July 23, 2005
Best. Ride. Ever.
I was grilling a piece of freshly caught tuna when it rolled in. The sun faded. The bay disappeared. The air cooled. Tiny droplets of fog clung to my eyelashes.
After dinner, I rode my bike out across the Smith Point Bridge. The night was silent. Everything was pale blue. I couldn’t see three feet in front of me. All I could hear was the hiss of the sand beneath my tires. I felt like I was flying. I felt lost. I feel like I could take a wrong turn and fall clear off the edge of the earth. I felt a thousand miles from home.
I smiled, thought, ‘This must be why they call it vacation,’ and rode on into the darkness.