For the afternoon exercise session ayer I pulled out the beach cruiser with baskets, roped up the dog, and set off ziggily-zaggily throught the neighborhood. Eventually we came upon the backside of an apartment complex that I have seen the frontiside of many a day, whizzing past on my way to or fro, and invariably, whether in some cobby recess of the mind or right there front and center behind my forehead, have reckoned with a gunmetal wistiness that the place is the kind of place where connections and maybe deals could be made. I have, as mentioned, a cursed knack for making such assessments. Now the place was in reach, accessible, and it brimmed no less with possibility, and I wanted to crack that nut, for its own sake, in order to prove myself on those grounds, but not necessarily to sniff, snort, or smoke the fruits of that labor. So there’s a twist.

I turn down toward home and some Pacific Nor’wester guy with a stufft burrito backpack, blond beard, saggy-assed jeans, blue canvas/suede hikers, and a lopey gait was walking on the sidewalk in front of us. With the baskets and the dog, even a bike lane is a little narrow on a five-laner that busy, so I opted to turn out onto the vacant lot conveniently located right there beside us and pass him that way. Somehow I timed that move perfectly enough to run both tires and all four paws smackdab through a wide pile of sticker burrs the same color as the beige dust below them. The bike made a sound just more thuddy than snow tires on asphalt and the dog stood arched. I dragged both through the traffic light and swerved off into the grass on the corner. Poor dog stood there funny because all his feet had thorns in them. I made quick work of those, and then passed several light cycles plucking the 168 others studding the fat tires’ radius.

The rehabilitation lesson for the day? Don’t waver from the path.