Yesterday, before the week’s grading began in earnest, I surprisingly went for a bike ride. I spent a few minutes noodling around town, waiting to meet the owner of the local bike shop. On my way, I passed this cornfield, which looked like something that van Gogh might have noticed.

The bike shop guy, Mike, rode with me over to a road planning meeting. He took me on a few roads I’ve not been on before, waving and nodding at everyone between here and there. He might be one of those guys who knows everyone. He also taught me a thing or two about riding bikes along the way.

The meeting was for a county-wide project. They had four posters and a few slides. The idea is that this group is going out looking for grants. They’ve identified, over a five-year period, a series of priorities for intersections and roads around the county.

A few of the county commissioners were there, and they want to know more, and would have preferred to be a part of this planning earlier. They’ll apparently hear about it next month. The plan seems sensible, at least to a lay person like me, but it was concerned more with motorists than cyclists. But that makes sense, too, considering the data in their basic five-year study. This was the last poster.

I hope I didn’t volunteer myself for work on this, but I might have volunteered myself for this. If you talk about awareness and perspectives and all of those things to planners and commissioners, they might think you’re interested.

Using the late hour as an excuse, we ducked out of there, Mike the bike shop owner and I, and pedaled away, talking about what we’d heard, and what we’re doing and how we have to work to make moments like this one more widely available.

This moment in particular. I took this shot right after he said that, because it was beautiful, and he was right. And this was where I realized something else.

You should find someone who knows more about a thing you love, a person who has done it for longer than you have, and do that thing with them. No matter how much you enjoy it, or for how long you’ve been passionate about it. You’ll be energized by an enthusiasm that equals or bests your own.

And then, when you part ways in the semi-darkness, you’ll have something to think about as you make your way home.

There might be something more than a metaphor to that.

I spent all day grading things. Well, until about 4 p.m. Then I had lunch. And then I went out for a bike ride, because there was about two hours of light left, and I didn’t want to spend all of the day inside.

It was a day that required a wind jacket and full fingered gloves. But the roads were quiet, and so were my tires. Past a certain point, at a certain speed, the hum of the Continentals takes on a different pitch. It can feel effortless, for a moment, and sound pro. It’s neither of those things, but you’re willing to fool yourself.

Only I didn’t do that today. It was just nice to be out. I did two laps of one of my regular circuits, a route designed to allow me to be within about six or seven miles or so of the house at all times. Just in case the sun set more quickly than anticipated. Because, websites and Farmer’s Almanacs notwithstanding, that great ball of hydrogen may have a mind all it’s own.

But you know what? I got in 25 miles when I somehow thought I’d have to go in after just getting 15 or so, but my lovely bride had a Zoom call, so I wasn’t worried about holding us up for dinner, and so I finished that second lap. It was 25 miles, and still technically daylight when I got back in.

Technically, I say, because I never mounted or turned on my headlight.

I was wearing light clothes, and we’re now suddenly in that time of year where the temperatures change quickly when the sun disappears, and I might not yet be mentally prepared for chilly weather, so I came in with no complaints.

Plus, I still had things to grade.

Still do. So I should get back to that now.