It was a warm and humid Thursday, and I spent the latter part of it in too many clothes, on my bike, riding around Druid Hill Park to check out how the trees are doing. Turns out they’re doing fine, mostly free of leaves and stretching bare branches against the blue sky. The warm day brought a lot of folks out to do their laps, including several road cyclists who easily passed my as a leisurely pedaled in circles, a song on repeat that always reminds me of riding through New Orleans all by myself amidst the varied crowds of a Mardi Gras Day. Oh, nostalgia, sometimes you are such a treat. And then I thought about the many different sorts of rides I’ve already taken around this reservoir–the I-don’t-know-where-else-to-ride ride, the broken-heart ride, the just-wanna-listen-to-Jay-Z ride, the on-my-way-somewhere-else ride, the I-hear-there’s-a-new-historical-sign-in-the-park ride, and the list goes on and on, and the trees are always there, going through their own motions along with the seasons. I love their skeleton phase, perfect on a clear day like this one. And I love the bike and the park and the people who fought to keep the reservoir uncovered in the latest round of planning for redevelopment of this park. I need this circle, and so do the walkers and bikers and dogs and babies and roller bladers and runners and joggers and lackadaisical neighbors of mine who use this place too. I hopped off the round and headed to Hampden for a quick appointment and then back down to Station North to pick up my weekly coffee, back home for dinner, and then back down to Station North for a lovely talk and evening with C. and E., in from out of town, and Baltimore friends. It was a good day at home indeed, so much more pleasurable because I did it on the bike.