I'm still beating my path into the side of the hill, and with a daily crushing of the blades of grass, slowly, that path becomes evident. The tops and bottoms of the hill have been shorn, but the side is too steep for the common mowing unit; I push my way through the trimmings until my wheel bites into the tread it knows, and dare myself to ride down as slowly as possible. I hug the brakes and lean to keep from tipping forward, and the mothers dropping off their children for daycare flinch in shock when I finally come crashing over the curb in a scattering of toddlers and splashed mud.

An ambulance parks at the end of the road where my running trail exits the park system; I wonder who got hurt, until I notice that the drivers are just idling the truck next to an ashtray so they can smoke. I can't decide what's more ironic: the smoking ambulance driver, or the smoking fire truck driver.

28 April 2014 17:43

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