It was the kind of day you don't waste on summer blockbusters or browsing at the mall, the kind of day that if you were a kid you'd stay outside no matter how many times your mother called you, and run around the yard like a hopped-up banshee and try to lasso the dog. As a grown-up, you settle for a long walk on the local trail.
The wind shivers through dark green leaves. Gets to sounding like the ocean if you listen carefully enough. Hard to hear cyclists coming up behind you and they know it, so they shout, "Biker on your left!" and startle you out of whatever thoughts you'd slipped into, which today were something like how to enjoy more days like this, how to worry less, how to get more writing done, how to keep from getting older and letting more time slip away.
The standard warning. Sometimes I want to turn around and say "Walker on the right!" because I'm obviously walking on the right knowing that bikers will come up on the left. It's not like I'm hogging the road. But I know they're just trying to be helpful and not run me over. And this latest voice came from a man that was at least a hundred and fifty years old.
"Are you having fun?" The old man asked, drifting by like a continent.
"Yes," I said.
"I am too," he said, and just kept rolling along.
Wisdom on wheels.