Yesterday a massive Nebraskaesque thunderhead welled up around 3 p.m., same time that Anna and a friend had planned to do some biking around the neighborhood. The storm burst just after the friend arrived, so they spent the afternoon in the house, talking and texting and so on. Just as the friend left, the rain stopped, the wind died,and the clouds broke. Raindrops glistened on leaves, and a few recalcitrant drops pocked the brimming bird bath.
I talked Anna into going out with me, for a brief ride before dinner.
We took a neighborhood bike route to where it tunnelled under the freeway, and into quieter side streets and through a park, beneath wide trees still dripping with rain, the path dappled with sunlight, past a baby rabbit, disturbing a lonesome drake paddling in a big puddle. Anna had the lead, and she charged through the puddles and small lakes that dotted the bike path. I'd forgotten the exuberance of fat tires and water, but she reminded me, as her rear tire painted a dark line along the back of her white t-shirt, and she sparkled with laughter. We just rode a couple miles, up and along a meandering path, turned about and rode home. She's still finding herself on her bike, shifting is a mystery to her, but her balance is good and I sense her beginning to want to do it without prompting. She's talking about going out with her friend today or tomorrow, and even wondered to me what it would be like to go on a long, multi-day trip.
As for me, it felt good just to stretch the legs a bit after yesterday's climbing, and her enthusiasm was a reminder that the measure of things is not in miles but in memories made. I think we did a few yesterday.
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