The morning was cool and crisp, like taking a bite out of a macintosh apple just plucked from its leafy umbilical chord. Sweet. Delicious. Cool.
The air had the feel of velvet and the breeze kicked up under my helmet with my slow acceleration tasted of pollen and evaporating dew. For some reason my instinct is to inhale through my nose and exhale through my pursed lips. I don't know that I'm getting more or less oxygen, it just feels that way, and that's all that matters when you're riding a scooter, what you feel.
You certainly don't ride a scooter because you care about how you look. I know this because I saw myself in a storefront window yesterday as I parallel-parked. My helmet is over-sized, my gloves are made for 20 below zero and my sandals put the finishing touches on a pretty dissimilar wardrobe of mismatching articles. I care not, because as I said in the aforementioned paragraph, you ride a scooter for the feel, not the look.
The feel is transcendent. You can gaze upon the farming fields and spot wild game roaming about. You can feel the cracks in the pavement as you coast down the road. Train tracks are slowly crossed, so slowly, in fact, that you get a chance to look back and forth down the almost cryptic corridors from whence they come and go feeling eerily sucked into their enchanting hallows like the Bermuda Triangle. Train tracks are among the few remaining relics of the past that still put a spell on me. I feel like I could explore them like Tom Sawyer and Huck Fin until dusk settled like an undertakers shroud.
I tilt my head back and take in the ride like a junkie savoring his fix on a tattered couch. Life doesn't pass in minutes, it passes in moments. Your senses are quickened with steroidal vigor and your heart is awakened in their wake. I'm a sucker for this sort of thing.
Little brooks flood with water needing to get somewhere, frantically rushing wherever gravity sees fit to take it. Last years planting of alfalfa is greener than your most vivid vision of the color green filling your mind even now. Trees begin their budding. Forsythia are among the first to make their yellow presence known. Birds are chasing each other like playground children at recess. Ahhhh...this is the good life.
Who would have thought a scooter could bring such shafts of joy into your cloud-covered heart? Who could have ever known?