Postcript

Let me always remember that I have never regretted getting on my bike and going for a long ride. Despite the sore crotch promised over the next few days, I am home now with a good sweat and an even-centeredness from endorphins.

I rode to Golden Gardens park, a popular city beach overrun in the summer with picnickers, boaters and special events. I went to the "secret" part of the beach, way down beyond the farthest end of the parking lot, where hardly anyone ever goes. There I propped up my bike and, shielded by lush foliage, laid on a bench in the shade, listening to the waves of Puget Sound splash on the shore. About 10 years ago they ripped out the parking lot that used to be here, and restored old wetlands. Now this corner of the park is home to wildlife of many types. Usually I count at least eight turtles, all kinds of birds, and sometimes a water mammal.

I closed my eyes and let myself sink into the bench. My muscles relaxed. A perfect breeze and - finally - late morning's appearance of the sun conspired to bring peace to my weary mind and body. Each time I opened my eyes something comforting crossed my vision: a bloated dragonfly racing with a butterfly, billowing white jibs on sailboats offshore, the play of light off water. It was a wistful, bittersweet feeling, the kind you get when visiting, say, Cape Cod after Labor Day. Mid August is to summer as Sunday is to the weekend. You no longer have the entire season ahead; the inevitable change is in the air.

On my way out of the wetland hideaway, I passed a young woman preparing for her wedding in the park. She was dressed in a creamy white short dress, nothing overly formal but still very bridal. On her feet were strappy flat white sandals, perfectly suited for the setting and the warming sun. "Big day!" I said, wheeling my bike past her. "I was an August bride too, seventeen years ago." Tears filled my eyes as I took in the late summer perfection around me. We both have our whole lives ahead of us.