Rock-Island Recollections: Happy Trails, Indeed

By the time I'd finished reading the obituaries this morning, I decided to put down the paper and live a little. I was long overdue for a bike ride on the trails, and the Purple Hawaii was going stir crazy in the shed.

Even a clever Sunday crossword has nothing on a great bike ride.

And it was a great bike ride (although I'm not sure there is such a thing as a bad one).

Topping the hill of my street, I was greeted by flowering Bradford Pears set against the green backdrop of Woods Park. My bike hummed beneath me, delighted to be doing its thing once again. We wended our way through the parking lot, and headed to 32nd Street, where I checked in on my friend Martha's old place, its front garden still well tended.

A block from Capitol Parkway and the gibbons broke into song, their sonorous howls beckoning the apartment neighbors from their Sunday beds. I peaked through the Zoo's fence, and caught a glimpse of a camel shaking off the sleepies.

Ten minutes in, and I was on the Rock Island, my favorite trail for both nostalgic and scenic reasons. I scanned the cell-phone tower for a hawk or two, and then turned my sights on the trees and fields, the silence broken by the whirrrrrrr of red-winged blackbirds.

Crossing South Street, I noted the ominous cat scratchings of the notorious Country Club gang. Their neo-Fascist graffiti plastered the back of Leon's, created, no doubt, while one of their moms kept the Suburban humming in a nearby parking lot.

Ah, so be it, I thought. (This is the contented mindset only possible while riding one's bike on a perfect Sunday morning.)

Jungle-throated Flickers, jousting male Robins and carousing clans of Cedar Waxwings outnumbered the people, which was fine by me. The trail was buffered by assorted Magnolias in various stages of bloom, ranging from papery whites to righteous purples. Shocking yellow outbursts of Forsythias cried "Look at me! Look at me!" And I did.

I honked a hello at a single Goose as it flew over, gave a nod to a lone Blue-Winged Teal meandering in the creek below me, and said my "good mornings" to my human trail-mates, all of whom returned the favor.

I'd planned on going to church this morning, but now I'm thinking "What's the point?" Even if my minister brought his "A" game (and he usually does), he'd be hard-pressed to outdo the sermon I'd just witnessed.

And I'm pretty sure God would agree.