oh, I know I could. Low forties... but not a speck of sun and with a vicious wind. It would not be pleasant. Reluctantly I pull open the door of the Last of the Red Hot Lovers (we have to find a shorter name for her!) and slide in.

If you think that this move into the driver’s seat requires no effort, you’re wrong. It’s the first day since the tumble a week ago that I am venturing forth without a Moltrin to keep the aches and pains from dominating the conversation. I’d say that maybe I should have continued for one more day.

I pass the fields where the truck farmers are clearing dried debris, readying the fields for next spring. On a bike or motorbike, I would be nearly inconspicuous with my camera. Now, as I pause, the farmer looks up, sees me, I wave, he waves. A tiny upside of driving.





Is there another? Sure. I can grocery shop after work and not worry about traffic between campus and Whole Foods. Cars are used to other cars, even as they’re not used to wee motorbikes.

At the store, I buy chicken for the weekend. As I maneuver the car out the lot, toward the café and home, I promise myself other bike rides before the year’s end. Sure I will. In the meantime, it’s nice and cozy in the car. Cluck cluck.